by S. J. Rozan
“If he’s out of prison,” Trella said, “he’s done, or he’s on parole?”
“Parole. It was a fifteen-year bid.” I’d done the math. “First time he was eligible would’ve been eight months ago.”
“So doesn’t he have to report somewhere?”
“Yes, and they’d have an address. But the Corrections computer—Linus, you can’t get at that, can you?”
Linus shook his head. “Beyond me, dude. Aunt Mary could.”
“Can’t risk it. There’d be cops everywhere, soon as they have an ID.”
“You don’t think she’d give you the address and not—” He stopped. “No, me either.”
I ran my hand over my face. Exhausted, burned out, battered, and no way to stop. “Dude—” Linus began, but Trella shook her head. Linus clammed up and focused on his plate.
I took two bites in silence, then threw down my fork and pulled out both phones, mine to find the number, the new one to dial. I didn’t like this idea, but I didn’t have a better one, and the clock was ticking. Six hours gone, halftime probably winding down. Kevin would call soon, send me into frantic action. If knowing more than he thought I did was going to do me any good, I had to move on it now.
Four rings; then, “You’ve got Hal Ross.” It grated right away, that cynical rasp: you’ve got him, but you probably didn’t want him, it’s a mistake.
“Hey, Hal. Bill Smith.”
“Well, fuck me,” Hal said, long and slow. “Bill effing Smith. What’s this, a Jiminy Cricket moment? You checking up on me? ‘Yo, Hal, good buddy, screwed anything up lately? Need your ass burned, can I help?’ ”
“I don’t have time for it, Hal. Kevin’s out.”
A drawn breath. “The hell you say.”
“Much worse. He kidnapped my partner. If I don’t find her, he’ll kill her.”
“What the—” He stopped, a long, wobbly pause.
Jesus, Hal, be sober. On the wagon, in the gutter, it’s your life, I don’t give a shit; but right now, I need you sober. “He’s on parole,” I said. “I need his address. You still have connections on the Job?”
“He came for you.” Wonderment filled Hal’s voice, but edged with something tighter: I might have said, envy.
“Can you do it?” I leaned on each word.
“Shit, Smith. You gotta have better hooks into the Job than ol’ Hal. This a pity fuck?”
“Jesus Christ! Did you hear me? We’re talking about my partner’s life.” A long silence. Resigned, I added, “I’m hot. Kevin set me up, the NYPD’s looking for me. I can’t call anyone else.”
“Ah, okay.” The relief of understanding. “You can’t call anyone else. That’s when you call Hal.”
“Yeah, and sounds like it was a mistake.”
“He set you up how?”
“What the hell’s the difference? Forget it. Thanks a lot.”
“Nah, hold your water. There’s a guy I could try. Where are you?”
“You can call this number.”
“And you’re sure it’s me you want? Because if I find that cocksucker, I might really kill him this time.”
“I don’t want you, but you’re my only option. And do not go near him. Find the address, call me. That’s it.”
“ ‘Yeah, Hal, don’t fuck this up, too.’ That what you mean?”
“I mean, my partner’s all that matters. Not you or me proving anything. You get me? Find that address.”
I thumbed off to see both kids staring.
“Dude,” Linus said. “It totally sounds like you don’t like that guy.”
I shook my head as the waiter clinked a double espresso down by my elbow, gave Trella a single and Linus a Coke. “Hal Ross. Ex-cop.” I tried the coffee, bitter and rich.
“He knows Kevin?” Trella asked.
“Dude.” Linus looked up. “He on Kevin’s hate list? Is he gonna try to get him some way, too?”
“Should be the opposite. He ought to be grateful. What Kevin did should’ve been good for more than ten and parole. Hal screwed it up and the DA had to go to a plea deal. That’s how I know Kevin, Hal and I played basketball with him and a friend of his, ten years ago. Listen, Linus, try that guy, Kevin’s friend. Jim White.”
“Oh, wow, dude. You couldn’t make it more generic?”
“You said weird names were too easy.”
“Yeah, well, you better give me a clue, or you’ll get more Jim Whites than you can use.”
“He used to live in the Village. He’d be mid-thirties. Ten years ago, worked on Wall Street, a brokerage, something.” I tried to think back, shook my head. “Sorry, that’s all.”
Poking the iPhone, Linus said, “If you don’t like this Hal guy how come you and him played ball?”
“I liked him then. I’ll tell you about it. But first I want to go over what Lydia gave us.”
They exchanged glances. Trella, I could see, was with me: let’s move on, let’s do. Linus wanted the story, the facts, the data. I wanted to find the tiny signposts to our next step.
“Dude,” said Linus, “she gave us something? She only said like three words.”
And I had them all memorized. “Look: ‘Hard to stay sunny for long in a place like this.’ Remember, we said a basement with an areaway, windows? I think that means they actually catch some sun. Briefly. So likely, not on the north side of a street. South, or possibly west.”
Trella asked, “Why not east?”
“I’m thinking she gave me everything she had each time we talked. If she saw sun in the morning she’d have told me sooner. So midday, south or west, maybe surrounded by buildings not hugely tall. Or tall, but a slot, alley, something, between the two opposite. And she said, ‘It’s not just me.’ I think maybe she was telling me he hadn’t left. That she hadn’t been alone.”
“Makes sense, dude. Because he didn’t know the tailor shop girl’s not dead.”
“Linus, when you’re through with that, can you check if that call came from the same tower? I’ll bet it did, but I want to be sure.”
“No problem.”
“And something else. But I don’t know what it means. She called me ‘baby.’ ”
“She doesn’t usually?” Trella asked.
Linus, swallowing Coke, said, “It would be kinda like you calling me ‘baby.’ ”
“Oh. Yeah, then it means something else.” She thought. “Maybe a storefront she can see? Maternity clothes?”
“Toys? A preschool?”
“A gynecologist?”
“Linus, after you—”
“I can do it.” Trella took out her own iPhone. “I’m not as good as he is, but I can handle this.”
We ate in silence, the kids working the phones, me willing Hal to call. Then Linus sat back. “ ’K, dude. Found you five Jim Whites in the financial biz. Actually, I found another eleven, but with how old they are and when they got to New York, I exed those ones out.”
“Give me their numbers. And after you check on the phone tower, here’s something else. Kevin had a fiancée. On the Upper East Side. Megan something, I can’t remember, but it had something to do with beer.”
“Seriously?”
“You find it, I’ll know it’s her.”
He rolled his eyes. “Why not? But dude. If this freak Kevin is working with somebody, it could be him. White. The old friend.”
“I know.”
“So you don’t want him to know you’re onto him, right?”
“Right.” I dialed the first Jim White’s office. “I’m an old friend and client of his,” I told the secretary in my best British accent, subtle, underplayed. “We’ve been out of touch for a number of years, but I’ve just come into some money, and I thought, well, old Jim did quite nicely on my behalf back in the nineties.” That got me through to his assistant, and the next two Jim Whites’ assistants, and the first two Jim Whites. It was their voices I wanted to hear, their pitch and cadence. But one rang of the south, maybe Texas; and if the other hadn’t been born Tom
acz Witrovicz or Witrovski or Weitz, I’d eat my hat. I called the third number, listening, in my head, to the minutes ticking away.
I was met with a brief pause, then told Mr. White wasn’t available but his assistant could help me. I got transferred to a harried-sounding young man and gave my spiel.
“Oh,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“Is he not taking new clients? I’m sure he’ll want to talk to me. It’s been a long time, but it was a special friendship, you see.”
“Mr. White is unavailable.” The young man spoke with an odd tone, part bristle, part confusion.
“You’re not saying you’re unable to get in touch with him?” That was the one thing I knew about all this new technology: there was no such thing as He’s away, I can’t reach him anymore. But if this was the right Jim, maybe he was ducking calls from strangers, in case they turned out to be me.
“I’m sorry,” the assistant said again.
“I really must—”
“No, you don’t understand.” His voice got higher, faster. “Mr. White passed away.”
“He— When?”
“Over the weekend.”
“I didn’t know he’d been ill.” I was suddenly, icily sure this was the right Jim, and he hadn’t been ill.
“No, he . . . he had an accident.”
“This is a shock. What happened?”
An audible swallow. “He drowned.”
“Where?” I was playing stunned, which wasn’t a stretch. “He’d gone on holiday? To the beach?”
“No. He has a lap pool in the basement of his brownstone.”
“A lap pool? But those are quite shallow. I’m sorry, I don’t see how this is possible. Old Jim, he was a good swimmer, as I recall. I mean, I imagine you knew him much better than I, so perhaps this makes sense to you, but as for me—”
“That’s what I thought, too.” As I’d hoped, the assistant’s words came in a confiding rush to match my own. “You’re right, he was a strong swimmer. When they told me, I said, ‘He can’t have just drowned in a lap pool.’ He must have had a heart attack or something. Or . . . something . . .” He trailed secretively off.
“Or been high?” I dropped my voice. “Old Jim and I were known to hit the slopes, back in the day.” The slopes: snow, cocaine. “Perhaps he’d been partying?” With his old friend Kevin?
“Exactly!” he whispered. “I thought that! Lately he’d looked terrible. Haggard and tired. That look you can get when, you know, something’s taking it out of you.” He sniffed with knowledge and disapproval. “But they said no. He has one of those wave machines, you know? They said the current was just too strong, he had it set too high. It must have knocked him down, he got disoriented and couldn’t fight his way out.”
“Can that happen, with those machines?”
“They say it can. But really. These last few weeks! I spent a lot of time covering for him, I can tell you.”
“I’m sure you did. That’s a shame, it’s work for which one never gets recognition. Did they find anything of the sort?”
“Not a thing! But drowning in a lap pool because the current’s too high? I plain don’t believe it.”
“No,” I said slowly. “Neither do I.” I clicked off. “Shit.”
Again, wide eyes across the table.
“Dude? What’s the story?”
“This one, this Jim White. Find me everything you can on him.”
“He’s the one? Did you talk to him?”
I paused. “Linus? He’s dead.”
13
Linus and I were back in the car, me driving. We were heading downtown to see Jim White’s widow. Trella was in a black sedan on her way across town.
Jim’s widow had been an easy find. “That Jim White,” Linus said from across the table in Elaine and Lorena’s, “he worked at Chase, wife’s name is Nicole, lives at eleven Perry Street. Before that, three-oh-three-A West Twelfth. Ten years ago he worked for Star Advantage Capital Management. That him?”
“Star Advantage. Shit. Yes, that’s him.”
“You think Kevin, you think he killed him?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Why?”
“He was prepared to testify at Kevin’s trial. It didn’t come to that, because of the plea. But Kevin was livid. Said Jim was helping me sell him down the river.”
Megan, Kevin’s ex, had been harder. Together, we’d run through every beer we knew, Linus checking the whole country in case she’d left New York. “Dude,” he’d report. “Found six Megan Millers the right age but none of them lived on the Upper East Side ten years ago. And one Megan Coors, but she’s sixty-two.”
“No, those aren’t right. Dammit! Why the hell can’t I think of it?”
After a couple of exchanges like that Linus had thumbed toward the window. “How about you go to the bodega across there, take a look? Maybe if you see a bunch of different cans.”
“Not cans. Kevin wouldn’t drink from a can. Only imported bottles, or microbrews on tap.”
“But this isn’t Kevin’s beer,” Trella objected. “It’s his fiancée’s name.”
“I know. But I have the idea it matters.” I closed my eyes. We’re all in a bar, hot and sweaty, a round of whatever’s on tap except not Kevin, he orders some goddamn pretentious microbrew, frosted glass or he won’t drink it, no, not a glass, a mug, an iced mug, got to have a handle so the thing stays cold—“Stine!” I opened my eyes. “Goddamn son of a bitch, her name was Stine.”
“Yes! Beer stein!” Linus pumped his fist, started swiping and poking.
“No,” I said. “The English way.” I spelled it for him.
“Hah!” he said. “This is your brain on ‘charades.’ ” He finished off his Coke while he waited for something, swiped and poked again. “Megan Stine! Dudes! Megan Collings now. Married five years ago. Ulp, ditched that guy, too. About a year.”
“Still in New York?”
“Damn skippy! On the Upper West Side. So. Where first, this Jim guy or her?”
“Not that easy,” I said. “I met Megan a couple of times. She might remember me. Especially since Kevin might have been to see her, warned her I might show. I need to think a minute, who I can call.”
“Like, another PI?”
Another PI. If this were another case, that would be Lydia.
“Yes. But most of them are ex-cops, and this may not be the time—”
Trella jumped on it: “I’ll go.”
“No way,” I said. “It’s too dangerous.”
“Dangerous how? Crazy Kevin’s downtown, with Lydia.”
“We don’t know that.”
“Lydia said he hadn’t left. Why would he leave now? Anyway he might not have been in touch with the fiancée at all.”
“Then what’s the point?”
“Your idea. It’s a stone. We have to turn it over.”
She was right about that, but: “I can’t let you.”
“Um, excuse me, you can’t stop me. Wait. Just listen. I’ll go over there. Talk to the neighbors, not her. I’m a jealous girlfriend, I think my man’s two-timing me with this Megan. Has anyone been hanging around her lately? I’ll describe him. If I get a hit I’ll call you. Then you can tell me what to do.”
That final line got a grin and a “Yeah, right,” from Linus.
“It’s good,” I admitted. “But you’re not going.”
Trella’s eyes flashed. She stood and strode away. I jumped up, thinking—what? I could grab the car keys, peel out in Linus’s mother’s car, leave both kids in the dust? But Trella stopped by the door. She leaned over a table, had a short conversation with a young guy in a suit jacket and open white shirt. He shrugged and nodded. She spun around to face me. “I’m going,” she announced. “But not alone. My cousin, Joey.”
“Yo,” said Joey, hooded eyes on me. The two other men at his table were also watching me. I got the feeling that behind me, the entire restaurant had taken an interest.
After a long moment, I nodded
back.
Trella handed over the keys and climbed into Joey’s black town car. Linus and I walked to the Malibu, Woof pawing the glass at the sight of us. “So dude, this Kevin Crazy Man,” said Linus. “What did you do to him?”
“I’m surprised Trella left without the whole story.”
“Yo, in case you hadn’t noticed, she’s not so into talking. Action Jackson, that’s more her thing.”
“Could get her in trouble.”
“Dude! I’m a geek, all I do is stare at a screen, I’m always in trouble anyhow.”
“Is Joey her real cousin?”
“Italians, they’re all related, worse than Chinese.”
While Woof scarfed down salami Linus had brought him, I drove downtown, filling Linus in on what this was all about.
“Like I said, we used to play basketball, years ago. Smug young shits, Kevin and Jim. First time Hal and I showed up at the playground, it was, ‘Bring it on, Grandpa.’ I had ten years on them, Hal had a few more, they thought we were geezers. So we whupped their asses.”
“They played bad?”
“It was more than that. Kevin hated to lose. So much, he’d mess up his own head. Throw elbows, make dirty fouls. Out-and-out cheat. It was easy to piss him off and make him lose it. Then if you just stayed cool, you were golden.”
“Didn’t it piss him off worse when you won?”
“Way worse. Then he’d pull out the excuses. Sun was in his eyes. He was hungover. Jim wasn’t pulling his weight. More than once, Kevin slammed down the ball and stomped off the court cursing out everyone in sight.”
“But you kept playing.”
“If they were going to come back, so were we. It got so every Saturday it was a blood feud.”
Linus shook his head. “Playing games with people you hate. Doesn’t sound like fun to me.”
“Kevin wasn’t in it for fun. He was in it to win.”
Linus gave me a look I couldn’t read. After a moment he said, “So, what got him to jail? That he blames you for?”
I lit a cigarette, chucked the match out the window. “Sometimes, after a game, they’d go for Chinese food, or a beer. Kevin and Jim. Mostly I didn’t go: I had a short fuse for Kevin’s bullshit. Everything was a game with him. Work, women, everything. Who played the ’eighty-four Superbowl, what’s in my pocket. They were all games, but the same as basketball: if he lost he was furious. Stare like he wanted to kill you with his eyes. Sometimes he’d explode. I didn’t usually need a beer that badly.”