Lie of the Needle(21)
Serrano looked at me for an explanation.
“Alex Roos and Cyril were doing the modeling shoot together yesterday.”
“Don’t panic, Martha,” Eleanor said. “Maybe they took a trip to Atlantic City together or something. Or maybe Roos ended up at some woman’s house like he did the night before. There’s lots of possible explanations.”
I poured a glass of water for Martha. “When did the break-in happen, Serrano?”
“Tough to say—last night, maybe. Coulda even been during the shivah. People were coming and going, making enough commotion to cover up the noise. It looks like a professional job. Nothing else in the house was taken. All the artwork and antiques are still there. Trust me, Roos was targeted, and more specifically, his stuff.”
“Was there any blood in the studio?” Eleanor asked.
I elbowed her as Martha picked up an antique postcard and started fanning herself.
“Not that I could see, but our guys are going over everything now.” Serrano scanned the empty counter where there were no plates piled high with the usual baked goodies. He sighed. “So. How did Ruth find this photographer?”
“I think she has contacts in California. Somebody in the fashion industry?” Eleanor wrinkled her nose.
“I called Cyril this morning,” Martha said, still fixated on the subject of her missing love. “He didn’t answer, but then he often doesn’t, so I didn’t think much of it. Honestly, I can call that man ten times and he won’t pick up.”
Was I the only one who detected the whisper on the wind of Serrano’s slightly indrawn breath?
“But what if something’s really wrong? What if something’s happened to him?” She tossed the postcard back into the basket and stood up. “That’s it. I’m going over to that godforsaken junkyard right now to see what’s going on.”
As far as I knew, Martha had never set foot in Cyril’s kingdom of rusty delights.
“Um, I still have a key to his place from when I fed his cat the last time you and he went on vacation.” I turned to Eleanor. “Could you watch the store for me for half an hour? Please?”
Serrano helped Martha into her copious red coat. “I’ll go, too.”
Eleanor crossed her arms. “Sure, sure, leave me out of all the fun.”
* * *
Afew minutes later, we stepped out of Serrano’s Dodge Challenger into a wintry wasteland. It was impossible to drive all the way up to the trailer that was Cyril Mackey’s home because towering piles of junk barred our way.
The snowfall had softened the sharp edges of car doors, old radiators, and gasoline signs, which were now bumpy, indefinable piles of white. As Martha glanced dubiously around the salvage yard, I fancied that Mother Nature had wanted to make this as gentle an introduction for her first time here as possible.
We trudged across a smooth, untouched crust of snow, heads bowed against the cruel cold that seemed to sink its talons deep into our skulls.
Serrano rapped on the trailer door, but there was no answer. He stuck a hand in my direction. “Give me the key.”
I placed the key obediently into his outstretched palm.
“Stand back, ladies. Do not enter until I give the all clear.”
I did a mental eye roll as he disappeared inside the trailer. Serrano was in his bossy mode today.
About thirty seconds later, he came back to the top step and motioned for us to enter.