darker. His eyeglasses were different—they had black plastic rims and the ones he’d worn when Lindsey saw him were silver-rimmed. But he was the same man. He was the last man to climb from Congressman Randolph Amoroso’s limousine at the Times Square rally.
Lindsey looked up from the newspaper. “You mind if I clip this?” he asked Halter.
The guard pulled open a drawer in his desk and came up with a pair of scissors. “From my sewing kit,” he explained. “Never know when a button’s gonna come loose or—something.” He handed the scissors to Lindsey. Lindsey snipped out the photo and the accompanying story and put them in his pocket. He’d scanned the story itself. It added nothing to what he already knew.
But the photo had added two fresh players to the drama. Millicent Martin—probably a stage name, but it was a start—and Alcide Castellini. Martin had been murdered, “gangland style.” And Castellini was an antiques dealer.
What could either of them—in fact, what could any of the three—have to do with Cletus Berry?
There was no way that Millicent Martin was going to tell Lindsey anything. She was dead.
Ditto Frankie Fulton.
But Alcide Castellini.…
Lindsey found a working pay phone in a kiosk and punched for directory assistance. Apparently the vandals who had attacked pay phones for decades had finally lost interest and moved on to bigger prey, but there wasn’t a telephone book to be found.
There was no listing for Alcide Castellini.
Lindsey walked to a drugstore with an indoor phone booth. A clerk loaned him a classified directory; now that condoms were on display beside candy bars, telephone books were kept behind the counter. There were antique dealers galore, and the closest concentration seemed to be on 57th Street.
He walked the few blocks, turned the corner at the old Carnegie Hall—he’d seen that building in a thousand movies—and found a row of antique stores.
He picked one at random and walked in. The store—he hadn’t bothered to note its name—was filled with ornate gilt furniture and elaborately framed paintings of elegant French ladies. A woman in a gray woolen suit was waiting on a customer in an identical suit. The woman who was not the customer had a name tag on her jacket and the customer had a tiny hat pinned to her big coiffure; that was how Lindsey could tell them apart.
They appeared to be discussing a huge wall mirror framed in endlessly elaborated golden swirls. It was hard to tell whether a sale was actually taking place, but somehow the transaction reached its conclusion. The two women in gray suits exchanged a little hug and kissed the air beside each other’s cheeks. The one who was not a customer found the customer’s wrap and gloves and walked her to the street door, their arms around each other’s waists, their heads bobbing and little breathless words escaping as if reluctant to leave the warm air of the shop for the cold, damp, gray Manhattan day.
The door whispered shut behind the customer. Through the front window of the shop Lindsey saw a yellow cab swing to the curb and swoop away with the woman inside. Wonder Woman’s invisible airplane couldn’t have responded more obediently to her telepathic summons.
The gray-suited woman with the badge on her blouse turned back and strode up to Lindsey. The expression on her face had changed. Lindsey wasn’t certain, but he thought she hissed, “Bitch!” before she turned her smile back on for him.
Then something happened. Maybe it was the oncoming Christmas holiday. Maybe it was something about Lindsey, the loneliness he had known since Marvia Plum’s abrupt departure from his life.
“Would you believe that woman has been dickering over that mirror for six months? Six months! And you know what she just told me? Well, Howard and I have decided that we’re going to have the wonderful new muralist, oh, what in the world is his name, oh, dear, I just can’t remember it, well anyway, we’ve decided to commission him to do a whole wall in the drawing room, aren’t you just so excited for me, I’m so terribly excited, but of course then we won’t have anyplace to hang a Louis XIV mirror, don’t you see, so I’m afraid you’ll just have to sell it to somebody else. And off she goes! I’m so mad I could just—” She seemed to notice Lindsey.
“I’m so sorry.” She took a deep breath. Her face had turned bright red during her outburst. It was returning to normal. Her name-tag said, Cele Johnston. She turned on her smile still again—it hadn’t lasted long once her diatribe got rolling. “What may I show you, sir?”
Lindsey handed her an International Surety business card.
She read it and looked puzzled. “I don’t understand. I didn’t think we’d entered an insurance claim of any sort. And—why Denver?”
“No, I’m just looking for some information. This involves a death claim. A death under difficult circumstances. I’m just trying to clear up some questions about the decedent. We know that he was acquainted with an antiques dealer, and I thought you might be acquainted with him.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“The antique dealer’s name is Castellini.”
“I know him.”
“If you could put me in touch? A telephone number or address? Does he have a shop?”
Cele Johnston looked up at Lindsey. He wasn’t a very tall man, and she didn’t have to look very far. She had gray eyes and blonde hair that was starting to streak with gray. She narrowed her eyes as if she could focus them on Lindsey’s and peer directly into his brain.
“Come with me.”
She led the way past satin-covered sofas and delicate, polished, scroll-like chairs. She opened a door and said, “Joseph, don’t let any of the stock wander out. Browsers come in, be nice. If you get a live customer, call me.”
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