A Cruel Season for Dying (4 page)

He moved closer. A glint of pale sunlight flickered in his eye. Resting at the center of the stones was a mirror, reflecting
blue sky, the
green edges of trees, clouds moving as in a dream. A single bird soared across the silver glass. Again he looked at his uncle,
who had waited below. Their eyes met. Then his uncle raised his hands to his chest, made three quick claps—
kashiwade,
the highest sign of respect at a Shinto shrine.

With the sharp explosions still ringing in his ear, he understood why Uncle Ikenobo had led him to Fushimi Inari. Shinto was
more than worship or ritual. It was experiencing the universe itself. He bent over then, examining his eight-year-old face
in the round mirror. And this, too, he had understood.

The day he had earned his gold shield as an NYPD homicide detective, he received a letter from his uncle Ikenobo. His uncle
wrote of
honne,
one’s true intentions, and
tatemae,
expected behavior. He prayed his nephew would always know the difference, and hoped that the two would not often be at war.
As he had shifted the pages, a
konusa
leaf fell to the floor. The leaf had been used by his uncle to scatter drops of water to dispel
tsumi
—impurities of wounds, blood, death—an inevitable part of his job as a police officer.

Yet he knew his uncle understood the other reality of his job. The reality that had made him ultimately choose police work—his
need to restore order to the universe. To create harmony out of chaos. This principle of renewal was as much a part of Shinto
as avoidance of
tsumi.
Had not this concept of restoration been the driving force that had led his uncle as a young monk to Suwa Jinja? The ancient
shrine with its hundred-year-old gates and sanctuaries, with its clear stream and sacred grove of trees, had been for the
burned bodies and scorched souls of the people of Nagasaki a place of purification after the horrors of the bomb. His uncle
had embraced the impurities of war in order to reconcile human existence with the changing world. He believed this letter
had been Uncle Ikenobo’s way of letting him know he understood why he had chosen the life of a cop.

In the mirror he saw that Hanae had awakened and was smiling. “You look like a cat with a belly full of cream.”

“I am satisfied.”

He walked toward the bed, climbing back under the covers. “And why are you so satisfied, Wife?”

She reached up and pulled his face close to hers. “Because my husband is such a good lover.”

He laughed. “You’re a wicked woman.”

“The alarm has not gone off.”

“I shut it off. It’s already after six.”

Her lips closed over his, her tongue slipping easily inside his mouth. “My husband will be late this morning.”

The apartment in SoHo was tiny. Detective Walter Talbot sat forward on the lumpy sofa, trying to visualize that the person
standing in front of him had killed two men. But the image wouldn’t hold. In part because the twentysomething dancer had sad,
innocent eyes. But mostly because he had a reasonable alibi.

Philippe Lambert, who shared this dinky walk-up with three other dancers, claimed to have stayed late in the theater after
a performance on the night Carrera had died; he returned to his apartment with two of his roommates immediately afterward.
Of course, it was a fool who said you could tell a killer by his eyes. And alibis, like promises, were made to be broken.

“I want to help,” the dancer was saying. He was pacing in the small space that served as living room and kitchen. “It’s just
that I answered all these questions in my statement.”

“As I explained on the phone, Mr. Lambert, jurisdiction in this case has been transferred to a Special Homicide Unit. We’re
reinterviewing everybody involved in this case.”

Some of the tension seemed to drain out of the dancer. He sat down in a peeling chair. One of two that matched the table.
A fifties dinette set in gray and blue. On top sat a carved jack-o’-lantern.

“Let me summarize,” Talbot picked up the thread. “You said Mr. Carrera had not felt well, that he called Thursday morning
to say he wouldn’t be coming in to the studio, or attending the performance that evening. Then when you couldn’t reach him
all the next day, you went to check at his apartment.”

The brown eyes closed shut. “It was horrible.”

“How did you get in?”

“I have a key.”

“You found no evidence of forced entry?”

“No.” The eyes went wide.

“That suggests that Mr. Carrera knew his killer, or invited him in. Do you have any idea if he might have been expecting anyone
that Friday?”

“No. Most everybody was at the performance.”

“Who was he seeing socially?”

“You mean, who was he sleeping with?”

“Yes.”

“He was sleeping with me.”

“Only with you?” He watched carefully for the reaction.

“I believe so,” Lambert said easily enough. “Luis was not promiscuous.”

“Does the name David Milne mean anything to you?”

“I don’t think so…. Is he a dancer?”

“Mr. Milne owned an art gallery in the East Village.”

“You’re talking about that other guy who was murdered?” Lambert caught on quick. “Are you saying he was killed … like Luis?”

“I haven’t said that at all, Mr. Lambert. And repeating that kind of rumor could be considered interference with a police
investigation. You understand?”

“Sure.” The eyes said he was shaken.

“You have no idea who killed Mr. Carrera?”

“No.”

“He didn’t mention anyone new? Someone he’d just met, perhaps?”

“No, he didn’t. The truth is, Luis was becoming more and more isolated.”

“Why was that?”

“He could get pretty depressed. Luis was a huge star before he injured his back. You know his history?”

“I know he defected from Cuba.”

“Luis came here as part of an international troupe—the hottest thing going in the Cuban National Ballet. Castro caused a big
stink when the State Department gave him asylum. Luis had been trained by the Russians. Was supposed to be the next Baryshnikov.”

“And was he?”

“Yes, until the injury. Lumbar compression. He couldn’t do the lifts. Of course, the good side of his not being able to dance
the major roles was that he threw himself into teaching the younger dancers in the company. Helping people like me.”

“So, he was liked by the younger dancers.”

“By everyone in the company. And that’s really saying something.”

“Why?”

“The company is a very small world, Detective Talbot. You’re together all the time. There are a lot of petty jealousies.”

“But not with Mr. Carrera?”

“I guess there might have been a lot of envy at the beginning. But not later.”

“Still, he must have had
some
enemies.”

Lambert sighed. “Well, there was one person that Luis had a problem with. You could almost call it a feud. But it wasn’t serious.”

“I’d still like to hear about it.”

“At the end of last season”—Lambert relaxed in the chair—“I got my first solo. I think Luis was more excited than I was. He
wanted everything to be perfect.”

“But it wasn’t?”

“Andrea … she’s one of the wardrobe assistants. Sometimes she likes to monkey around with the costumes. Just some little change
here or there. Nobody cares that much. But it always drove Luis crazy, her ‘fixing’ things in the middle of a run. It was
a superstition with him. He thought it was bad luck.”

“And this Andrea ‘fixed’ something during your performance?”

“Opening night. She changed the drape on my tunic. There was so much tension already. Luis chewed her out good. He could have
a real Latin temper sometimes. But by the next day, he’d always forget he’d been angry.”

“But this time was different?”

“Not for Luis,” Lambert said, “but Andrea got into a real snit. She put a dead chicken in his dressing room.”

“Are you talking voodoo?”

“Santeria. Andrea liked to rag Luis about being Latino … a peasant. Andrea claims she’s descended from the czars.”

“And how did Mr. Carrera react … to the chicken?”

“He said he’d left Cuba to get away from that shit. Told her to leave him alone.”

“Was that the end of it?”

Lambert shook his head. “Andrea was enjoying it too much. She made a sort of altar near the dressing rooms—candles and stuff,
scraps of fabric that could have been from Luis’s old costumes. She was playing with his head.”

“And Luis?”

“He made a point of ignoring it. But I know it got under his skin. He didn’t need any more bad luck. He seemed more depressed
after that.”

“Because of what she was doing?”

Lambert sighed. “No. I think it just finally came home to him that his back wasn’t going to get any better. That he was never
going to make it back to the top.” He looked away for a moment. “To tell you the truth, Detective Talbot,” he said finally,
“when Luis didn’t answer the phone that day, I was afraid he might have killed himself.”

Talbot walked up a back stairway to an old section of the building. The floorboards cracked under his feet like kindling.
It seemed the annex was not used much except for storage. Perfect domain for the colorful costume mistress to hold court in
its dingy corridors. Philippe Lambert had told him the woman’s eccentricities were tolerated because she was one of the best
in the business.

He knocked on the door. From inside he could hear music. Something sultry and thrumming. He knew enough to tell that the lyrics
were in Portuguese. He knocked again. Harder. The singer sang on. He reached and twisted the doorknob.

The room was a carnival sideshow. Christmas lights were strung across the ceiling and along the seams of the walls. An assortment
of old dolls crowded the seat of a battered wicker chair. The mummified remains of a small monkey swung from a tasseled cord;
he thought of
Sunset Boulevard
and Gloria Swanson. The monkey shivered at the end of the rope, and the Portuguese chanteuse sang on.

“Like Latin music?” The voice was deep.

He turned. She was at least six feet tall and too old to have blond pageboy hair. This time Veronica Lake came to mind. The
hair, not the face. This face was hard and almost ugly. One hand was on a hip; the other rested on a chaise. It was an orchestrated
pose.

“I don’t know much about it.” He drew out his detective’s shield.

“I could teach you.” She smiled, showing off remarkably pretty teeth, taking his badge into a large hand with bloodred nails.
She dropped her eyes and examined his identification. The false eyelashes were impossibly long. She glanced up. “What can
I do for you, Detective?”

“I’m investigating the death of Luis Carrera.”

She shrugged her shoulders. “Sad thing about our little Cuban.”

“I’ve been told that you and Mr. Carrera had difficulties.”

She laughed. Too loud. “That’s a nice way to put it. He hated me. Though, I rather liked Luis. Despite his age, he still had
the tightest ass in the company.”

She moved for the first time and he noticed she walked with a limp. She bent, tossing several pillows off the chaise. “Here,
take a load off your feet,” she said, heading for the straight-back chair in front of a vanity table, settling in her length.
“Got that thing for looks. If I get in, I can’t get out.”

He obliged her, sitting on the edge of the lounger. “What was the nature of the problem between you and Mr. Carrera?”

“Mr. Carrera?” She laughed, checking herself in the mirror. She turned back around. “Fidel had a fit when the Pope visited
Cuba. He hates the Church. Doesn’t like competition from God. Or his saints.” She winked. “Ever hear of Santeria? It’s a mix
of voodoo and Catholic.”

“I’ve read something about it.” He played along.

“I’ll bet you do a lot of reading, Detective Talbot. You look like the studious type.”

This time he smiled.

“A lot of Cubans practice Santeria. But the way I see it, if it worked, they’d have gotten rid of Castro’s ass.”

“Did Luis practice Santeria?”

“Fuck no. Luis didn’t believe in anything but ballet. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t have a little fun with him.” She took
up one of the bottles from the dressing table.