up that chunky bronze piece and smashes Lundigren on the head. Lundigren goes down, Antoine tries to stash the body on the balcony but doesn’t quite get the door shut.”
“Did he take that bronze with him or did someone else?” Lowry wondered aloud.
“Both are possibilities.”
“Horvath told us that Antoine was awake at nine-thirty but just going to bed at eleven when he got up to relieve Jackson early,” Hentz said, keeping his eye on the main ball. “So Clarke was around and awake all evening. And Vlad the Regaler did tell us that there was some animosity between Antoine and Lundigren, if that’s not another of his embellishments.”
“Either way, we definitely need to find Antoine Clarke,” Sigrid said. “This doesn’t look like a premeditated murder to me, so maybe we’ll get a quick confession.”
Dinah Urbanska tossed her empty coffee cup toward the nearest wastebasket. It missed and splashed its last few drops on Tillie’s shoe. Flushing, Urbanska apologized and said, “Um, Lieutenant? I was wondering. Nothing much has been said about it, but do you think Lundigren’s death had anything to do with the fact that she—I mean, that he’s a woman?”
“What?” Tillie stared at her in surprise and Sigrid realized that he had not been with them when the ME relayed that information.
“Sorry, Tillie. When Cohen had the super’s body on the table yesterday, he discovered that Lundigren had all the physical attributes of a female,” she said, and told him of Mrs. Lundigren’s insistence that it was a heterosexual marriage. “And to answer your question, Urbanska, if anyone at his apartment building suspected otherwise, we haven’t heard a whisper. As far as I’m concerned, there’s no reason to make things more uncomfortable for Mrs. Lundigren unless it becomes an obvious factor in this death.”
She referred again to her notes. “Speaking of Mrs. Lundigren?”
“I spoke to Dr. Penny,” Hentz said. “He’s going to send her home today with something to help her cope with her anxiety.”
Jim Lowry looked up from his computer screen. “Here’s the information Mrs. Wall sent us about the elevator man that Lundigren recommended for firing. Want me to follow up on it?”
Sigrid shook her head. “Let it ride for now. I’d prefer that you run the names of those guests with a known art background. See if any of them have priors. And, Tillie, let’s have a list of all the guests who can’t be alibied. We’ll finish up here, then go back after lunch and see if we can speak to the occupants of those eight apartments that weren’t home yesterday.”
A uniformed officer appeared in the doorway. “Lieutenant? There’s a Mr. and Mrs. Rice here with their attorney. I put ’em in interview room A.”
“Thank you, Sergeant. Hentz?”
The Rice attorney was urbane in a charcoal pinstripe suit. He introduced his clients, assured Sigrid and Hentz that they were more than happy to cooperate in this terrible tragedy, then took a seat beside them.
In appearance, husband and wife were almost polar opposites. She was small and dark and impeccably dressed in a designer suit and thigh-high leather boots. He was big and blond and could have stepped out of a Lands’ End catalog—turtleneck beige sweater, brown corduroy pants, and hiking shoes.
In temperament, however, they were mirror images—indignant to be here, irate at having to answer questions, indifferent to the death of a super they felt had thwarted their rights, and clearly irritated that this session necessitated their attorney, whose hourly fee would probably mean one less designer suit for Mrs. Rice.
“I believe your interest in my clients relates to the death of the building’s superintendent?” asked the attorney.
“That’s correct,” Sigrid said. “It seems that there was personal animosity toward him.”
Both Rices started to argue and justify, but the attorney raised a restraining hand.
“Whether or not what you say is true, am I correct in thinking you wish to know if they have an alibi for the pertinent time of the man’s death?”
Mrs. Rice sneered and Mr. Rice huffed at the word “alibi.”
“Correct,” Sigrid said. “Can they prove where they were between nine-thirty and, say, eleven?”
“Certainly.” He drew a sheet of paper from his briefcase. “Here are the names and addresses of four people who dined with my clients from eight till ten-forty over on the East Side, as well as the doorman who let them in and out and who knows them by sight. I have included a photocopy of the receipt from their taxi. You will see that it is time-stamped eleven-oh-eight.”
“Excellent,” Sigrid said.