“Amanda, there’s nothing more I can do until we get more information on the guy. As it stands, he’s nothing more than a wisp of smoke.”
She hung up without another word.
Chapter 37
Bob Cantor got out of the cab on Second Avenue and walked down the block until he found the building. “Basement apartment,” he mumbled to himself, consulting the address Stone had given him. He walked down the steps to the apartment door and found it ajar; the smell of paint reached him.
He pushed the door open. The living room was empty and freshly painted. He heard the rattle of a bucket from a rear room and walked that way.
A middle-aged man in paint-stained jeans and sweatshirt was rapidly rolling paint onto a bedroom wall. He looked at Cantor. “Sorry, I’m not showing the apartment until tomorrow, when the ad runs in the Times,” he said.
Cantor showed him his badge briefly. “I’m looking for Jonathan Dryer,” he said.
“So am I,” the man replied. “He owes me four months’ rent.”
“When did you last see him?”
“Last Friday, when I was going away. When I came back on Wednesday, he was gone, and the place was empty. Four months he owes me; that’s how long his lease had to run.”
“Mind if I look around?”
“Help yourself.” He went back to painting.
Cantor walked slowly around the apartment, looking in closets and drawers. It was a nice place, he thought. Good kitchen, nicely done bathroom. Cantor was living in Chelsea, and he thought he wouldn’t mind living uptown. All the closets, drawers, and cabinets were empty. He went back to the bedroom and walked out the rear door, which opened onto a small terrace and a garden area behind. There was nothing in the way of planting, but there was soil; soil was a valuable real estate asset in New York. He went back inside.
“Nice place,” he said. “Who’s the agent?”
“No agent; I own the building. I live on the top two floors.”
“How much you asking?”
The man told him.
“How much less would you take to have a guy with a badge living here?”
The man looked at him narrowly. “You married?”
“Divorced.”
“Any kids?”
“None.”
“You play any musical instruments?”
“The stereo, softly.”
“I’d need a police reference.”
“Call Lieutenant Dino Bacchetti, at the Nineteenth, around the corner.”
“I’ll do that. If you check out, it would be worth a couple hundred off for a cop.”
“Retired cop, actually, but that’s even better for you. I’d be spending more time in the building than somebody who has to pull duty.”
“What’s your name?”
“Bob Cantor.”