New York Dead by Stuart Woods

Dino waited quietly while Mrs. Van Fleet called her lawyer.
    She returned grim faced. “All right, how do you want to go about this?”
    “We’d like to see every room in the building,” Stone said.
    “What are you looking for?” she demanded.
    “Anything that might help us in our investigation,” Dino said, none too politely.
    Seething, the woman took them through the building. Stone saw nothing out of the ordinary — at least, out of the ordinary for a funeral parlor. They finished up in the embalming room, where Herbert Van Fleet was working on a corpse. A tube ran from the man’s stomach to a pump, and the machine whirred quietly. Stone looked away.
    Van Fleet looked up without surprise. “Well, well, look who’s back. I’m not answering any further questions, gentlemen, except in the presence of my lawyer.”
    Stone handed him the warrant, and, while Van Fleet read it carefully, he went to a row of large drawers.
    “I’ll do this,” Stone said to Dino. “I wouldn’t want you to faint on me.”
    Two elderly men were the only occupants of the refrigerated storage drawers. Stone and Dino had a look in an adjacent storage room, then returned.
    “All right,” Van Fleet said, “when do you want to go to my apartment?”
    “Immediately,” Stone replied.
    Van Fleet turned to his mother. “But what about Mr. Edmonson?” he asked plaintively, gesturing toward the corpse on the table.
    “Just pop him in the fridge,” Dino said. “He’ll keep.”
    “You’d better go with them,” Mrs. Van Fleet said to her son. “They’ll wreck your place if you’re not there.”
    Van Fleet nodded, went to a sink, washed his hands, removed his rubber apron, revealing that he was dressed in a three-piece suit, and said to the officers, “I’m ready.”

    Van Fleet didn’t speak on the way downtown. His building was in SoHo, near the river, and the street seemed to have been missed in the gentrification of the area. A sign on the dusty windows of the empty ground floor read WEINSTEIN’S FINE GLOVES. Van Fleet unlocked a steel door and led them into a vestibule and onto a freight elevator.
    “Who else lives in the building?” Stone asked.
    “Nobody,” Van Fleet replied genially. “My mother and I bought it as an investment last year. I had planned to renovate the rest of the building and rent lofts, but I ran out of money. Maybe next year.” “Did the glove factory occupy the whole place?”
    “No, there was a kosher meat-processing plant and a piecework sewing business, and offices on the top floor, where I live.”
    The elevator stopped. Van Fleet pushed back the gate and unlocked another large steel door.
    “It’s sort of like a fortress, isn’t it?” Dino said.
    “I shouldn’t have to tell
you
what a problem burglary is in this city,” Van Fleet said. Inside the door, he tapped a code into a keypad. “I’ve got a very decent alarm system, too.” Stone watched him.
    Van Fleet led them into a large, open space. A kitchen had been built in a corner at the far end and a bedroom in the other corner. These rooms were separated from the rest of the loft by a framework of lumber that had not yet had plasterboard applied to it. “I’m doing most of the work on the place myself,” Van Fleet said.
    Light flooded the loft from three sides; the other abutted another building.
    “Nice place, Herb,” Dino said admiringly.
    “You may call me Mr. Van Fleet,” Van Fleet said, almost sweetly. He turned to Stone. “
You
may call me Herbert, if you wish.”
    “Thank you, Herbert,” Stone said. “I feel for you, doing your own remodeling. I’m doing the same, myself.” He said this while walking the length of the highly polished oak floor, the expanse of which was broken only by an occasional Oriental rug. A sofa, two chairs, a lamp, and a television set had been placed on one rug, an island of a living room surrounded by hardwood. The two detectives went methodically through the place, but there was