Кэндес Бушнелл - One Fifth Avenue

At one point, like a sleepwalker, he did get up and go to his closet.

But then he collapsed again, and sometime in the middle of the night, his kidneys gave out, followed by his heart. Billy didn’t feel a thing.

That evening, Schiffer Diamond ran into Paul and Annalisa Rice on the sidewalk in front of One Fifth. Schiffer was coming back from a long day of shooting, while Paul and Annalisa were dressed for dinner. Schiffer nodded at them on her way into the building, then she paused. “Excuse me,” she said to Annalisa. “Aren’t you a friend of Billy Litchfield’s?”

Paul and Annalisa exchanged glances. “Yes,” Annalisa said.

“Have you seen him?” Schiffer asked. “I’ve been trying to call him for two days.”

“He doesn’t seem to be answering his phone. I went by his apartment, but he wasn’t home.”

“Maybe he’s gone away,” Schiffer said. “I’m sure it’s fine.”

“If you talk to him, will you let me know?” Annalisa asked. “I’m worried.”

Upstairs, Schiffer searched through a drawer in her kitchen, wondering if she still had the keys to Billy’s apartment. Years ago — years and years now — when she and Billy had first become friends, they’d exchanged keys to each other’s apartments in case of an emergency. She’d never cleaned out the drawer, so the keys should still be there, although there was a slim possibility that Billy had changed his lock. In the back of the drawer, she did find the keys. There was a blue plastic tag attached to the ring on which Billy had written LITCHFIELD ABODE, followed by an exclamation point, as if proclaiming their friendship.

Schiffer walked the three blocks to Billy’s building, pausing under the scaffolding before trying the key in the front door. It still worked, and she passed a row of metal mailboxes. The door to Billy’s mailbox was ajar, held open by several days’ worth of envelopes. Perhaps Billy was away. Renovations had apparently begun in the building — the stairway leading to the fourth floor was covered with brown paper and secured with blue tape. Hearing music coming from inside Billy’s apartment, she knocked loudly. At the other end of the hall, a door opened and a middle-aged woman, neatly groomed, stuck her head out. “Are you looking for Billy Litchfield?” she asked. “He’s gone away. And he’s left his music on. I don’t know what to do. I’ve tried to call the super, but he doesn’t answer. It’s all because of the conversion. Billy and I were the last hold-outs. They’re trying to force us to move. The next thing you know, they’ll probably turn off the electricity.”

The thought of Billy being in this situation was depressing. “I hope not,” Schiffer said.

“Are you going in?” the woman asked.

“Yes,” Schiffer said. “Billy gave me his keys.”

“Will you turn off the music? I’m just about going crazy here.”

Schiffer nodded and went in. Billy’s living room had always been overcrowded with stuff, but he’d kept it neat. Now it was a mess. His photographs were strewn on the floor, empty CD cases were scattered around the room, and on the sofa and two armchairs, several coffee-table books lay open to photographs of Jackie O. She found the stereo in an antique wooden cupboard and turned off the music. This wasn’t like Billy at all.

“Billy?” she called out.

She went down the short hallway to the bedroom, passing empty hooks on the walls where the photographs had been removed. The bedroom door was closed. Schiffer knocked and turned the handle.

Billy lay sprawled across his bed with his head hanging over the side.

His eyes were closed, but the muscles under his pale, freckled face had stiffened, giving him a grim, foreign expression. The body on the bed was no longer Billy, Schiffer thought. The Billy Litchfield she’d known was gone.

“Oh, Billy,” she said. Looped around Billy’s neck was a long noose constructed of Hermès ties that trailed on the floor, as if Billy had been thinking of hanging himself but died before he could complete the act.

“Oh, Billy,” Schiffer said again. She gently untied the loose knot around his neck and, separating the ties one from another, carefully hung them back up in Billy’s closet, where they belonged.

Then she went into the bathroom. Billy was fastidious and had done his best with the space, placing thick white towels folded carefully on a shelf above the toilet. But the fixtures themselves were cheap and probably forty years old. She’d always assumed that Billy had money, but apparently, he had not, living exactly as he had when he’d first come to New York. The thought of Billy’s secret penury added to her sadness. He was one of those New York types whom everyone knew but didn’t know much about. She opened the medicine cabinet and was shocked by the row of prescription pills. Prozac, Xanax, Ambien, Vicodin — she’d had no idea Billy was so unhappy and stressed. She should have spent more time with him, she thought bitterly, but Billy had been like a New York institution. She’d always thought he’d be around.

Working quickly, she poured the contents of the prescription bottles into the toilet. As in most prewar buildings, there was an incinerator chute in the kitchen, where Schiffer disposed of the empty bottles. Billy wouldn’t want people to think he’d tried to kill himself or that he was addicted to pills. Back in the bedroom, she spotted a crude wooden box on top of his bureau. It wasn’t Billy’s style, and curious, she opened it to find neat rows of what appeared to be costume jewelry folded in bubble wrap. Did Billy have a transvestite bent to his nature? If so, it was another aspect of his life that he wouldn’t have wanted people to know about. Searching through his closet, she found a shoe box and shopping bag from Valentino. She put the wooden box into the shoe box and into the bag. Then she called 911.

Two police officers arrived within minutes, followed by EMS workers, who ripped open Billy’s robe and tried to shock him back to life. Billy’s body jumped several inches off the bed, and unable to bear it, Schiffer went into the living room. Eventually, a detective in a navy blue suit arrived. “Detective Sabatini,” he said, holding out his hand.

“Schiffer Diamond,” she said.

“The actress,” he said, perking up.

“That’s right.”

“You found the body. Why?”

“Billy was a good friend. I hadn’t heard from him in a couple of days.

I came by to see if he was okay. Obviously, he wasn’t.”

“Did you know he was under investigation?”

“Billy?” she said in disbelief. “For what?”

“Art theft,” the detective said.

“That’s impossible,” Schiffer said, folding her arms.

“It’s not only possible, but true. Did he have any enemies?”

“Everyone loved him.”

“Did he need money?”

“I don’t know anything about his financial affairs. Billy didn’t talk about it. He was very ... discreet.”

“So he knew things about people?”

“He knew a lot of people.”

“Anyone who might want him dead? Like Sandy Brewer?”

“I don’t know who that is.”

“I thought you were good friends.”

“We were,” Schiffer said. “But I hadn’t seen Billy in years. Not until I moved back to New York nine months ago.”

“I’m going to need you to come to the station for questioning.”

“I need to call my publicist first,” she said firmly. The reality of Billy’s death hadn’t hit her yet, but this was going to be a mess. She and Billy would likely end up on the front page of The New York Post tomorrow.

Early the next morning, Paul Rice was trawling through the Internet when he came across the first item about Billy Litchfield’s death. He didn’t connect Billy to the Brewer scandal, so the news didn’t have a big impact.

But then he saw several small pieces from The New York Times to The Boston Globe, stating that Billy Litchfield, fifty-four, a sometime journalist, art dealer, and society walker, had been discovered dead in his apartment the evening before. The coverage in the Daily News and the Post was much more extensive. On the covers of both newspapers were glamour shots of Schiffer Diamond, who had discovered the body, and a photograph of Billy in a tux. There were other photographs as well, mostly of Billy with various socialites and one of him arm in arm with Mrs. Louise Houghton. The police were investigating, suspecting foul play.

Paul turned off his computer. He considered waking his wife and giving her the news, but realized she might start crying. Then he would be stuck in an emotional scene not of his own making and therefore of an unpredictable length. He decided to tell her later instead.

Hurrying through the lobby, he spotted several photographers just outside the door. “What’s going on?” he demanded of Roberto.

“Someone died, and Schiffer Diamond found the body.”

Billy Litchfield, Paul thought. “But why are they here? Outside One Fifth?” Roberto shrugged. “Never mind,” Paul barked, and knocked on Mindy’s door. She opened it a crack, trying to keep Skippy, who was barking and jumping on her leg, inside and away from Paul. For the moment, Paul had gained the upper hand in the building; Mindy had to agree to keep Skippy out of the lobby in the morning and evening when Paul would be passing through. “What is it now?” she said, glaring at him with hatred.

“That,” Paul said, motioning to the paparazzi outside.

Mindy came out without the dog, closing the door behind her. She was still in her cotton pajamas but had thrown on a chenille robe and flip-flops. “Roberto,” she said. “What is this?”

“You know I can’t keep them away. The sidewalk is public property, and they’re entitled to be there.”

“Call the police,” Paul said. “Have them arrested.”

“Someone died, and Schiffer Diamond found the body,” Roberto repeated.

“Billy Litchfield,” Paul said.

Mindy gasped. “Billy?”

“I want something done about this,” Paul said, continuing his rant.

“Those photographers are blocking my point of egress, and I can’t get to my office. I don’t care how famous someone is, they have no right to disturb the regular workings of a building. I want Schiffer Diamond out.

And while we’re at it, we should remove Enid Merle. And Philip Oakland. And your husband. And you, too,” he said to Mindy.

Mindy’s face turned red. Her head felt like a rotten tomato that was about to explode. “Why don’t you move?” she screamed. “Ever since you moved into this building, there’s been nothing but trouble. I’ve had it with you. If I get one more complaint from you or your wife about this building, I don’t care what it costs, I don’t care if our maintenance goes up five thousand dollars a month, we will sue you and we will win. No one wants you here. I should have listened to Enid and broken up the apartment. It wouldn’t have made any difference — you’ve ruined the apartment with your stupid fish and your stupid computer equipment, and the only reason you’ve gotten away with it is because there aren’t any bylaws about goddamn fish.”

Paul turned to Roberto. “Did you hear that?” he said. “She’s threatening me.” He snapped his fingers. “I want you to write down what happened. I want her on notice.”

“I’m not involved,” Roberto said, backing away while gleefully noting that it wasn’t yet seven A.M., and already he had a bonanza of gossip. It was going to be a very interesting day.

“Fuck you,” Mindy said, jutting her head forward in rage. Instead of reacting to this insult, Paul Rice merely stood there, shaking his head at her as if she were utterly pathetic. This further fueled her anger. “Get out!” she screamed. “You and your wife. Pack your bags and leave this building.” Taking a breath, she added, “Immediately!”

“Mrs. Gooch,” Roberto said soothingly. “Maybe you should go back inside.”

“I will,” Mindy said, pointing her finger at Paul. “And I’m going to get a restraining order against you. You won’t be allowed to come within fifty feet of me. Try going in and out of the building when you can’t go through the lobby.”

“Go ahead,” Paul said with a taunting smile.“There’s nothing I’d like better. Then I can sue you personally. By the way, lawyers’ fees add up quickly, so you’d better plan on selling your apartment to cover them.” He would have continued, but Mindy went inside and slammed the door.

“Nice,” Roberto said.