Downstairs, he put the keys in his pocket, then took them out again—one for the room, one for the back. No mailbox key. But why would Danny get any mail? An apartment registered to another name. Just a place where they changed the sheets. Still, they must have given him one, if only to clean out the catalogues and restaurant flyers. He turned back to the clerk.
“I don’t have a mail key,” he said. “For 5C.”
“You’d better find it. We’ll have to charge. We can’t keep making keys.”
Ben looked at the mailman. “He get mail here? Collins? 5C?”
“Mister, you think I keep track? If it’s U.S. Mail, we deliver it.”
“But you might notice—if it piled up. Or if someone never got any.”
“Never? I’d buy him a beer.” He waved his hand toward the boxes. “Everybody gets mail.”
“Did you check his desk?” the clerk said. “Sometimes people keep it there.”
But it wasn’t in his desk or in the desk at home, at least not in any of the shallow paperclip trays in the top drawer, where it logically should be. And not in any of the boxes on top. Ben began taking papers out of the drawer, not rummaging through as he had that first day, but systematically putting them in piles—canceled checks, bill receipts. He started with the address book, as if somehow a number would leap out at him, but none did. Who would put his girlfriend in a book? An odd scrap of paper that no one would see, even a matchbook cover, but not in a book.
The checks were more interesting, like shards of pottery you piece together to reveal a whole society: tree surgeons and pool tilers, land-scapers and caterers, an account at Magnin’s, a life so far removed from Ben’s that it seemed to be otherworldly. Like the thick terry robes by the pool, the drawers of cashmere. He thought of Howard Stein, looking around. And this was only someone with a B series about detectives. Mayer was the highest paid man in America. Still, nobody had killed him because Liesl kept a running account at Magnin’s. He flipped through the stubs. No checks to the Cherokee Arms, presumably a cash expense, discreet. The appointment book was even less revealing: no coded notes, M 5:30, just straightforward studio meetings and doctors and dentists.
No wallet, either. But he must have had one. Maybe in his dresser, with the tie clips and cuff links. He crossed the hall to the dressing room and opened the door that covered the built-in shelves, the inside panel a mirror to check your tie. He reached for the top drawer then stopped, standing motionless. The mirror, some optical trick, reflected the mirror on the partly opened bathroom door. A leg, resting on the rim of the tub, just one, her hands moving up it slowly, as if she were putting on nylons, moving together toward her thigh, then out of the mirror. The hands again, the same smooth drawing up, rubbing. Not nylons, some kind of cream, maybe suntan oil. He stood there, unable to move, his eyes fixed on the mirror. A perfect leg, arched. He imagined his hands moving along it instead of hers, slick with oil, an image that came like a pulse beat, fast, involuntary. Now the leg leaned farther in, more thigh showing, the hands moving. Close the door. Instead he held his breath, mesmerized, wanting the hands to go farther. He could feel himself fill with blood. Unexpected, just like that, without thought. He wanted to see more, where the leg met the body. But it dropped and the other one came up, the same hand motion, just for him, even more exciting because she was unaware.
What could he say if she saw him? Find the wallet and get out. But he stayed, still not breathing. The other thigh now, an almost unbearable second, her sex just beyond the edge of the mirror, and then it moved forward, not hair, a wedge of bathing suit, then more, her whole body bent over, moving into the mirror, her head turning, looking toward her door. He closed the cabinet, a snap reflex, and crossed back to the office, his body flushed, slightly shaky. Had she seen him? The mirrors had to reflect each other, didn’t they? What would she have seen? Standing there, mouth half-open, looking where he shouldn’t, eyes fixed, caught in a kind of trance.
He picked up the checkbook again, pretending he could read the stub notes, listening for footsteps.
“What are you doing?”
He looked up, startled, feeling caught. She was pinning her hair, on her way to the pool.
“I was just—going through his things. I should have asked.”
Nervous, waiting for her to say something. But she seemed not to have seen him in the mirror.
“No, please. Somebody has to. I’ve been putting it off. I’ve been a coward a little bit. In case I found—you know, if it’s somebody I know,” she said, turning to go now, anxious, her movements as darting as they’d been that first day at union Station.