JM01 - Black Maps Read Online Free PDF Page A

rang again, but the elevator stayed where it was— on five, I guessed. I took the stairs.
    I lived on the fourth floor, in my sister Lauren’s apartment. She’d gotten married a few years ago, and as far as I knew was very happy in her digs on the Upper East Side, but she’d hung on to this place just in case. I was glad to keep it warm for her. The building is an old one, from the 1890s. For its first hundred or so years it was a factory. Then, in the 1990s, it was reborn as residential space. One big loft on each floor. The building still bore marks of its industrial roots in the oversized elevator and the sixteen-foot tin ceilings, but the individual lofts had been renovated in very different styles. I knew the advertising guy on six had done something with a lot of brushed aluminum that made his place look like the inside of a turbine, and the two women on the third floor had turned theirs into a Craftsman bungalow. Lauren’s place, my place at the moment, was tame by those standards: white walls, bleached hardwood floors, a kitchen area in cherry wood and green granite, halogen lighting, sparse, comfortable furniture in soft leather and wood. I’d told Lauren that if the PI thing didn’t work out, I might open a Banana Republic in there. She’d smiled sweetly and flipped me the bird.
    I flicked on the main lights and set the file box on the kitchen counter. My plan was to go for a run, then eat something and read the file. While I wasn’t quite sure what to make of Pierro or his story, I was eager to work. I try to keep the downtime between cases to a minimum. It’s not a money thing. For me, downtime is dangerous. It’s unfocused, disorderly, and open-ended, and too easily filled with memory. Work keeps all that at bay—work and running. They’re cheaper than substance abuse, and ultimately less trouble. I listened to my voice mail on the speakerphone while I changed into my running clothes.
    There was a message from Lauren, trying again to cajole me into a family Thanksgiving. “John, it’s me. Call me about Thanksgiving. I promise it won’t be horrible. Ned’s at his best when he’s carving up big pieces of meat, and Janine is sure to get shitfaced, which is always amusing. Seriously, you should come. Everyone wants to see you. We do worry, you know. Call me.” Although she’s just three years younger than I am, Lauren sounds like a breathless sixteen-year-old when she pleads. Ned is my eldest brother; Janine is his well-kempt wife. Maybe I could tell them that I was having Thanksgiving dinner with Mike.
    Then there was a message from Clare, calling from a pay phone as always. “Hi. It’s about six-thirty. Look, I’m sorry about Monday. You caught me off guard, and I wasn’t sure if you were kidding or what. It’s hard to tell with you. I’ll try you later. Maybe we can get together tomorrow —I’m free in the morning, around ten.” Clare was . . . I’m not sure what. A friend of mine? I couldn’t claim to know her very well, and besides a certain cynical worldview, a high level of aerobic fitness, and intercourse, we didn’t have much in common. Someone I was dating? Can you say that about a woman who’s married to someone else? A woman I’d met a few months ago, running in Central Park, and began having sex with soon after—that, at least, is accurate.
    And there was a message from Donald. He spoke slowly, and his deep, gravelly voice filled the room. “Just saying hello. Call when you can. Had a good deer season this year. Got some nice steaks, if you want ’em. Hope you’re okay.” Donald Stennis had been my boss—the Burr County sheriff—and my friend. He’d also been my father-in-law, back when I’d had a wife. I’d phone Donald when I had a long time to spend. It was always good to talk to him, but for the past three years it hadn’t been easy.
    I pulled on running tights and a shirt, a wind shell, a reflective vest, my shoes and gloves and hit the streets. It was