"Whoever gets to her first wins," Aaron said. "So, how do we find her?"
"Think back over the tape. What else did Diana say?"
"She called Gelsey a ' artist,' " Sue said.
"Right. And she referred to a sketch. So, that's one more thing we know about the girl. Now let's review it all."
He went to the blackboard at the far end of the room, picked up a piece of chalk, wrote "GELSEY," then turned to the squad.
"We know her first name. An unusual name. A name people aren't likely to forget." He wrote: "FACE."
"We know what she looks like. We've got two police sketches with two different wigs."
He wrote: "MIRRORS."
"We know she's interested in mirrors. She can do mirror writing. She looks at mirrors all the time."
He wrote: "ARTIST."
"Put those four things together and what've we got? ' you heard of an artist named Gelsey who may work with mirrors? Here's her picture-take a look." " He paused. "We'll divide up the art community. Start with the galleries." He turned to Sue. "You and Ray take Soho. Aaron and I'll work the East Village. If that doesn't produce, we'll try Fifty-seventh and upper Madison, though I suspect she's a little young for uptown.
Point is, if she's a professional artist and she's shown her work around, we should be able to turn her up." He stared at them.
"Let's get on it."
Trudging through the East Village, making the rounds of its numerous little attic and storefront galleries, was not, Janek quickly discovered, much like visiting the Museum of Modern Art. Not only was the artwork itself not Comparable, but a lot of what he saw looked like the subway graffiti he abhor-red. But Janek didn't laugh at what he didn't understand. Rather, it aroused in him an awareness of his limitations and a sense that, however much New York had declined, it was still a magnet for young people who heeded a calling to create. So, he thought, perhaps that meant that his city still aspired to greatness, and that its underside, the awful parts he saw daily in his work, was not necessarily proof of the irreversibility of its fall.
Spending the better part of the day visiting galleries on East Ninth, Tenth and Eleventh streets, he reached home with weary eyes. He opened a beer, gulped it down, then took a long shower to relax. He was just stepping out when heard his telephone. He wrapped a towel around his waist and went into his bedroom to answer. It was Netti Rampersad. She said she was in the neighborhood, had some papers for him to sign and asked if she could drop by.
"Sure," he said, finding it interesting that she happened to be conveniently near. "Give me ten minutes to get dressed and straighten the joint. Then, if you're hungry, I'll order in Chinese." "Velly velly nice," she said in her Chinatown accent. Then, switching to her real voice: "Tell you what, Frank since you're supplying the hall, the least I can do is pick up the grub."
When she arrived twenty minutes later, she was loaded down. She had used her briefcase as a base to support a large cardboard box.
"Good thing you pump iron," Janek said as he lifted the heavy box from her arms and set it on his counter. He appraised her. She looked good, wearing a clinging dark green silk blouse and a worn pair of jeans. She smiled at him, then began to unpack the food.
He watched amazed as she pulled out numerous white cartons of carry-out.
She had bought moo shu pork with pancakes, General Tang's chicken, sweet and sour shrimp, lobster in black bean sauce, spare ribs, spring rolls, hot and sour soup and a large portion of noodles in sesame oil.
"I see we're into starch," he said. "By the way, are some of your friends dropping by?"
She laughed. "Anything we don't finish is yours to keep. "
"I don't think I can handle eating Chinese the rest of the week."
"Geez, Frank-Chinese people eat Chinese three times a day." She gazed at him, deadpan. "All year round, too." Amused, he set his coffee table with plates, napkins and chopsticks, while she transferred the delicacies onto serving platters. He broke out a couple of beers, then they sat down.
Netti, in the midst of chewing on a spare rib, gestured toward his workbench. "Those accordions-they your hobby?"
"They were my father's profession," he explained. "He had an accordion sales and repair shop, only one in the city, downtown on Lafayette.
Fixed instruments mostly, but he'd also fix radios, toasters, whatever got broken in the neighborhood. We lived above the store."
I ', do you just fix ', or do you play ', too?" "Oh, I can play '," he said. "But don't ask me. There's an old joke among accordion players: ' gentleman is a man who can play the accordion… but won't."
He noticed that she ate like a savage, which surprised him since she was so hard-bodied and lean. She grinned when she liked the taste of something and licked her lips afterward. Soon the aromas of ginger and garlic, sesame and soy transformed the air of his apartment.
"So," he said, gesturing toward her briefcase, "what do you want me to sign?"
"Copies of your pleading." She put down her rice bowl, fished out the papers. "In layman's language, your complaint. "
"I suppose I ought to read it first."
"Absolutely."
He glanced at the papers, then put them down. He didn't feel like reading the sad saga of his barren marriage. "Hell with it," he said.
"Give me a pen?"
She produced a pen, showed him where to sign. Then something dripped off one of his chopsticks beside his signature.
"Uh-oh, spot of moo shu."
She blotted the stain with her napkin. "Don't sweat it. I've filed pleadings with a lot worse on them than this." She stuffed the executed documents back into her briefcase. "I'll have Doe file these first thing in the morning. Your wife'll be served by the end of the day."
"Ex-wife," Janek corrected her.
"Right. So, now we're done with business, how do you like the food?"
They devoured more of the carry-out than he would have thought possible, but there was still enough left to last him for days. While he washed the plates, she boiled water, added tea, then they settled back on his couch to sip and talk.
"I'd like to make a small confession," she said.
"Go ahead," he said. "But I don't promise to absolve you", She smiled.
"Not that kind. I haven't done anything wrong. At least not yet."
"So, what's the confession?" he asked.
She grinned, then looked down. It was the first time he'd seen her act demure. "I've had… impure thoughts."
"Oh, those!" He laughed but felt uneasy. He had a hunch where this tack of hers could lead.
"All right," she said, looking into his eyes, "I'll come clean. I'm feeling attracted to you, Frank. I'd like to get to know you better-if you follow my meaning." She smiled, then looked down again.
Very gracefully stated, he thought, but he wasn't sure how to respond.