“As you can see, my wife’s quite upset, Detective,” Mr. Blanchette said, without lifting his eyes from the carpet. “We both are. Could you question us later? Maybe after we’ve had a little while to . . .”
“Of course,” I said, leaving my card on the sideboard. “If you think of something that might help, or you want more information—anything I can do—please call, okay?”
As I stepped out of the elevator downstairs, I spotted the green-uniformed doorman talking Spanish with one of the maids, laughing and probably flirting.
They got quiet as I walked over to them and showed him my shield again.
“Detective Bennett, remember?” I said. “Can I ask you a few questions? Won’t take a minute.”
The maid edged away, and the doorman shrugged. “Sure. I’m Petie. What can I do for you?”
“You know Erica Gladstone?” I said.
“Ever since she was a little girl.”
“What happened between her and her parents?”
Petie suddenly looked as green as his jacket. “Ah, I never heard nothin’ about that, amigo,” he said. “You’d have to ask them, you know? I just work here.”
I put a friendly hand on his shoulder. “Look, I understand the secret code—don’t talk about the tenants. Relax. I don’t need you to testify in open court. I need you to help me nail this nut job who’s going around shooting everybody. We think it’s Erica’s husband, Thomas Gladstone.”
“Chingao!” the doorman said, his eyes widening in shock. “Oh, my God! For real?”
“For real. Come on, Petie. Let’s get this guy.”
“Yeah, yeah, you bet,” he said. “Erica, okay, let’s see. She was a wild kid. Real wild. Drugs. A couple of rehabs. We’re talking before her sweet sixteen. When she’d come home from Sarah Lawrence, we had standing orders not to let her in if nobody else was home.
“Then she seemed to straighten out. She married some blue-blood kid from her daddy’s firm, had a couple of daughters. But all of a sudden, she got divorced and took up with the second husband, the Gladstone guy. He was the pilot on the father’s corporate jet, was what I heard. The parents went ballistic, especially the Lady of the Manor, as we call her. She got Gladstone fired, and cut Erica off at the root.” The doorman shook his head knowingly. “Shooting smack when you’re thirteen is one thing, but, by God, you sleep with the help, you’re dead meat.”
“Did Gladstone and Erica ever come here?” I said.
I could tell from his face that he wasn’t happy about answering this one, but he looked down at the gleaming marble chessboard lobby tile and nodded.
“One Thanksgiving. I don’t know, maybe three years ago. Them and the daughters showed up, dressed to kill—bottles of champagne, big smiles. I figured they’d been invited and I sent them on up. But five minutes later, they came back down again, and the girls were crying like babies. Then that old witch actually tried to get me written up because I didn’t call first. Yeah, sorry. My bad for thinking you’d maybe want to see your only daughter and grandchildren on Thanksgiving.”
I nodded. “Thanks, Petie,” I said. “You just told me what I wanted to know.”
This was the next place that Gladstone would hit, I could feel it. He’d been saving the Blanchettes, especially the mother. He was going to pay her back, make damn sure she realized he existed.
I was nervous about even having the thought, for fear of a jinx, but I was pretty sure I’d finally done it—finally gotten one step ahead of our shooter.
Outside, I called Beth Peters on my cell.
“Good news,” I said. “Get hold of the ESU, and everybody haul ass over here to Eleven-seventeen Fifth. It’s stakeout time.”
Chapter 65
AS THE TEACHER WALKED along Tenth Avenue looking for a taxi, he passed a bar that had a fake wagon wheel out front and a row of Harleys parked beside it. The sad old Irish song “The Streets of New York” was spilling out from its doorway into the street. Still feeling his own grief after the “funeral,” he decided to step inside.
Maybe that was just what he needed—a drink.
The young woman behind the scarred pinewood bar had the arms of a football player and metal rings piercing various parts of her face.
The Teacher ordered a Bud with a shot of Canadian Club, and nodded to a group of ironworkers having a retirement party in the shadowed backroom.
When his whiskey came, he knocked it back. Here’s to you, buddy, he thought, fighting another round of tears.
He was on his second shot and Bud when news of the spree killer came on the TV. He thought about asking the bartender to turn it up, but then decided no. Attracting unneeded attention was a bad idea.