by Robert Crais
I said, "Would you like me to get it?"
Karen shook her head and went to the door. "No, thank you. This is my house, and my problem."
The doorbell rang just as Karen opened the door. The tall, thin woman tried to step in past Karen, but Karen wouldn't get out of the way. The tall woman gave a nice local-news on-camera smile and put out her hand. Karen didn't take it. "Hello, Ms. Lloyd. Janice Watkins, WKEL-TV. I do local color and human interest, and I was fascinated when I heard that Peter Alan Nelsen, the filmmaker, is your husband." Janice Watkins seemed neither to mind nor notice that Karen hadn't taken her hand. Probably used to it.
Karen said, "You've made some sort of mistake. I'm not married."
The smile didn't falter. "Ex-husband, then. I know how that is, I've got two." She chuckled. Establishing rapport.
"I'm sorry, Ms. Watkins. I don't know what you're talking about."
A corner of the smile gave way. "Peter Alan Nelsen and his entourage are staying at the Howard Johnson's."
Toby craned around the bucket of chicken, trying to see. Pike pushed the bucket out of his way.
The thin woman said, "You've been seen with him. So has your son. Everyone is saying that Toby Lloyd is Mr. Nelsen's child and that Mr. Nelsen has journeyed across the country to find him." Journeyed. She was working up the human-interest angle, all right.
"I've never been married to Peter Alan Nelsen and I don't know what you're talking about."
The smile faltered. "You weren't?"
"No."
"Is Peter Alan Nelsen the boy's father?"
"No."
Janice Watkins blinked. She tried to peek past Karen to see if Peter Alan Nelsen was lurking inside. I waved at her.
Karen Lloyd said, "You've interrupted our meal. Do you mind?"
Janice Watkins narrowed her eyes. "Ms. Lloyd, I have this information on very good authority."
Karen Lloyd leaned toward Janice Watkins. "Ms. Watkins, chew a used rubber." Then she slammed the door.
Toby was staring at his plate when Karen came back to the table. His face was red and her face was tight and pale. When she picked up a piece of original recipe, her hand trembled and she put it back down.
Toby said, "Why did you tell'm he wasn't my dad?"
Karen lifted the piece of chicken again and this time took a small bite. She didn't answer. After a while Toby got up, took his plate into the kitchen, then went down the hall to his room.
Karen Lloyd put down her chicken and said, "Shit."
At seven-fifty that evening the doorbell rang again and this time when Karen answered, Peter Alan Nelsen came in without Nick or T.J. or Dani. He said, "I've been thinking about this and I've got a way to make everybody happy." Toby must've seen the limo, because he came out of his room.
Karen stiffened as if someone had injected her with Super Glue and said, "He can't keep that thing." First words out of her mouth.
Peter started to say something, but then he didn't. Showing restraint. "I'm not a dope. I know I'm here at a bad time. You're trying to straighten out this thing with the DeLuca people, and you've got me here, and you've gotta be worried about Toby. Lemme lighten the load for you. How about I take Tobe back to L.A. with me until you guys get this worked out?"
Toby said, "Yeah!"
Peter looked from Karen to me and then back to Karen. He spread his hands. Toby'll be safe, and I'll be out of your hair, and you can take care of what you need to take care of. When it's done, you can give me a call and Toby and I will come back and we can work out our family situation."
Toby was giving it the ear-to-ear. "Great! Can I meet Sylvester Stallone?"
Peter said, "Sure."
Karen said, "No."
Peter frowned. "No, he can't meet Sylvester Stallone, or no, he can't go to L.A.?"
Karen went back to one of the wing chairs and sat down. Her knees were together and so were her hands. "He has school. He has basketball."
I said, "It might make things easier."
Peter said, "Jesus Christ, Karen, it won't kill him to miss a few days of school."
Toby said, "I can get Miss Garrett to give me the work. I won't fall behind."
"No."
Peter said, "What do you mean, no?"
"It would be too disruptive. Who knows how long this is going to take?"
I said, "I think it's a good idea."
Karen flashed the hard eyes at me. "Nobody asked you."
Peter rolled his eyes and looked at the ceiling. "Hey, am I being an asshole here or what?" Getting loud.
Karen said, "Watch your language in front of my son." They were starting to shout.
Peter gestured wide with the arms the way he had when I'd first seen him, reading the riot act because a couple of executives had been trying to fob off a TV guy on him. "Hey, Karen, a mobster was here with our son. Do you remember that?"
Karen pushed up out of the chair and made a shooing gesture to Toby. "Toby, I want you to go to your room."
Peter said, "Lemme take the kid back to L.A. He'll be safer there than here. You think I won't bring'm back?"
Pike stuck his fingers in his ears.
I said, "Peter, maybe now isn't the time to talk about it."
Peter whirled around and glared at me. "I'm Peter Alan Nelsen and I'm tired of fooling around." He wheeled back toward Karen. "If you played it smart, I could set you up. You wouldn't have to worry about a thing and you could do whatever you want. You could even be an actress again. I'm Peter Alan Nelsen, and I could make you a star." Like she was still nineteen and always would be.
Karen Lloyd put her hands on her hips and laughed at him. "You arrogant asshole."
Toby started crying and yelled, "Why won't you let me go with him? Why are you being like this? You're gonna make him go away and I hate you!" He ran down the hall and slammed his door.
Pike still had his fingers in his ears.
Peter was giving us confused and frustrated, as if he were trying to explain that two plus one equals three and Karen just couldn't get it, and the frustration was giving way to suspicion, like maybe she got it but was pretending she didn't because something was going on. He squinted at me, then back at her, and then he nodded and made an oh-I-get-it smile and said, "You're fucking this guy."
Karen Lloyd slapped him. It was a hard, quick shot that took him off guard and backed him up. I stepped in between them, taking his wrists and keeping his hands at his sides and pushing him backward. Karen yelled, "You piece of shit. You rotten piece of shit. Why'd you have to come back? Why couldn't you leave us alone?"
Peter jerked away from me and threw a punch that seemed to float down from heaven. I stepped outside of it, then stepped back in very close and pushed him up against the door and told him to relax. He tried to bite me and then he tried to butt me with his head, and when he did, I punched him once in the stomach. He made an urp-ing sound and went down onto his hands and knees and threw up on Karen Lloyd's beautiful bleached-oak floor. I hadn't wanted to hit him, and I was glad the boy wasn't there to see it.
Peter stayed on all fours, head hanging down, and made little burping noises. "I'm sick."
Pike said, "Take deep breaths."
Karen stood by the mantel, holding herself. Pike went into the kitchen and came back with a roll of Scot towels.
Peter took the deep breaths, then staggered to his feet and shook his finger at me. "Goddamnit, you're fired. You're off the fucking payroll. I'm gonna make sure you never work again."
I said, "Clichéd, Peter. I expected more originality from the King of Adventure."
Peter burped some more and then he lurched out the front door. In a minute the limo pulled away and Pike held out his hand. "I'd better make sure he gets home."
I tossed Pike the keys and he left.
Karen Lloyd and I stood without moving in the now quiet house, and I said, "Peter's idea was good."
She shook her head.
"It's smart to get the boy out of the picture. It's smart if
Peter's gone, too. It would give you more room."
She shook her head again. "If he wanted to help, he could just leave. He doesn't need Toby. This is just more of the same old Peter Alan Nelsen bullshit. Peter wanting everything his way."
"Karen," I said, "think about it. They've threatened your life. They made a move on your son. Falling behind in history doesn't rate with getting him out of here. Do you see?"
She made a little blowing move with her mouth and then she crossed her arms and sat on the edge of the hearth, leaning forward so that her elbows touched her knees. She gave me a short glance, and then she looked at the floor, and then she uncrossed her arms and put a hand on either side of her head and squeezed, like maybe she was trying to keep her head from bursting. She said, "I'm not crazy. I am not crazy. I'm not crazy."
"Nope," I said. "You're scared, but it isn't Charlie DeLuca who scares you, though it should be."
She shook her head and closed her eyes. "I'm too tired to argue."
I said, "This is your house. You bought the couch and the table and the wood in the fireplace. You secured the loan for your car. You buy Toby's clothes, and you've made a good life."
She shook her head some more.
"But now comes Peter, and you're scared that it won't be yours anymore. You'll be the woman who was married to Peter Alan Nelsen, and Toby will be Peter's son."
She stopped shaking her head.
"You're scared of losing yourself."
Two tears squeezed out of the inside corners of her eyes and ran down her cheeks. "You sonofabitch." She might've been talking to me, but maybe not.
I said, "Don't think about Peter. Think about Charlie. Charlie is who you have to focus on. Charlie can hurt you and Toby a lot worse than Peter."
She brought one hand up and rubbed at the tears but still did not open her eyes. "Do you think I'm stupid?"
"No."
"It sounds so stupid, worried about losing myself. It sounds weak and silly, like something one of those idiot Cosmo feminists would whine about. I don't want to be weak. I don't want to be stupid."
I made a shrug. "Pride isn't male or female. It's human."
"I'm a vice-president at the bank. I have a real estate license and I am a certified financial planner and I've been president of the PTA twice and vice-president of the local Rotary." The tears were coming harder.
"Uh-huh."
"I have a B.A. in finance. I am Toby Lloyd's mother. I will not lose those things."
"No. You won't."
"I will not lose who I am."
"I won't let you."
She opened her eyes and looked at me.
"Saving selves is one of my best things."
She rubbed at the tears again and then she put her face in her hands and sat very still. I guess she wasn't convinced.
I used the Scot towels on the floor, then put them in a white plastic trash bag and took the bag out and put it into a blue garbage can in the garage. It seemed twenty degrees colder than it had been at dusk, and the north wind rattled tree limbs and dead leaves and pushed dark shapes across the lawn. Thunder rumbled many miles to the east, a winter storm moving with the front. When I went back inside, Karen Lloyd had gone to bed.
I turned off most of the lights and went down the hall to the room where Joe Pike and I were bedding. Karen Lloyd's room was at the end of the hall in the back of the house, and Toby's room was across from Karen's, in the front. Both of their doors were closed, but I could hear them crying, she in her room and he in his. I felt a very great urge to knock and say the word or make the touch that would make them feel better. I went into my own room and I closed the door.
You do what you can, but you can't do everything.
CHAPTER THIRTY
When I woke the next morning, the sky was dark with clouds and the air was as cold as the edge of a hunting knife. The snow above us waiting to fall was a physical thing, heavy and damp and alive with turbulence.
Toby was sullen and Karen was unhappy and nobody said very much as we went through the house and prepared for the day. Karen drove into the office early and I took Toby to school. Pike stayed at the house, waiting for Roland George to call. Neither Toby nor I spoke on the way to school, but when I dropped him off I told him to have a good day. He didn't answer. It was as if the bad feelings and restless, logy sleep had carried over into wakefulness.
At nine-forty-two that morning Roland George called. I took it in the living room. Pike picked up in the kitchen. Roland George said, "The Jag you saw is registered to a Jamaican named Urethro Mubata. Came up here in 1981. Fourteen arrests, two convictions, assault, armed robbery, like that. He's mostly in the dope business."
"Not exactly a good-will ambassador."
"Uh-uh. He did eight months at Rikers for possession with intent and another fourteen at Sing Sing for attempted murder. When he was at Ossining, he did cell time with a man named Jesus Santiago, another Jamaican. Santiago served out, but Mubata's on parole."
"Santiago in for pimping?"
"That's it. Sorta curious how this guy Mubata got the forty grand for a new Jaguar when his employment of record is being a busboy at Arturo's Tapas Stand in Jackson Heights."
Pike said, "What about Sealy and the cop?"
"Sealy is a hype, registered in the methadone program at St. Vincent's. He's a nobody with a string of minor busts, mostly hijack and street boosting, run a little policy, steal a few stereos, that kind of thing."
"Is he part of DeLuca's crew?"
"It's not in the files, but it's possible. The guy's a drop of pus, but he's a known associate. Hard to figure, though. Hype like this, Charlie DeLuca shouldn't be having anything to do with him."
Pike said, "He shouldn't be having anything to do with a police officer, either."
"Yeah." Something hard came into Roland's voice. "The officer in question is employed by Kennedy Airport Security. He is not undercover."
"Okay."
I hung up. Joe Pike came into the living room from the kitchen and said, "I make it for a hijacking setup. Something coming into Kennedy."
"It sounds right, but why's Charlie sneaking around? He gets a tip that something worth stealing is coming in, he uses the Jamaicans to pull the heist, then they split the take with him. Big deal. Why does he want to keep it from Sal?"
"Because he doesn't want to split the money."
I thought about it some more and shook my head. "It's not a world breaker. Charlie shows a little initiative, he makes a few extra bucks. What's Daddy going to do?"
Pike said, "There's the hype."
I nodded. The hype didn't figure. You want to keep secrets, you don't do business with a hype. "Maybe Charlie doesn't have a choice. Maybe, whatever he's doing, he can't do it without the hype."
Pike grunted. "Makes you wonder what he's got going, that he can't do it without a hype."
I said, "Yes, it does. Maybe we should ask the hype and find out."
"What if the hype won't cooperate?"
"He'll cooperate. Everyone knows that a hype can't keep secrets. They have low self-esteem."
We put on our coats and our guns and made the drive into Manhattan in less than fifty minutes.
We parked by a subway entrance near 92nd Street
and Central Park West, then walked two blocks to an eight-story gray-stone building with painted windows and a lot of crummy shops on the ground floor and a fire escape.
Pike said, "Third floor in the back. Three-F."
We entered the lobby of the apartment building between a place that sold discount clothing and a place that sold donuts. The lobby had a white and black linoleum floor, circa 1952, probably the last year it had been waxed, and someone had scotch-taped a little handwritten sign that said out of service to the elevator. Someone else had urinated on the floor. You watch Miami Vice or Wiseguy, the criminals always live in palatial apartments and drive Ferraris. So much for verisimilitude.
We walked up the two flights, then down a dingy hall past a
stack of newspapers four feet tall, Pike leading. An empty plastic Cup-A-Soup was lying on its side atop the newspapers. Three-F was the third apartment on the left side of the hall. When Pike got to the door, he stood there a moment, head cocked to the side, and then he shook his head. "Not home."
"How do you know?"
Shrug. "Knock and see."
I knocked, then knocked again. Nothing.
Pike spread his hands.
I said, "Why don't we be sure?"
Pike shook his head, giving me bored.
There was only one lock and it was cheap. I let us into a studio apartment that was just as attractive as the rest of the building. Bags of fast-food wrappers and potato-chip empties in the kitchenette, stacks of the New York Post and the National Enquirer along the walls, paper cups packed with dead cigarettes by a throw-pillow couch, and the sour smell of body odor and wet matches, Nice. No Richard Francis Sealy, though. Maybe Pike could see through walls.
We went back down to the mail drop in the lobby. Most of the little mailbox doors had been jimmied – junkies looking for checks – and most of the boxes were empty. The top box had a little plastic sticker on it that said: Sal Cohen, 2A, mgr.
We went back up to the second floor and found 2-A.
I knocked hard on the door three times. Somebody threw a series of bolts and then Sal Cohen scowled out at us from behind what looked like eight security chains. He was little and dark, and he had a Sunbeam steam iron in his right hand. He said, The fuck you're knocking so loud?"
New York, New York. The attitude capital of the universe.
I said, "Richard Sealy in three-F, he's a pal of ours. He was supposed to meet us here and he's not around."
"So what?" Mr. Helpful.
"We're movie producers. We're going to produce a movie and we want him to be the star. We thought you might know when he'd be around so we could get him in on this."
Sal Cohen blinked at me and then he blinked at Joe Pike. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."