Dirt

himself, consulting the address Stone had given him. He walked down the steps to the apartment door and found it ajar; the smell of paint reached him. He pushed the door open. The living room was empty and freshly painted. He heard the rattle of a bucket from a rear room and walked that way.
    A middle-aged man in paint-stained jeans and sweatshirt was rapidly rolling paint onto a bedroom wall. He looked at Cantor. “Sorry, I’m not showing the apartment until tomorrow, when the ad runs in the
Times,
” he said.
    Cantor showed him his badge briefly. “I’m looking for Jonathan Dryer,” he said.
    “So am I,” the man replied. “He owes me four months’ rent.”
    “When did you last see him?”
    “Last Friday, when I was going away. When I came back on Wednesday, he was gone, and the place was empty. Four months he owes me; that’s how long his lease had to run.”
    “Mind if I look around?”
    “Help yourself.” He went back to painting.
    Cantor walked slowly around the apartment, looking in closets and drawers. It was a nice place, he thought. Good kitchen, nicely done bathroom. Cantor was living in Chelsea, and he thought he wouldn’t mind living uptown. All the closets, drawers, and cabinets were empty. He went back to the bedroom and walked out the rear door, which opened onto a small terrace and a garden area behind. There was nothing in the way of planting, but there was soil; soil was a valuable real estate asset in New York. He went back inside.
    “Nice place,” he said. “Who’s the agent?”
    “No agent; I own the building. I live on the top two floors.”
    “How much you asking?”
    The man told him.
    “How much less would you take to have a guy with a badge living here?”
    The man looked at him narrowly. “You married?”
    “Divorced.”
    “Any kids?”
    “None.”
    “You play any musical instruments?”
    “The stereo, softly.”
    “I’d need a police reference.”
    “Call Lieutenant Dino Bacchetti, at the Nineteenth, around the corner.”
    “I’ll do that. If you check out, it would be worth a couple hundred off for a cop.”
    “Retired cop, actually, but that’s even better for you. I’d be spending more time in the building than somebody who has to pull duty.”
    “What’s your name?”
    “Bob Cantor.”
    “How long a lease you want?”
    “Three years would be good.”
    “You wait here; I’ll be right back.” The man left and came back ten minutes later. “Bacchetti says you’re okay; give me a check for a month’s rent and a security deposit, and the place is yours.” Cantor wrote him a check.
    “My name’s Jim O’Brian.” He stuck out his hand.
    Cantor shook it. “Back to this guy Dryer; tell me about him.”
    “He kept to himself, didn’t make any noise. I only saw him coming and going, or when he paid the rent. Always paid in cash, which was okay with me.”
    “How long was he here?”
    “Eight months.”
    “Anybody room with him?”
    “A long string of girls, one night at a time.”
    “Any guys visiting him?”
    “He was straight, believe me.”
    “I mean friends staying over a few days, that sort of thing.”
    “Not that I recall.”
    “When he rented the place, did you take an application from him?”
    “No, I don’t bother with written applications if the renter looks okay. I never got burned until now.”
    “What did Dryer do for a living?”
    “Said he was a filmmaker.”
    “You ever see any evidence of that?”
    “What kind of evidence?”
    “Cameras, film equipment?”
    “The only equipment Dryer had here was a computer, a copy machine, and a fax machine. Pretty neat computer, though — Pentium, fast laser printer, big monitor.”
    “Did Dryer apply for his own phone service?”
    “Nah, the phone’s on my bill. Shit! I forgot about the phone bill. That’s more money out of my pocket.”
    “Did he make many long distance calls?”
    “Yeah, quite a few.”
    “Could I have a look at your phone bills? I’d like to know who he was calling.”
    “I’ve got to go upstairs and get you a lease form; I’ll dig them out for you.”
    “One more thing; did Dryer leave anything here?”
    “Nothing but trash.”
    “Has it been picked up yet?”
    “No, it’ll still be out in the alley next to the building. There’s two plastic bags in the first can. It has a ‘B’ on it, for basement.”
    “Thanks, Jim, I’ll take a look at that while you get the lease and the phone bills — all eight months, if you’ve got