Last Call

by Matthew Nunes

  “Tuesday night.”

  “Dinner? My place? I can cook, you know.”

  “What time?”

  “Eight-ish, okay? Bring a bottle of red?”

  “Red wine, Tuesday, eight o’clock, your place.”

  “Take your vitamins. Don’t forget your gun.”

  I watched her drive away, and then got into my car to pick up ‘Sol. I hoped that Mrs. Pina was out with her grandson getting groceries when I thought about how loud we’d gotten.

  There were messages on the house phone from reporters demanding that I call them back immediately, to discuss “your side of this important story.” I deleted them, listened to one from one of Marisol’s friends. I know that her friend was speaking English, because I recognized the words. I’d never heard them strung together quite that way. They might have been plotting the takeover of Canada for all I knew.

  The night passed, dinner went fine, except for a discussion of why the benefits of fresh spinach offset the icky taste and texture. Ultimately, even though I won the battle, the war wasn’t over. She ate the two forkfuls I insisted on. After dinner, she flounced off, to “do homework, and maybe throw up.” More experienced parents told me to enjoy this age, because it wasn’t going to get easier. I sighed. It was, I thought, a good thing that I loved her.

  ***

  The next morning I woke up before Marisol, and I got out my legal pads. I reworked the timelines, thinking about the timing, using Miranda, the call girl’s known activity with Congressman Morley.

  I was starting to hate somebody. Morley served best by leaving the world, however it screwed up my life. I had been trying not to think that thought. I’d been inconvenienced, but if people were dying, I had to keep pushing. I wouldn’t recognize Miranda if she stood next to me, but I knew that she was a reason. How well would you have to know an innocent woman to keep her alive? It was possible that she was alive and in hiding, but barely. The killer or killers were willing to murder, and willing to frame me. Why not just kill a hooker?

  I was sitting in my kitchen chair, sipping coffee, and sneaking an indoor cigarette. Marisol came in and glared at me until I stubbed out the butt. I tried to change my thinking. I didn’t want to be angry, so I concentrated on my recent shower. It put a grin on my face that ‘Sol imitated. There was lots of chatter about the beach, some boy named “Chad,” and Terri and her mom and dad. Dana came up, and we talked about how much fun she was and how pretty and nice.

  There was a note from “Mr. Emmett Davis” sitting in the bill basket, along with some bills. I looked at the clock and groaned to my feet. Mrs. Pina came in while I was changing for work. She seemed to have trouble containing a smile. I heard some softly spoken Portuguese. I only recognized the language by the slip and slur of it. Not a single word was audible. She had to have heard Dana and me in the shower. I was grateful for her and her love for ‘Sol, but her omniscience was annoying.

  She went to ‘Sol’s room, carrying cleaning equipment, her step rolling, like a sailor long at sea. I got my car running, and headed for work. I hated day shifts, but it was part of the price I paid for my week off. I had to cover another guy’s shift so he could get a root canal. After four hours where I served two drinks, I was ready to change places with him.

  Chapter 19

  DaSilva came into the bar, with a detective I didn’t recognize. He introduced him as “Phil Lacombe.” Except that he had more hair and brown eyes, he could have been DaSilva’s brother. He had brown hair, going to gray, combed perfectly, and a steady look. He was lean, and had tattoos visible on the backs of his hands. I’d have guessed a .38 revolver in a shoulder holster, and he looked like he had forgotten more about being a cop than Petersen would ever learn.

  “Getcha anything?”

  “Got coffee?”

  “I’ll order some up. How do you take it, Detective Lacombe?”

  “Black.” His voice was deep, and he spoke slowly. It seemed as if each word had weight. I punched the order in for the kitchen, and the lift sent it up. I sipped mine and looked at DaSilva.

  “Phil and I have talked a bit about you, and we think it’s okay to be sort of open with you.”

  I nodded.

  “We’ve been looking at tapes and books and stuff,” said DaSilva.

  “A whole lot of suspects. Family and all,” Lacombe went on. “We’d be done by now, but we have to stop and take a bath sometimes.”

  I nodded again.

  “We’re also sure that you know some stuff that we don’t,” said DaSilva.

  “I don’t have a thing that you don’t that could get into court, no matter if I’m an informant or not. If I give it to you, it will taint your real work, and could screw up your case.”

  “So you give it to us, and we get it confirmed by other means, and it gets the bad guys into the pokey.”

  “Pokey?”

  Lacombe looked out at me from under his eyebrows. “You prefer ‘hoosegow?’”

  “I was a lawyer, and Detective Lacombe, if I give you what I have, and you get it confirmed, it’s still fruit from the poisoned tree, and therefore—”

  “Inadmissible,” finished Lacombe and DaSilva together.

  “Certainly, we’re open to suggestion,” said Lacombe.

  “You guys continue with your investigation.”

  “Okay, Mr. Costa, and you break yours off?”

  “I’m a PI and I have a client, and as long as I don’t interfere and do what I can to legally get evidence to the proper authorities, I get to do what I want.” I said it quickly, and probably with more heat than I intended.

  DaSilva raised his eyebrows. “Client?”

  “Yup.”

  “Mind telling me who?”

  “Yup. I don’t have to unless my client is a suspect. Meantime, Larry, how about the tapes and such?”

  “Bad. I’m not squeamish about sex. Hell, I like it. This is different. It isn’t the sex. This stuff’s awful, you know? Nothing a man would ever want to see. You keep picturing it as your wife or daughter getting treated like that. It’s like they aren’t people to him, or his kid, they’re just things to enjoy.”

  “Objects of pleasure?”

  “Like a good cigar or comfortable shit,” said Lacombe. “Makes it harder to keep the edge, you know? This time I’m tempted to shake the perp’s hand. We still have twenty or thirty videos, and lots of people to identify with his journal. We’re interested in some stripper named ‘Lois’ or ‘Lolita.’ Know anything about her? He took movies of himself and his wife, and her with some other guy through a pinhole.” I stayed still when he mentioned Lois. I didn’t want to burn her or Tim Foley, the bartender at the ‘club’ anymore than the phone tap already had.

  To cover, I said, “He had DVD’s of his daughter, too. She destroyed them herself. If it helps you keep your edge, remember that the bad guy tried to frame me. Besides, there may or may not be another victim. Put up a watch for a call girl named Miranda. List her as missing, and use me as the reporting party.’”

  DaSilva’s eyebrows were climbing. “Got a description?”

  “Nope, but I’ll get you one by tonight.”

  “So how’d the mother’s tapes get left? Wouldn’t the daughter—” DaSilva stopped. “Shit, the daughter took her videos and left Mom’s?”

  “Not to mention that she directed me to that closet. Lots of anger.”

  “Fucking diseased, if you ask me,” said Lacombe, “ ‘Lois’ meant something to you, care to talk about that? No? Okay, Who’s Miranda? How do you know she’s missing, and why don’t you have a description? No answer? What about the son? How do we like him for this? Myself, I like him pretty good. I think he’s one sick little prick, myself. You’re shaking your head, Mr. Costa, why’s that? ”

  The way he jumped around from subject to subject, but never really let go of things made him a formidable interrogator. He had a mind that could go around corners and never get lost. “I’ll get your description as soon as I get home, I know
what I know. I think the son is sick, but his father was the source of his pleasure, and cover. I think he’s got his own self-interest at heart. How’d I do?”

  “You forgot ‘Lois.’”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Suppose this ‘Miranda’ turns up alive and well.”

  “You’ll want to talk to her.”

  “And if we suddenly know what you know?”

  “Hearsay.”

  “You, Mr. Costa, are a piece of work. You say a whole lot without saying much. Ever consider being a cop?”

  “Yeah, but the hours suck.”

  “Bartending’s better?” We all were smiling at the same time.

  “He ain’t Petersen, Paul,” said DaSilva, seeming to read my mind.

  “Nope, he’s a cop.”

  “I’m right here, you two.”

  “Yeah,” said DaSilva, “But we’re talking nice about you.”

  “Oh, well then, that’s okay. I’m thinking looking at the family might be a good place to start. The percentages still work, mostly.” He looked my way, “Miranda’s description, Paul?”

  “ASAP, Detective Lacombe.”

  Percentages? Police hate mysteries. Love, hate, anger, jealousy, greed and all of the other nasty emotions resided inside of families. It was the first place the cops looked.

  “Thanks for the coffee, Paul,” said DaSilva.

  “Welcome, Larry. Detective Lacombe.”

  “Hell, if it’s ‘Larry’ and ‘Paul,’ it might as well be ‘Phil.’”

  “We’ll be in touch, but if you have any more that you can’t tell us, give us a call, and don’t tell us, okay?” Lacombe seemed to be enjoying himself hugely.

  The rest of the weekend passed, and I found myself relaxing at times. Marisol did her homework, and I picked at some household jobs I’d been putting off.

  ***

  Monday afternoon, I was in time to pick up Marisol at school, so I cut through town and pulled into the parking lot. I walked in, feeling guilty, as if I had cut class. I hadn’t been to a principal’s office for a talking-to in thirty years, but the memory cut deeply. Mr. Emmett Davis was there, collecting his mail. “Mr. Costa!” He shouted, as if meeting me was the best part of a great day. He always bubbled with enthusiasm and barely contained excitement. “It’s so good to see you, again. Marisol is doing wonderfully. Her project on the Federalist Papers was absolutely great. I had high school students who couldn’t have done as well.” I nodded my thanks and tried hard to look into his eyes, instead of the architecture of his comb over.

  “And to think that he’s a friend of yours,” he was saying. “It was so nice of him to make such a fuss over Marisol, and how well he knew you.” I must have drifted off to insulate myself from his excitement. “I’m sorry, Mr. Davis, what did you say?”

  “The aide, and son, you know, Jason Morley and the congressman’s aide, Adam? Such a tragedy about the congressman. It must be a relief to you to be cleared, finally. Young Mr. Morley was so generous with his time and spoke to the kids about Congress and how it all works. He talked about lobbyists, and just lots of detail. The kids were rapt. You know, so many adults underestimate kids, but he didn’t talk down to them.”

  I felt a crawling tingle descending my buttocks and climbing up to my scrotum. I felt my breathing deepen and accelerate, and the muscles in my legs tensed, bringing me to the balls of my feet.

  “He was here? With my daughter?”

  “Well, yes, Marisol and my whole class. I sent that note home to tell you about it. Well, you and all of the parents, of course. I was so pleased to get him to speak to us, especially during the unit on the federal legislature.”

  “You invited him?”

  “No, that’s the wonderful coincidence. He called the school, and offered to do it. The timing was so good, and it was so good of him, especially under the circumstances; so close to the tragic loss of his father. He was wonderfully gracious, especially to Marisol. Kind of making it clear that you’re innocent. Generous of him, don’t you think?” I nodded as if I agreed. That note. The one I’d been too damned busy to bother with. The one I could have been reading instead of playing with Dana in the shower.

  I had three days, or at least two and a half. Too busy enjoying a beautiful woman’s company to take care of my daughter.

  “Mr. Costa?”

  “Sorry, what were you saying?”

  “Just that he told the whole class that he knew you, and did it in exactly the right tone and way so the other kids would understand.”

  “Has he left? I ought to thank him.” I said, my tone nearly robotic. Even the teacher, in his haze of enthusiasm noticed.

  “Something wrong, Mr. Costa?”

  “Not with you, Mr. Davis, you did your job well, as always.” He looked down at his shoes, blushing. He’d done his job, letting me know that my daughter was about to meet Jason Morley and the family fixer.

  I was the one. I let myself get so involved that I neglected important family business. I was furious with Dana, and myself, and Mrs. Pina. My rational brain ridiculed me, while the old lizard portion had me ready to kill. With nowhere to go, the rage I was feeling formed a cold, nasty ball in my stomach. The ball was giving off a taste that was coppery, like blood in the back of my throat. I swallowed hard, and shook Mr. Emmett Davis’s hand, just as Marisol arrived at the office.

  “Marisol, I was just telling your father about Mr. Morley and Adam.”

  “Oh, they were so cool, Daddy! I really had a lot of fun, and they told the whole class that you’re innocent and that I’m pretty and smart, which makes me pretty smart. That sounds lame, now, but the rest of the kids laughed and it was nice. The kids have been pretty mean, some of them, you know?”

  I managed a smile, thanked her teacher, and we left for home. I was quiet, but ‘Sol was happy to fill in. She handed me a calling card from Adam, rather than Jason, but it had Jason’s autograph on it. “See, Daddy, there it is.”

  I made some sounds that I hoped sounded like a pleased parent, and felt dead inside. They may have touched her. I failed her. I’d never failed her before. She didn’t think she did, my little “almost a teenager,” but she counted on me, and I let her down. It was like a refrain from a song you can’t get out of your head. “She counts on me, I screwed up, she counts on me, I screwed up.”

  The whispering of my ancestors grew louder, telling me to end this threat to my child.

  I thought I could just let it all go, give it to DaSilva, talk Dana into a short leave, and take off. There were other bars. Other towns, other states. Marisol loved Florida. Maybe I should have let it all go before. As soon as I was clear, just hand it all off and go back to what I had. Screw Lois, screw Miranda and screw Sandra. They were all big girls, not my fault. Marisol was my fault, and I could get her clear and protect her.

  I got her home, and Mrs. Pina was there. There were another twelve messages on the voicemail, and I briefed them on screening the calls using it, because reporters were allowed to call us now. Then I played all twelve messages. Three I wanted, nine I erased. The public had a right to know, I supposed, but not from me.

  As I thought that, my right forearm brushed over the butt of my Beretta. Dana had supplied a couple of quick extraction pouches for me, so I had them strapped over my belt at my left.

  I called Dennis Pereira and left him a message, asking for a description and a photo of Miranda. I told him that I was going to put her in as a missing person, without involving him. I realized that the house felt confining, and the weather was beautiful. A drive, it seemed, was a good way to try to sort things out.

  In my car, I unloaded my pistol, checked all three magazines, tested the action, reloaded, holstered it and put on a windbreaker for cover. I pulled out and away, trying to decide if I-195 was the best route for me to take. To hell with the seals, I figured, and pushed down on the accelerator, watching the turbo kick in and feeling the push at my back.

  All the way to no place in particu
lar, I thought about the original killing, the Congressman’s world, and Jason and Adam. I thought about Dana and Marisol. I had slipped up. It was my fault, and Dana wasn’t to blame. We had a date in a couple of nights, and it was going to be hard to keep it, but miserable to break it. I kept coming back to Jason Morley and Adam, nearby, knowing where to find my daughter. It was my fault. Once in the clear, I could have dropped the whole thing, but I felt sorry for a reporter in Washington. I had to take on a call girl and a stripper as my burdens. It put my little girl at risk.

  I caught myself slamming the heel of my hand into the gearshift knob as I drove. Things had been going well. I had a job. It wasn’t great, but it paid the bills, and I had time with my daughter. I had almost come to terms with losing my wife, and Marisol was coping. Then all of this, and I fell right into it. Instead of leaving it alone, I fought back. That part was okay, but after I won my fight, I kept going. I kept on with it because I liked it. I wanted to keep going, keep feeling as if I was doing something worthwhile. The first threat to my family was over, but a new one came up.

  If they wanted to scare me off, or get even, then maybe it was over. So what if they had backed me down. Didn’t matter. My daughter mattered. I was working at convincing myself, but I remembered my wife, long ago.

  She had told me, when I mentioned leaving NCIS to go into private life, practicing law, “Paul, you are my love. Not perfect. You are stubborn. You have a temper. You are brave, but not fearless. I am proud of you.”

  I felt grateful for her understanding and unconditional love. I missed the intelligence and insight that she directed at me. I missed it, but not with the usual pain. I seemed to be past that at the moment.

  What I couldn’t do was back away. Isabel had loved someone who fought back. If Jason Morley wasn’t evil, then no human was. “You have no secrets, ” he was saying. “I know how to hurt you, and you know I can do it.” He wasn’t afraid of tapes or books, or cops. He knew my soft spots. He liked the way he was, and he was going to make sure that I didn’t stop him.

  He didn’t know that for the cobra, there’s a mongoose.