“To Gert?”
“To pretty much all dogs, sir. Cats, too. Pollen. You name it.”
“I’m sorry about that, Ritz. I didn’t know. So, what, you wouldn’t take the gig on those days?”
Ritz shrugged. “Other guys could cover. Just to let you know.”
“Okay,” Farrell said. “I’ll try to call and let somebody know. If I can remember. When I’m bringing Gert down.”
“Is that likely to be often, you think? Just so I can plan?”
“I don’t know, Ritz. Sometimes, I guess. I don’t really know.” He paused, slumped down farther with his hand over his eyes. “My girlfriend left me, too,” he said. “Last night.”
Ritz spun his head to look at him. “Are you shittin’ me? Sam?”
“Sam.”
“Man, first Treya, then Sam.”
“Actually the other order. Sam, then Treya, but yeah. Then you, if you want to count people leaving me for one reason or another.”
“It’s not like I wouldn’t stay if you really wanted me.”
“It’s all right. You do what you have to do.”
Ritz took a beat. “Man, you are having some bad week here.”
“I know,” Farrell said. “I feel like a Haitian with a Prius.”
Abe Glitsky’s father, Nat, was rinsing what few dishes they’d used tonight in the kitchen of the small duplex he shared with Sadie Silverman on Third Avenue just off Clement Street. The kitchen was in the back of the flat, and although its dimensions were only about ten-by-eight feet, they used it for a dining room as well, sitting while they ate on their spindly wooden chairs and eating off one of Sadie’s dainty occasional tables from her old house.
Nat wasn’t exactly robust anymore, but then again, at eighty-three, he wasn’t in the ground, either, so there really wasn’t much to complain about. His weight was down from his lifetime high of 180 to about 155 pounds, and most disturbing, he’d lost an inch and a half of his original five foot ten—where had that gone?—but he still had all of his hair, now wispy and white, but still there, thank you very much.
At the table sipping at the thimbleful of port she’d poured herself, Sadie turned the page of her book, sighed, and closed it. “I don’t get all these vampires,” she said. “This is my third try on one of these books and I just can’t get myself to believe them.”
“Maybe that’s because there are no vampires in real life.”
“But there are no Star Wars in real life and I love those. Or hob-bits. Or time travel, either.”
Nat turned around at the sink. “When did there stop being time travel?”
“Stop.”
Nat turned back to the dishes, ran a sponge over a plate. “If I didn’t believe the first two books I read,” he said, “I wouldn’t have gone to the third.”
“That’s because you’re so impatient. I like to give things a chance.”
“Good. Now I know what I’ll get you for Valentine’s Day. Number four. And I am not impatient. My patience is legendary.”
Sadie sighed again. “But everybody’s reading these.”
“Not me.”
“That’s because all you read is the Torah.”
“That’s all I need. You might even like it more than vampires. Besides, you read it enough and you know all the good parts by heart and then you can carry it around inside you.”
“And David begat Solomon, and Solomon begat . . .”
“Hey! You don’t have to believe in that stuff, but I do.”
“I believe David begat Solomon, maybe. But that whole Moses and the parting of the Red Sea thing ...”
Nat turned around, drying his hands. “Miracles, Sadie. They happen every day. You and me, for example.”
She couldn’t help but smile, pointing a finger up at him. “That’s cheating and you know it. Bringing it around to us. We just got lucky.”
“Luck schmuck. We’re a miracle and you know it.”
“All right. I’m not going to fight you about it.”
“You’d better not. You might be smitten for ingratitude.”
“Smitten, there’s a word.”
He stepped over and kissed the top of her head. “I’m going to cut a piece of honey cake. You want a bite?”
“Small,” she said.
And the doorbell rang.
“Your father’s right, Abraham. You don’t look too good. Are you eating?”
“Sure,” Abe admitted.
“Like when?”
“When what?”
“When did you last eat?”
“I’m eating now. This fine homemade honey cake.”
“Or sleep?” his father asked.
In the tiny kitchen, on his dainty chair, next to the two older people, Abe could have been a giant. “How ’bout we leave off with the third degree?” He swallowed his bite of cake, sipped from his cup of tea. “Are you following this Ro Curtlee thing at all?”
“Some trouble when you arrested him,” his father said. “I read the paper.”
“I arrested him for threatening the kids. They gave him bail and let him out again, and Treya decided she couldn’t . . . she had to get the kids out of here.”
“To where?” Sadie asked.
“LA. Her brother’s place.”
Nat’s bite of cake stopped halfway to his mouth. “You’re saying she’s gone?”
Abe nodded. “This afternoon.”
“Why’d they let him out?” Sadie asked.
“They’re insane. They don’t live in the real world.”
“Vampires,” Nat said.
“Not exactly, Pops, but close enough. Anyway, as you can see, I stayed.”
“Is she mad at you?” Sadie asked.
The corner of Abe’s mouth went up a quarter inch. “I want to say she understands, but I’m not sure.”
“What’s not to understand?” Nat asked.
“Me, staying. Why my job is more important than my kids, or maybe even—she thinks—my life.” He twirled his eggshell-thin china cup of tea in its saucer. “The thing is, she left her job. She thinks I should have left mine.”
“She quit her job?” Sadie asked.
“She’s taking vacation days, but it’s going to amount to the same thing.”
“So what are you going to do?”
“I don’t know,” Abe said. “Not to complain, but the job’s just one frustration after another, I don’t have enough manpower to do it, if I go down to LA with Treya, somebody else will just step in and muddle through or, more likely, muck it all up, which is what it feels like I’m doing anyway. But I feel like I’ve got to stay, there’s no other way to explain it. I took it on. I can’t hand it off to somebody else. It sounds stupid and outdated, but I feel like it’s kind of my duty.”
Nat took a moment, then said, “I don’t hear any question there.”
“No, I know,” Abe said. “There really isn’t one.”
24
Tristan Denardi’s first meeting this morning was with his private investigator Mike Moylan, who got himself settled into one of Denardi’s wing chairs and said, “I can’t find her.”
Denardi, signing papers at his desk, stopped and looked up in surprise. “What do you mean? You always find everybody. And usually within five minutes.”
“I know. But not this time. She just dropped off the radar.”
“But you’ve told me that was impossible.”
“Very hard, but not impossible. First, you’ve got to use cash only, no credit cards ever. Second, you get a false set of identity papers, and third, you cut all ties with your previous life. You do all that, and remember that most people can’t, and you’re disappeared.”
Denardi sat back. “Gloria Gonzalvez was that sophisticated?”
“Evidently, although it doesn’t take so much sophistication as it does pure will. Anybody wants, they can go cash only. And fifty bucks, maybe a hundred, buys you all the ID you’ll ever need. But most people, somebody dies in the family or gets married or
has a kid, either somebody contacts you or you hear about it and need to get back in touch. And Gloria hasn’t done that, not that I could find anyway.”
Pensive, Denardi put his pen down and sat back in his chair. “Could she still be in witness protection?”
“I don’t think so. They usually only keep them until they testify. Then they’re on their own.”
“So what did she do after she testified? You get any kind of a trail at all?”
“No. She just vanished. Somebody must have coached her.”
“This will not please my client.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I can keep working on it if you want, but if she hasn’t turned up on any of my databases, I don’t know where I’d start.”
“Did you try that—what do you call it?—the pizza list?” Moylan had fascinated Denardi with the so-called pizza list soon after he’d found out about it himself. As everyone who’s ever ordered a pizza by phone knows, the first thing they ask for is your phone number. Second is your name. This database—most if not all of the pizza stores in the nation—is then sold to various marketing organizations or otherwise interested persons, such as private investigators. It is a very potent tool for locating people.
But Moylan was shaking his head. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Expense, mostly. You gave me four hours, besides which I don’t think she’s Gloria Gonzalvez anymore.”
“How about just Gloria?”
“How about it? Probably.”
“So. You look for Glorias.”
“Tris, there’s probably forty, fifty pages of Glorias. Single spaced. Once I can even find them. You want me to call each one individually?”
“Maybe if you just start with California?”
Moylan chuckled. “Yeah, that’ll narrow it right down to maybe two thousand names. If I call ’em all, we’re talking maybe a full week, maybe two, eighty hours, and then maybe no results at all. Which, don’t get me wrong, I’d be delighted to do, but you’d want to know what you’re signing off on.”
Denardi sucked at his teeth for a moment. “My clients really want to talk to her, Mike. She’s the last witness standing and they think they can persuade her that she doesn’t want to testify again.”
“And I wish them luck. But you know,” Moylan went on, “if she’s this invisible, I doubt if the DA’s going to be able to find her, either.”
“That’s a good point. But if they do find her first, they’ll slap her back into protection and then we’re screwed. I’d rather we get there before they do.”
“So you want me to keep on?”
Denardi nodded. “Give it a week, see what you come up with.”
Sheila Marrenas walked into the front door of Michael Durbin’s store and stood in line, to all appearances patiently waiting her turn. When she got to the counter, she took off her dark glasses, smiled at Michael, flashed her press card, and asked if she could have a few minutes of his time.
His face went pale at the sight of her. “I don’t think so, no.”
“You don’t want to get your side of the story out there?”
“My side of what story?”
“Your wife’s death. I understand you’ve been talking to Inspector Glitsky ...”
“How did you know that?”
She shrugged. “It doesn’t really matter how I know, Michael. I talk to people. They talk to me. I’m giving you an opportunity here that you’re going to need, and I really do think it’s in your own best interest at least to address some of the issues I’m hearing about.”
“Why? So you can treat me as fairly as you did last time?”
“I gave you every chance back then to defend yourself and you made the same mistake then that you’re trying to make again now.”
“And what’s that? Defending myself against accusations that have not one grain of truth in them?”
“You’re telling me you never stole anything from that job? Paper, supplies, anything like that? You never filed a false timesheet?”
“I’m still not going to talk about that. God knows that whatever I did, and it wasn’t much, was part of the culture of the firm. Everybody there was doing what they accused me of.”
“And everybody would include you, wouldn’t it?”
“Whether or not it does, I’ve already paid enough for it, whatever it was. You know, everything you ask is of the when-did-you-stop-beating-your-wife variety. Every answer’s the wrong one.”
“All right, then,” she said, “getting down to it. When did you?”
Durbin lowered his voice and leaned in toward her. “You get the hell out of here right now.”
From somewhere down the counter, suddenly Liza Sato appeared at Durbin’s sleeve. “Is there a problem?” she asked. “Michael, is everything all right?”
“Not even close,” he said. “As of this minute, we’re refusing to give service to this woman. I want her out of here.”
But Sheila Marrenas, spotting the name tag on Liza’s chest, wasn’t going without a fight. Now she shifted her attention to the assistant manager. “Ms. Sato,” she said, “is it true that Mr. Durbin arrived late to work last Friday morning?”
“Don’t answer that, Liza! Whatever you say, she’ll twist it.”
Sato shook her head at Marrenas. “I’ve got no comment,” she said. “Except that my boss wants you out of here.” She turned to Michael. “Should I call nine-one-one?”
The four other customers and five other clerks had been trying to ignore the ongoing exchange, but suddenly the place had gone quiet. Durbin looked back and forth along the counter, then nodded to his assistant. “Give her ten seconds,” he said.
“All right,” Marrenas said, backing away. “But don’t blame me if your side of things doesn’t get in my column. I’m trying here.”
“You’re trying to sandbag me, is what you’re doing. You’ve got about two more seconds and then Liza calls the police.”
“It’s your funeral,” Marrenas said. “You brought it on yourself.” And turning, she walked out of the shop.
“No.” Bracco sat with his feet up on his desk in the homicide detail. “That isn’t quite true. I said the investigation is continuing. Beyond that I have no comment.”
“But,” Marrenas countered, “you interviewed Ro yesterday at his lawyer’s in connection with these murders?”
“All right.”
“And you contend that this isn’t part of the pattern of harassment we’ve seen against Ro Curtlee over the past weeks.”
“Absolutely not. There’s been no harassment of Ro Curtlee or anybody else.”
“So you’ve been looking at someone else, besides Ro, as a suspect?”
“We’re looking at the whole world, ma’am.”
“Including Michael Durbin?”
Bracco paused. “We have found no evidence linking Mr. Durbin with the crime.”
“But you have no evidence on Ro, either.”
“I’ve already said everything I have to say on that issue.”
“Why did you feel the need to interview him, then?”
“To give him the chance to eliminate himself as a suspect.”
“And did he do that?”
“Well, as you know, he provided an alibi for the time of Janice Durbin’s death.”
“So that eliminates him, right?”
“Unless the alibi doesn’t hold up.” Bracco brought his feet down off the desk. “Listen, Sheila, I’m sorry but I’m going to have to cut this short. The investigations are continuing. That’s about as much as I can give you.”
“The Matt Lewis investigation, too?”
“I’m not the investigating officer on that case,” Bracco replied.
“But you also asked where Ro was when that crime was committed?”
“A cop gets killed, we throw a wide net.”
“And again, with no evidence against Ro?”
“Both investigations are continuing,” Bracco said. “We have not eliminated anyon
e as a suspect.”
No sooner had he hung up with Marrenas, though, than Bracco realized that what he’d told her was true—Glitsky hadn’t eliminated any suspects in the Janice Durbin murder. Glitsky and Becker might be 100 percent certain that Ro Curtlee was guilty ofof killing her—and Ro sure as hell looked guilty to Bracco of the Matt Lewis murder—but the plain fact remained that Ro had given Bracco an alibi for Durbin’s time of death and four people who could corroborate it. Granted, by no stretch could this corroboration—his parents, Eztli, and the maid or morning cook, Linda—be deemed unimpeachable. But what if they were all telling the truth? And if Ro, in fact, had not been at the Durbin home—and no physical or other evidence placed him there—that meant that someone else had killed Janice.
“Earth to Bracco. Come in, Darrel.”
He looked up, startled to see Glitsky hovering over his desk. “Abe! Hey.” In his chair, he straightened to attention.
“I’ve got to learn that trick,” Glitsky said. “Sleeping with my eyes open.”
“I wasn’t sleeping. I was thinking.”
“Good. Thinking is one of the approved activities. What about?”
“Well, Sheila Marrenas called me. I just now got off the phone with her.”
“I hope you didn’t tell her too much.”
“I said that our two investigations are continuing. Durbin and Lewis. We didn’t have suspects for either.”
“She believe you?”
“She didn’t care. She’s going to write what she writes anyway, whatever that spin might turn out to be.”
“So what were you thinking about?”
“Well, since that’s what I went out there to find out, it looks like Ro’s got an alibi for Durbin.”
“If you believe it.”
“He’s got four people he says will back it up.”
Glitsky said, “The parents and two servants.”
“True. I’m not arguing with you, Abe. I’m just saying ...”
“No. It’s a good point,” Glitsky conceded. He had lowered his haunch onto the corner of Bracco’s desk. His eyes had gone to a half squint. His mouth was tightly closed and a muscle worked in his jaw. “I’ll keep it in mind.”
“And,” Bracco hesitated, “while we’re talking, one other thing.”
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