by Jack Bunker
Cogswell limps in right on time. Petya walks at his side but a half step behind like a dog on a heel. No sign of Isaak. Must be with Sophia.
Cogswell slides in across from me, but Petya shoves me into the booth and sits down in my spot to cut off any possible escape. So much for the best-laid plans. I hope I’m the man, not the mouse.
“Where’s Sophia?”
“Unless I intervene, she’s in her last resting place.” He nods at his ape.
Petya’s huge hand reaches under the table and frisks me from the waist down. He slams me into the table to frisk me from behind. I’ll have the memory etched across my chest tomorrow in black-and-blue. He manhandles my front and sides to make sure I’m not wired. The waitress approaches, but Cogswell waves her off. She looks at me, worried, but I give her a nod to signal that I’m okay. She turns tail uneasily.
“You came to my house to talk,” I say. “Things got out of hand. The girl wandered off. You found her and gave her a lift home. That’s all that happened if you just let her go.”
Cogswell laughs. “Ever the comedian.”
“I’m serious.”
“You could be dead serious if I give the word.”
Petya takes a drink of water, and it goes down the wrong pipe. He starts coughing. It feels like a small earthquake in the booth. I want to hit him on the back to help out, but if he gets the wrong idea, the situation could sour fast. Cogswell and I wait him out in silence until he gets over it.
“I want to talk to her,” I say.
“Go ahead.” He sweeps his hand magnanimously toward Petya who pulls out an iPhone and redials a number. My nerves are on high alert as Petya says something in Russian then hands me the phone.
“Nob?”
The surge of relief at the sound of her voice is more powerful than I expect. It makes my voice come out whiny. “Sophia, are you okay?”
“I’m okay, but—” The line goes dead.
“Now I talk and you listen,” says Cogswell.
I throw the phone down, hoping it’ll shatter on the slick Formica. Petya’s hand shoots out to grab it, but he’s too late. It bounces off the table with a satisfying crack and launches onto the carpet, landing at the feet of Vlad the Impaler. Cogswell looks confused by Vlad’s presence.
Then Vlad tosses my photos of Jane on the table.
Cogswell’s potato face pales at the sight. He knows he’s a dead man.
SIXTY-SIX
I lean against the shower door, enjoying the sight of Sophia toweling off.
“How are you feeling?” I ask.
“Better.” She shakes her hair and sprays me with water. “I’m just tired.”
She grabs her snifter off the sink and takes a sip of Hennessy.
“You really think my grandfather killed Mom?”
“I do.”
She shivers at the thought and wraps a towel around her hair.
“Great family legacy,” she says.
“Too bad we can’t prove it.”
“I don’t think he did it.”
She moves into the bedroom and climbs into bed. I grab the sheet to cover her, but she’s down for the count before the linen lands.
I go down to the office and call Gloria to unload. She’s less than ecstatic about my handing the scales of justice to Vlad the Impaler to deal with Sophia’s kidnapping, but Gloria appreciates that Bakatin managed to get Sophia back safe and sound. Moreover, if the police were to officially know about the kidnapping, they would have had to learn about it from me or Sophia, and neither one of us wants to be diagnosed with the terminal illness of “mob informant.” So Gloria lets the matter drop.
The next morning I find Sophia in the kitchen, pacing like a tiger in a circus cage. She’s been up for two hours, waiting to go over to Karl’s and pack up her clothes, but she can’t show up until he heads off to work. The anticipation is killing her. She’s got the oven timer set for nine o’clock, and when it dings she’s out the door in seconds.
I grab a couple slices of organic twelve-grain whole-wheat bread and make a sandwich out of some leftover roast beef in the fridge. Rare, of course.
The phone rings. I answer.
“You must be busy,” she says.
“Too busy to call my mother. You through now?”
“A mother’s work is never done.”
“How’ve you been, Ma?” I bite into my sandwich. As I swallow, I think I see something move on the bread. I stare at it, waiting to see if any of the twelve grains come alive.
“Fine. As always. Nothing ever changes here in my lonely cell.”
“Good. That’s good. At your age, change is usually a cry for medical attention.”
I regret the joke as soon as I say it. I try to avoid comments that might remind her of her medical history. Not because of the cancer but because of my father. He had been an auditor for the city controller for eighteen years until my mother talked him into accepting a better-paying job with a big accounting firm. A few months later, they discovered a tumor in her breast. My father hadn’t been at his new job long enough for his benefits to kick in, so we were uninsured. My mother’s medical bills ate all their savings in a matter of months.
Then I got into Princeton. My father was so damn proud. The prospect of telling me I couldn’t go because he’d fucked up must have agonized him. That’s when, in a desperate display of bad judgment, my father “borrowed” money from his new employer. Two months later he got caught and drove off that cliff.
I force my thoughts back to Lana’s murder, shoving my father’s memory back into its cubby before it blackens my mood. He got nailed, charged with embezzling, and drove his Chevy off the levee. I was sixteen at the time.
Ma felt responsible for his death and went into a deep depression. She eventually got past the cancer, but she never got past the self-blame, no matter how many sobbing in-laws assured her it wasn’t her fault.
But today she’s too focused on guilt-tripping me to let a medical crack faze her.
“That’s how you talk to your mother?”
A seed is definitely crawling on my bread. Fucking organic maggot. I drop the sandwich in the sink and ram it down the drain with a dirty spoon. I’m desperate to hang up so I can run the disposal, but I can’t tell my mother I’m eating live food because I know she’ll use it against me for the rest of my life. I stand, hand poised above the switch, waiting for the conversation to end.
“Look, Ma, I really can’t talk. I’m working.”
I briefly consider sticking my finger down my throat then decide that it’s only protein.
“Working is something you do with a scalpel or, God forbid, a shovel. Why don’t you get a real job like your brother?”
“We’ll discuss this later, okay? I gotta go. Love ya.”
I hang up and hit the disposal switch. As the mechanical vortex devours my sandwich I wonder how long a seed critter can survive in a bellyful of stomach acid. The thought gives me heartburn, reducing his chances.
My appetite gone, I take a legal pad out on the deck to organize my thoughts for the first draft about Lana’s murder. I’ve got to produce a story whether or not I can prove who killed her.
Two hours later I drive over to Gloria’s. She answers the door in black fishnet stockings, a red lace thong, and matching garter belt. Her intentions are about as subtle as a Bootylicious centerfold. But she’s pulling on jeans. What’s wrong with this picture?
“Dumphy just called,” she says. “Shots fired at Karl Lynch’s house.”
SIXTY-SEVEN
For once I don’t care that Gloria is driving too fast. I just want to get to Sophia. I flash on my mother speeding to the hospital after my dad drove off the cliff. The not knowing is torture.
Two neighbors called 911 to report gunshots. A squad car reached the scene a few minutes ago, but they’re waiting for backup before approaching the house. No one knows who or what is inside. We’re on the freeway with full siren and flashing gumball. Gloria sticks close to the
shoulder so she can carve her way around traffic clogs. At this rate, we’re about ten minutes away, a minor miracle.
We pull up to the house to find a couple unmarked rides and five black-and-whites, lights dancing. Cops crouch shielded behind the cars, guns drawn, trigger fingers tense. They’re watching Dumphy approach the front door. He looks even bulkier than usual, swathed in a Kevlar vest beneath his LAPD windbreaker. The area is roped off with yellow tape, alive with red and blue flashes and jittery cops, but silent as a leopard poised to pounce.
Gloria orders me to stay in the car and keep my head down; then she gets out and runs, hunching for cover, toward a group of men in cheap suits huddled in a circle behind a vanilla Crown Vic.
Dumphy tiptoes up the two front steps, favoring a far edge over the middle to minimize creaking. He presses his back against the wall of the house next to the front door before pressing the doorbell. I assume the cops have already tried phoning but got either no answer or no satisfaction.
The front door opens a crack, and Dumphy speaks to someone out of view. My car windows are open, but the conversation is inaudible. After a moment, he enters the house and the door closes behind him. A chorus of murmurs erupts from the cops, a low-pitched hum of anxiety. The uncertainty is driving them nuts. I don’t know who can hear what over their radios, but I don’t see anyone who appears relieved about what’s going on inside.
I picture Sophia, lying on the floor, limbs askew, a warm crimson slick growing slowly beneath her. My fear constricts my chest, making it difficult to breathe. My heart is running a two-minute mile. I’m driven to act but there’s nothing productive to do. So I sit in the car, peering over the dash. And I sweat.
Gloria is deep in conversation with the suits when their attention is suddenly drawn to the house. The front door opens, and Dumphy steps out holding an evidence bag with a gun in it. He gives the all clear and points to Gloria, who rises and heads for the house. There is a universal release of tension. I get out of the car and try to follow Gloria but a uniform steps in my way.
“You’ll have to stay back,” he says.
“I’m with her.”
“Not that I’ve heard.”
I call out to her, but she doesn’t look back as she disappears into the house with Dumphy. Two paramedics follow them in. I can’t shake the sinking feeling that the woman I was hoping to fall in love with is lying dead on the floor of that midcentury modern coffin.
The ME’s wagon pulls up, and an investigator from the coroner’s office heads into the house. A minute later, the paramedics file out looking grim. The seconds tick to minutes.
Finally, Gloria steps out on the porch and motions for me to join her. The cop lets me pass. As I head toward the house, a lab tech comes out and says something to Gloria. They head back in together.
I mount the steps, but a uniform makes me wait outside. From inside I hear a beep, then a robotic time stamp from a few hours ago. They’re listening to a voice-mail message on a speakerphone. I hear the voice of an elderly woman.
“Mrs. Lynch, this is Esther over at Evidential Labs? I’m afraid I made a mistake and charged you for a bacterial on that food sample, but we only screened for inorganic compounds. Sorry about that. I just wanted to let you know we’ll be crediting the difference back to your card. So…I guess that’s it. Bye.”
I get a bitter taste in my mouth as my stomach churns. If Karl picked up this message, he would have known Sophia was onto him. Did he come home to finish the job the spiked food had failed to do?
As I turn this bleak question around in my mind, Gloria steps outside again. “Sophia’s okay.”
I exhale for what seems like the first time in an hour. My eyes tear up.
“Before you crack open the champagne,” says Gloria, “she’s under arrest. She shot him, Nob. She shot him dead.”
SIXTY-EIGHT
A squad car takes me back to Gloria’s to pick up my Acura. She won’t let me go with Sophia to the station, because I might do or say something that could taint a potential case against her.
On the way to Gloria’s, I call Billy and tell him about the shooting.
“Jesus Effing Keeeeerist,” he says. “What the fuck?”
“It’s a mess. You’ve got to get her a good lawyer then bail her out.”
Big sigh. “I’ll call Al.”
“Is he a criminal lawyer?”
“Ain’t no kinda lawyer. He’s my ex-manager. But he reps rappers these days, half of what gets shot, t’other half of what gets busted for the drive-bys. He deals with this shit all the time.”
I hang up to let him get on with it.
The cop drops me off at my car, and I drive straight to jail, don’t pass go, don’t collect $200. I don’t care what Gloria says, I need to be there for Sophia. I’m not sure why, and I’m pretty sure it’s a bad idea, but I head over there anyway.
The station is a zoo, as usual. The desk sergeant, Franco Drago, was a groomsman at my ill-fated wedding. He tells me that Sophia is still in interrogation with some detective I’ve never met and some DDA I’ve never heard of. He patches me through to Gloria, who’s watching Sophia on the video feed.
“I thought I told you to go home,” she says.
“What’s your point?”
“Go home, Nob.” She hangs up. I guess she’s not going to invite me to watch.
Three hours later, Billy shows up with two guys in tow. One is a wiry Jewish guy who looks Irish. Must be Al. He’s got curly red hair that he wears in a short Afro, what Melody calls a Jewfro. He’s sporting a tie-dyed shirt that almost reaches his knees, gray sweats, and sandals. The other guy is in a white summer suit and could be Clark Kent’s double. Must be a lawyer. I’m across the room, so I don’t hear what they’re saying, but several people recognize Billy, and there’s a lot of nudging, pointing, and even smiling going on. The magic of celebrity lifts the general malaise of the waiting area, if only for a few moments. Meanwhile, Al leads the charge with an intensity that makes Sergeant Drago sit back to protect his eardrums. I’m not sure why they brought Clark Kent since the mouthpiece doesn’t say a word.
Twenty minutes later, Sophia walks out, a free woman. She looks exhausted and unhappy as she hugs her father and Al. Then she sees me and her tear-reddened eyes light up like Vegas after a blackout. Coming here wasn’t such a bad idea after all.
She grabs Al’s hand and leads him across the room to meet me. The lawyer and Billy follow. I get a hug, too, then she says, “Nob, this is Uncle Al.” And to Al, “This is my friend Nob Brown.” My friend. I guess that’s what I am, though the words sound foreign coming from her lips.
“So you’re the famous Nob Brown,” he says. “I hope you’ll be kind to our little Sophia. She’s been dragged through a trainload of shit.”
“Nob’s been there for me, even when I wasn’t,” she says. “He kept warning me about Karl, but I didn’t listen.”
“It weren’t your fault,” says Billy. “The jackass was tryin’ to shoot you. You did what you had to do.”
She starts to cry.
The crudeness of a gun seems so unlike Karl, the MD/PhD who tried to stage a faux suicide. Guns are loud, they’re messy, they lack subtlety.
“She wrestled the gun away from him,” Al explains. “Thanks to you, Nob, she had those lab results, so the police had reason to believe her when she told them he was trying to kill her. Kaynahorah.”
I recognize the word from my childhood. My mother used to say it a lot when she still had good news to report. It’s a Yiddish prayer to keep the evil eye from spoiling good news, from yanking the rug out from under you. I hope it works.
We part ways with Billy and Al, and a half hour later, we’re back in my kitchen.
“It’s okay,” she says, answering an unspoken question. “You can ask me.”
I hand her a cup of coffee and take a seat at the table. “I wasn’t sure you wanted to talk about it.”
“It’s not like I can stop thinking about it.” She holds
out her coffee. “But if you want me to tell you what happened, you’d better put a little Cognac in here.”
I grab a bottle of Hennessy and pour a taste into her cup. Sophia takes a sip, savors the flavor, then takes another before beginning.
“I knew Karl had patients all day, so I thought I’d have several hours to pack my things.”
She tips her cup and takes an unexpectedly loud slurp. She makes a cute apologetic face. Her cup had been full so I hadn’t given her much Cognac, but it seems to be relaxing her anyway. Probably a placebo effect. But I can still hear a tremble in her voice.
“I was in the living room,” she continues, “when the front door banged open, and Karl charged in. His eyes were all red and bugging out, and he was just out of control. I’d never seen him like that. I didn’t know what to think. I kept asking him why he wasn’t at work, sort of just babbling, but he wasn’t listening anyway. He was screaming: I was trying to ruin him, I was paranoid, what the hell was I doing at a forensics lab—”
I interrupt. “He heard the message from the lab?”
“I guess so. He didn’t actually say.”
She takes another sip. I top off her coffee with a little more Cognac then pour a few fingers into my own cup. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath to muster strength.
“I’ve never been so scared in my life. He demanded to know what I’d done, so I told him they found Nembutal in the coffee he made me, and the police already knew about it. I thought maybe he wouldn’t hurt me if he knew he couldn’t cover it up. But he was so out of control, I don’t know if it even registered. He went for the Chinese desk, and I panicked. That’s where he kept his gun. I grabbed a lamp and smashed it over his head. He had the gun then he dropped it then I tried to grab it but he pushed me into one of the art cases and it crashed over and things were crashing and breaking everywhere and we were both trying to get the gun and somehow I ended up with it. So I pointed it at him, thinking it would make him stop.”