The ride passed in silence. Philips watched the city lights until they were blurred by an abrupt downpour. The cab’s windshield wipers hurried to keep ahead of the rain. They crossed town on Fifty-seventh; went diagonally north on Broadway from Columbus Circle, then turned onto Amsterdam Avenue. Philips recognized Columbia University when they passed it on the left. The rain let up as suddenly as it had started. On One-hundred-forty-first they turned right, and Philips sat forward and asked what section of town they were in. “Hamilton Heights,” said the driver, turning left on Hamilton Terrace, and then slowing down.
Ahead, Werner’s taxi stopped. Philips paid his fare and got out. Although the cityscape on Amsterdam Avenue had deteriorated as they’d gone north, Philips now found himself in a surprisingly attractive neighborhood. The street was lined with quaint town houses whose varying facades reflected about every architectural school since the Renaissance. Most of the buildings clearly had been renovated, others were in the process. At the end of the street, facing down Hamilton Terrace, Werner entered a white limestone-fronted building whose windows were surrounded with Venetian Gothic decoration.
By the time Philips got to the building, the lights had gone on in the third-floor windows. Up close, the town house was not in such good condition as it appeared from afar, but its shoddiness did not detract from its overall effect; it gave Philips a feeling of tarnished elegance, and he was impressed by Werner’s ability to provide for himself.
Entering the foyer, Philips acknowledged that he was not going to be able to surprise Werner by knocking directly on his door. As in Denise’s apartment, there was a locked foyer with individual buzzers to the various apartments. Helmut Werner’s name was third from the bottom.
Putting his finger on the buzzer, Philips hesitated, not sure if he wanted to go through with the whole thing. He wasn’t even sure what he should say, but the thought of Kristin Lindquist gave him courage. He pressed the button and waited.
“Who is it?” Werner’s voice, laden with static, issued from a tiny speaker.
“Dr. Philips. I’ve got some money for you, Werner. Bigmoney.”
There was a moment or two of silence and Martin could feel his pulse.
“Who else is with you, Philips?”
“No one.”
A raucous buzz filled the once sumptuous foyer and Philips pushed through the door. He headed up the stairs for the third floor. Behind the sole door he could hear multiple locks being released. The door opened slightly so that a sliver of light cut across Philips’ face. He could see one of Werner’s deeply set eyes looking at him. The brow was raised in apparent surprise. A chain was then removed and the door swung open.
Martin stepped briskly into the room, forcing Werner to back up to avoid a collision. In the center of the room Martin stopped.
“I don’t mind paying, my friend,” he said with as much assertiveness as he could muster. “But I want to find out what happened to Lisa Marino’s brain.”
“How much you willing to pay?” Werner’s hands were opening and closing rhythmically.
“Five hundred dollars,” said Philips. He wanted the amount to sound enticing without being ridiculous.
Werner’s thin mouth pulled back in a smile so that deep lines appeared in his hollow cheeks. His teeth were small and square.
“Are you sure you’re alone?” asked Werner.
Philips nodded.
“Where’s the money?”
“Right here.” Philips patted his left breast.
“All right,” said Werner. “What do you want to know?”
“Everything,” said Philips.
Werner shrugged his shoulders. “It’s a long story.”
I got the time.”
“I was just going to eat. You want to eat?”
Philips shook his head. His stomach was a tense knot.
“Suit yourself.” Werner turned and with his characteristic gait, went into the kitchen. Philips followed, allowing himself a quick glance at the apartment. The walls were some sort of red velvet, the furniture Victorian. The room had a sleazy, heavy elegance, which was enhanced by the low-level illumination coming from a single Tiffany lamp. On the table was Werner’s briefcase. A Polaroid camera, which had apparently been in the case, lay next to it, along with a stack of photos.