Nightbird by Edward Dee Page A

everything.
     Up against the walls. Rich people, they got room to stroll behind their stuff.”
    Anthony Ryan had been quiet on the ride from Faye Boudreau’s apartment. He couldn’t get her out of his mind. Until he met
     Faye he’d thought that he was overwhelmed with grief. But she was consumed by it. To him she seemed childlike, a case of arrested
     development. A woman who knew only how to lead with her heart.
    The maid abandoned Ryan and Gregory in a room paneled with a very dark reddish wood, the color of fallen chestnuts. She told
     them Mr. Winters would be with them in a moment.
    “It must be in the rule book of the rich,” Ryan said. “Make the little people wait in the library.”
    Tall bookshelves lined the room’s interior walls, running close to the ceiling, ten feet up. Top-shelf tomes were accessible
     only by the sliding ladder. The ceiling appeared to be tin, hammered designs radiating out from the center in ever larger
     circles. An oriental rug big enough for the lobby in Carnegie Hall covered most of the floor. Floor lamps stood next to overstuffed
     chairs.
    Trey Winters entered the room as Ryan pulled
The Sun Also Rises
from a shelf. The actor was tall and lanky in baggy linen pants and a dull orange shirt buttoned up to the neck. He strode
     across the big oriental, all loosey-goosey.
    “That’s a first-edition Hemingway,” Winters said, his voice resonating throughout the room. “My wife’s father was an avid
     collector. I believe that’s Hemingway’s first novel.”
    “Second,” Ryan said, replacing the book. “
The Torrents of Spring
was his first.”
    “I forgot that one,” he said. “I suppose he wanted to as well.”
    Winters’s hair was combed straight back, thinning but well disguised. The color was a too dark brown, a dull bottle tint that
     reminded Ryan of wet coffee grounds. He directed them to sit on the leather Chesterfield opposite him. The sofa was filled
     with decorative pillows. Gregory squirmed on the seat, trying to get comfortable with the pillows behind him.
    “We appreciate your seeing us on such short notice,” Gregory said.
    “My lawyers aren’t happy about it, but it’s the least I can do. This has been a terrible tragedy for all concerned.”
    “Why would your lawyers object?” Ryan asked.
    “Civil liability. I do own the apartment. Lawsuits, I’m sure, are looming down the road.”
    A young woman is dead and he’s worried about money, Ryan thought. He waited for his partner to get comfortable; it was Gregory’s
     show. One by one Joe Gregory stacked the decorative pillows on the floor. Finally, flush against the back of the sofa, he
     took out his notebook.
    “Okay, Mr. Winters,” Gregory said. “We’ve spoken to the doorman at the Broadway Arms and your doorman here. They confirm your
     times of arrival and departure. What we’d like to talk about is Gillian’s drug use. When did you first become aware of it?”
    “About six weeks ago. I began noticing some erratic behavior.”
    “What kind of erratic behavior?” Gregory said.
    “Bursts of emotion. One extreme to the other. Some mornings she seemed exhausted, her eyes dull. Then suddenly she’d be sky
     high, couldn’t stop talking.”
    “My ex-wife was high-strung,” Gregory said.
    “I’m not talking about personality traits, Detective. I’ve been around enough cocaine users to spot the symptoms.”
    “You been around a lotta coke heads?” Gregory said.
    “Cocaine is hardly new to the entertainment industry.”
    Ryan hadn’t observed Mid-Town North’s interview of Winters on the morning after Gillian’s death. But, unlike the case with
     Faye, this was definitely not someone grieving.
    “When did you first confront Gillian about your suspicions?” Gregory said.
    “We’d been discussing it for about a month. Futilely, I might add. Gillian was in complete denial. Finally, I decided to force
     the issue. I told her she’d have to take a drug test.”
    “When did