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B DEVENS
“Print that,” Cardozo said.
Charley gave the print command and a page clattered out of the printer.
Cardozo detached the page. “Thanks, Charley.”
“Vince.”
Charley’s tone stopped him. A new column was ru
C LORING
BEAUX ARTS TOWER
BILLI VON KLEIST
MONSERAT GALLERY
D FORBES-STEINMAN
SCOTT DEVENS
B DEVENS
Cardozo stared at the screen. “Does Maisie read The Enquirer?”
“Huh?”
“Could you get that machine to amplify the link between Forbes-Steinman and Devens? Does it know that they’re shacked up, or is there something more?”
Charley typed in
SEARCH LINK D FORBES-STEINMAN: SCOTT DEVENS
The screen flashed
SEARCHING
After almost a minute new material began scrolling up the screen.
MIRANDELLA, SUNNY, HOMICIDE
EVIDENCE AT CRIME SCENE
SUBJECT’S PURSE
CONTENTS
HELENA RUBINSTEIN BLUSH PINK LIPSTICK
TAMPAX TAMPONS THREE
KEYS FIVE
FOUREX CONDOMS EIGHT
ESTEE LAUDER COLOGNE
EIGHTY-SEVEN DOLLARS THIRTY-TWO CENTS
CHARGE CARDS
MASTERCARD 5500-7843-2316 SANDRA MIRANDELLA
VISA CARD 5647-5418-8953 JOY FEINSTEIN
BLOOMINGDALES CHARGE 6532-098
D FORBES-STEINMAN/SCOTT DEVENS
“Stop there,” Cardozo said.
Su
Cardozo called Greg Monteleone into the computer room and nodded toward the flashing cursor on the screen. “What does that mean?”
“Su
“Why are there two names on the Bloomingdale’s card?”
“It’s a joint charge shared by Steinman and Devens. There are two cards, one name on each. Su
“And the two names were still on the account? How recently were those cards issued?”
Monteleone shrugged. “They’re good through this year.”
“Did you follow up on Steinman’s card?”
“Course I followed up on it. Steinman lost it at a party.”
“Pull the sheet on it.”
Monteleone got the sheet. “A di
“She thinks. She thinks.” Cardozo thought. “Tina Vanderbilt? Charity bashes, fund-raisers, opera galas?”
“Yeah. She has a triplex on Park.”
“So that would have been a formal di
“I never claimed to understand women.”
“Get me a photo of Su
“We don’t have any nice normal presentable photos of Su
“Then get me her driver’s license.”
Doria Forbes-Steinman looked carefully at each photo: Jodie Downs, Su
She was sitting on the plush gray sofa in front of the three-panel comic-strip blowup of a cathedral. Cardozo could see beyond her into the hallway, where the Nuku Kushima black leather mask was still on display on its pedestal.
“Just a minute,” she said. “This man is familiar.”
Cardozo came back across the su
“Where was it? … Down in SoHo last winter… He’s that friend of Lew Monserat’s. I saw them at the opening of the Schnabel exhibit at the Mary Boon Gallery.” She looked up at Cardozo. “But my Bloomingdale’s card wasn’t stolen at Mary’s. I bought a juicer with it the day after that opening.”
“You say this man is Monserat’s friend. Do you mean they were together often?”
“No, I mean they seemed to be lovers that night. Lew loves kinky trash. Always has.”
Cardozo’s mind went over the links. Loring and Monserat both played at the Inferno; Ted Morgenstern represented them both; and in Doria Forbes-Steinman’s opinion they’d had an affair. An affair didn’t seem likely: the clothescheck at the Inferno had said that Loring liked kids. But still, there was some kind of relationship between the two, some bond that made them a team. “Would you happen to have the date of that Schnabel opening?”
“It’s in my calendar.” Doria Forbes-Steinman got up from the sofa. “Just a moment.”
She left the room and returned.
“Here we are, Lieutenant. I wrote it all down for you.” She handed him the date, time and place, on a piece of stationery from the desk of Doria Forbes-Steinman.
“Mrs. Forbes-Steinman,” he said, “there are two names on that Bloomingdale’s charge account—yours and Scott Devens’s.”
She blinked and flinched back as if something menacing had flown near her eyes. “Is that a question?”
“May I talk with Mr. Devens?”
She folded her hands together and then unfolded them.
“Scottie’s not here at the moment. The easiest way to find him would be to go to the Teak Room at the Winslow around eleven tonight. He’s playing piano there.”
Mrs. Vanderbilt sat in a silk brocade chair, facing an antique writing desk. She did not rise, and she did not invite Cardozo to sit.
“I hope I haven’t come at a bad time for you,” he said.
“Of course not.” Mrs. Vanderbilt’s tone made it clear it was such an obviously bad time that to mention it merely compounded the a
“You gave a di
“I give many di
“You gave a di
“That’s true.” She was dressed in pale pink. She gave the impression of being short, no more than five feet tall, and fashion-model thin, weighing at most ninety-five pounds. “Was a crime committed at my di
He smiled. “I doubt a crime has been committed at any of your di
She didn’t smile. “That relieves me.”
“Could you tell me if Doria Forbes-Steinman was here that night?”
“She has been in my home.” Mrs. Vanderbilt’s mouth was pale: it was two pink lines lightly sketched across her strangely glowing face. “But you’ll want exact information.”
Mrs. Vanderbilt turned to her secretary, a woman of fifty-some years dressed in black.
“Endicott, will you fetch the guest list for April twelfth last?”
The room was large. The ceiling was high. The walls were shimmering with French impressionists. Endicott scurried to one of the three doors.
“Endicott.”
Endicott stopped.
Mrs. Vanderbilt fixed her gaze on Cardozo. “You’ll want the service list as well?”
“Please,” he said.
“Very well, Endicott.” Mrs. Vanderbilt gave a wave.
Endicott opened a door and a miniature dachshund burst into the room. With three high-pitched barks it jumped into the lap of New York City’s premiere hostess, tail wagging crazily.
“Have you ever seen such energy?” Mrs. Vanderbilt allowed the animal to lick the sapphire-cut diamond on her finger. “Isn’t Robespierre just ferocious? And darling? Sois sage, Robespierre! Sois sage pour maman!”
Cardozo had the impression Mrs. Vanderbilt spoke to her pet in French because she didn’t want the servants to understand. He couldn’t think what to say to her about her dog. He was suddenly haunted by a phantom that showed up now and then, the adolescent fear of using the wrong fork at a formal di