by Tracy Clark
“Not Spada?”
“They say they never met him. It was Leon who asked them to rough you up. They had no idea what the copies were all about, they didn’t ask. It was just a job, though they did have the impression that Leon was taking directions from somebody higher up the food chain.”
“And Leon?”
“He asked for a lawyer the minute we cuffed him,” Weber said.
“Legal aid?”
“Private.”
I looked at each of them. “Anybody want to guess who’s paying for that?”
Nobody did.
“Well, did you find anything else on Spada? What about an alias? Any connection to Tavroh?”
“We’re working on it,” Marta said.
Ben began to pace the floor, glancing over at me occasionally to give me the stink eye. I watched him out of the corner of my eye, but said nothing. I knew him. He wasn’t happy about the fire, the fact that I almost died in it.
I ran my fingers through my hair. “And the woman from the Symonds place?”
“No ID on her and nothing came back on her prints.”
“She could be a pro,” I said.
Marta consulted the file in her hands. “Well, if so, she must be really good at it. She’s a ghost. I hate ghosts. Whoever she is, though, she hates the ground you walk on. I think she anticipated a much easier time with Symonds. She’ll talk, eventually. She’ll want to make a deal.”
Meanwhile, Spada skates. “I had that note. I had it.”
Ben stopped pacing. “But it’s gone now, isn’t it? It burned up in a fire, a fire you were right in the middle of. And even if it hadn’t burned, it’d be inadmissible, seeing as you picked your way into that shop. Taking your childhood buddy, the ex-con turned hash slinger, along with you for the ride.” He resumed pacing, too agitated to stand still. “You’re out of control, you know that? You’re trying to get yourself killed, that’s what you’re doing. You’ve got no backup, no nothing. I ought to lock you up.”
Marta and Weber stepped back, melting into the background. I stepped back, caught off guard by the heat. That’s what he was worried about? Not being there to back me up? I watched as he put distance between us, livid, unable to even look at me. I realized then that I hadn’t seen Ben with his partner, Paul Grimes, for a while. Grimes was green, but a fast learner. I thought they made a great team. “Where’s Paul? Why is Weber always with you?”
Weber cleared his throat, stepped forward tentatively. “Grimes transferred out. We’re partnered up on a temporary basis. Seeing how it goes.”
“What happened to Farraday?” Even saying his name tensed me up.
“Yeah, that was a nonstarter, for obvious reasons.”
I stared at them, first one, then the other. My ex-partner and Weber were now partners. I let that sink in, and then took a moment to panic about it. A lot of confidences had flowed back and forth between Ben and me in that unmarked car. Suddenly it felt like the walls were closing in. “When did all this happen?”
Ben turned to face me. “I tried telling you. If you hadn’t been climbing on and off buildings like Spider-Man, I might have found a chance to try again, or you might have noticed long before now.”
I stared at Weber, waiting for an explanation. He’d had plenty of time to tell me. We’d been circling each other for days. He commandeered my booth at Deek’s. I waited for an explanation.
“I thought it should come from him,” Weber said.
Ben paced a couple steps more, then rushed out of the room without saying anything more, banging the door back as he tore through it. I worried him. It was a little weird still for the both of us not being there when the other hit the streets. Ben had a new partner, another new partner. I was doing it alone. At that moment, it dawned on me that he’d had three partners since I turned in my star. He hadn’t been able to stick with any of them. I squeezed my eyes shut, feeling all of two inches tall.
Neither Marta nor Weber said a word as I walked out of the room.
* * *
When I got home, I tried calling Ben, but he didn’t pick up. I needed to apologize, to clean up the mess. I found Jung in my apartment with Barb. She was in the kitchen making pancakes and bacon, a Santa Claus apron over her shorts and T-shirt. She smiled when she saw me, but the smile quickly died when she really took me in.
“What happened to you? Why do I smell tires?”
Jung popped up from a stool, an anxious look on his face. Thankfully, he was not naked. “What happened? Did you get him?” He sniffed. “It’s smoke. You smell like smoke.”
I snagged a couple slices of bacon from a plate, turned around, and headed for the shower. “Long story. Shower first.”
“I’ll make you a stack,” Barb said.
I gave her a thumbs-up. I was out of sorts, done in and running against odds. I’d lost my only witness, though Stella Symonds likely wouldn’t have made it to Spada’s trial, anyway. And he was out there. Somewhere. What was his next move going to be? I was confident he couldn’t get to Jung, at least not easily, and there was no way he’d try and kill anyone else, not with the police looking closely at him now. What other option did he have other than to run? I tried calling Ben again from my bedroom, still no picking up. What was I going to do to fix this?
I stood in the shower, water raining down, washing away the soot and dirt and smoke. How selfish of me to think I’d been the only one affected by the shooting. I’d taken a bullet, taken a life, but Ben had been there right beside me. He saw me go down and there wasn’t a thing he could have done about it. Did he think what happened was his fault, his miss? We’d never really talked about it. I didn’t, so he didn’t. I figured we both had shoved it down, moved on. Maybe he hadn’t? Hell, maybe I hadn’t. Was that why he couldn’t stick with a new partner? Is that why I charged ahead thinking, without him, I was the only one I could rely on? I lathered up and rinsed a half-dozen times before I could no longer smell the chop shop. What a couple of messed-up people we were, Ben and me. Fear crawled around in the bottom of my stomach, not for Spada, but for what the future held for the two of us. Dressed, I stood in the center of my bedroom until I found my equilibrium, then padded to the kitchen for pancakes.
I gave Jung his report. I minimized the fire, though the look on Barb’s face told me I wasn’t fooling her. I also omitted my Dumpster dive. And the mess I’d made with Ben. I barely tasted the pancakes. I needed them for fuel, nothing more. I was too worried, too antsy, to enjoy them.
“You look exhausted,” Barb said. “Maybe you should rest.”
“I’m good,” I lied. I felt groggy and sore from the ladder climbs and I could still smell smoke on my skin. “I need to keep moving.”
“Why can’t I help?” Jung pleaded. “I could go with you.”
Elbow on the table, I rested my head in my hand. We’d gone around and around on this already. “No.”
Jung stood. “I could walk out of here right now. You can’t stop me.”
Barb brandished the spatula. “I can.”
“What are you going to do, flip me to death?”
Barb grinned. It was a sneaky, conniving grin, the Covey grin. Jung had no idea. “Do you know what I could do with a spatula?”
Jung backed up, gulped. “You’re a nun, right?”
Barb’s eyes narrowed. “Am I?”
I shoved the plate away, stood. “I have to go. Stay put. Both of you.”
“For how long?” Jung whined. “This is nuts. Not only am I being forced to hide here, but you’ve left me with a very scary nun with a spatula.”
“You’re not hiding, you’re waiting.”
“I’m waiting for you to do what I should do. He was my friend, not yours.”
“No calls, no contact with your friends, understood?”
“Yeah, yeah. I got it.”
I turned to Barb. “He doesn’t step foot out of this building. If you need help keeping him here, ask Mrs. Vincent.” I glanced at Jung. “She won’t need a spatu
la.”
Barb scoffed. “And I won’t need Mrs. Vincent.”
The two were arguing when I slipped out of the apartment. That was good. At least I knew Jung was being kept occupied. I was done playing mouse to Spada’s cat. Marta said I couldn’t approach him, but she didn’t say a thing about approaching his wife. Did she know she was sleeping with a psychopath?
Chapter 46
I took up a position across the street from Spada’s brownstone on West Webster in an empty play lot under a full, leafy shade tree. I wondered if he was inside, lounging in an easy chair, sniffing brandy, contented, while his victims lay cold in their graves. He’d fronted his place with top-of-the-line fencing, and the wide red door at the top of the stairs sported a door knocker in the shape of a lion’s head. I could practically smell the pretension from where I stood. Spada thought a great deal of himself, and not nearly enough of anyone else, but his confidence was wholly misplaced, given that he killed people for profit.
The house was likely worth millions, more than Stella Symonds would have ever hoped to see in her lifetime. The whole thing rubbed me raw, and I could admit to a certain amount of petty resentment on her behalf. A luxury brownstone in the right part of town, a boat tied up at the marina—how many “accidents” had paid for it all? Did his well-heeled neighbors know he was a whacked-out nut job? Doubted it. I took a deep breath. Even the air on this side of town smelled different, like wet dollar bills left to dry in the sun.
Nick Spada had Darby, an ex-con, and a hit woman. Maybe he’d hired more than one? I watched Spada’s windows. If he was in there, I was in for a world of trouble. Stay away from Nick Spada. That’s what Marta had said, and I couldn’t pretend now that I hadn’t heard her or that I misunderstood the warning. Still . . .
So, should I go, or not go? Not going would be the smarter choice. I’d pointed the police in the right direction. They now had a case they believed in, as well as two thugs, and possibly Leon, willing to tell all they knew. They’d get Spada. There was no dishonor in stepping out and letting them take it the rest of the way. Yet, here I was, skulking under a tree next to baby swings, unable to give in and let go. I knew why: Tim, Stella Symonds, all the others. They deserved to have justice done, and I was going to make sure they got it. It was Spada who had made it personal, who’d made it a game. Whip and I nearly died in that chop shop. And Jung wouldn’t be completely safe until Spada was in a cage.
A little after lunchtime, a moving van crept up the narrow street, lumbered up to the Spada house, then stopped. I straightened, focused, and watched as a woman about my age flung open the door to the brownstone and stood in the doorway to meet the movers, her rail-thin arms clasped around herself. It was Spada’s wife. I recognized her from the photos in his office.
She was dressed stylishly in a pale pink top and tan capri pants, her gym-fit body revealing not an ounce of excess body fat. Her blond hair offset a perfect tan that looked like she’d spent good money on it. Unfortunately, the Botox had robbed her angular face of all expression. While she waited for the movers to climb out of the truck, she nervously clocked the time on a silver bracelet watch that sparkled in the sun. Diamonds probably, and, frankly, why wouldn’t they be? She was certainly not dressed for moving day, but I had a feeling she had absolutely no intention of touching a single box. That’s what the movers were for. The fact that they were moving at all was the problem. Nick Spada was folding up his tent and getting the heck out of Dodge.
Six burly guys in tan short-sleeved shirts and jeans climbed out of the truck; after a moment of introduction at the door, they disappeared inside, ready to get stuff moving out. No sign of Nick Spada. I’d have considered that a good thing a moment ago; now it worried the hell out of me. Where was he? Was he already long gone? Had I lost my chance to bring him in? To go or not was no longer a choice. I ran across the street, climbed the stairs, and sidestepped the movers, who were making trips in and out of the house, weighed down by high-end stuff.
“Everything’s been packed,” I heard Mrs. Spada explain, her back to the door and to me. “Except the drapes, they’re not coming with us. It all has to be on the truck and on its way quickly, please.”
She turned and gasped when she saw me. My reputation, apparently, had preceded me.
I stepped squarely into her living room, the furniture gone, boxes everywhere. “Mrs. Spada?”
Her head jerked in frantic disagreement. “You can’t be here. Get out. Get out now.”
I looked around. “Where’s your husband?”
Her blank face lost all its color. “You’re supposed to leave us alone. You were ordered to leave us alone. Do you have any idea who we are?”
The movers slowed, then stopped what they were doing, to pay attention to our exchange. Mrs. Spada noticed and tried goosing them along. “Keep going. I’m not paying you to gawk.” She turned back to me. “I’m calling my husband, then I’m calling our lawyers. You have no idea how much trouble you’re in.”
“Is your husband here, or not?” I could feel time running out on me, and could kick myself for the time I’d wasted standing under the tree. Nick Spada had means. If he wasn’t here, he could be halfway to Bora-Bora by now, thumbing his nose at me the whole way.
She looked to the movers. “She’s a stalker. That’s a crime.” Her helpless look implored them to come to her defense. I watched them consider it, exchanging wary looks between them, coming to a nonverbal consensus. Finally they inched a bit closer to me, ready to make a play.
“Uh-uh.” I slid my PI license out of my bag, holding it up for them to see. “Back it up, and stand down. This doesn’t have to get any more unpleasant than it already is.”
They backed away. Anne Spada was on her own. She had a curious audience, nothing more, and the boxes weren’t going anywhere fast for a while.
“That’s it. I’m having you arrested.” She plucked a slim cell phone from her pocket, dialed, then held on the line. I figured she was calling her husband, but I had a feeling she wasn’t going to get anywhere with that. Nick Spada didn’t strike me as being the chivalrous sort. He was running for his life and he’d left his wife behind to fret about it, only she didn’t know that yet. She still thought she mattered to him.
He didn’t answer, so she left a pleading message. “Nick, she’s here. What should I do? Call me, please. It’s urgent.” She hung up, her hands gripping the phone tightly as though it might jump out of her hands and race out the front door. Maybe a part of her knew.
“He’s not answering your calls. He’s left you behind. Where would he go? Who would help him?”
Her back stiffened. “You have no idea what you’re talking about. He’s at the office. He has meetings there all day.” She dialed again, turned to face me, defiant, but appearing less sure of it as the moments ticked on. She held on the line, biting her lower lip nervously, anxious for someone to pick up.
“Your husband’s a murderer. He can’t get away.”
Her frightened eyes fired. “How dare you. He’s no such thing. You’re crazy. Nick said so.”
The movers didn’t make even the pretense of working now. “Maybe there’s someplace private we could talk?”
“Absolutely not. You shouldn’t even be here. I . . .” She stopped when someone picked up on the other end. “Constance, this is Anne. I know Nick’s in meetings, but . . .” Her eyes widened, she gulped hard. “He isn’t?” As she listened, her face fell and her flat expression hinted at somberness. Defiance was gone now, too, replaced by sheer panic as the reality of her situation slowly set in. She turned her back to me, to the movers, and lowered her voice to a quavering whisper. “He hasn’t been in at all? I called his cell.... He doesn’t answer. I need to speak with him right away . . . Yes, try, and call me when you’ve reached him, will you? It’s urgent.” She ended the call.
“He’s looking out for himself. He’s left you to face the shame of what he’s done.”
Without a word, undaunted, she raised the pho
ne and dialed again. She’d call the lawyers next. It was all she likely knew to do. But they were Nick’s lawyers, not hers. I stood listening as the receptionist on the other end blocked her call and took her message. She was getting it. She knew what kind of man she’d married; deep down, she knew.
“This move. Whose idea was it?”
“None of your business. How dare you! You don’t know me. You don’t know my husband. You don’t know anything.”
The movers lifted boxes and moved them out, silently. There’d be a story to tell their wives and girlfriends when they got home at the end of the day, but for right now, there was only lurid curiosity and a tinge of pity for the left-behind rich woman in the pink top. You could see it in their eyes.
“Where’d he say you were going?”
Tears welled in her eyes, but there was still a little fire left. She pressed her lips together, holding on to Nick Spada’s last secret, as though there was a chance left for her. “Will I have to call the police for you to leave?”
I watched her, wondering what she’d do when the world found out what her husband had done, and her little bubble of wealth and privilege burst wide open and dropped her like a stone. “Would he run to the boat?”
Anne Spada brushed past me, heading toward the back of the house. I followed. We ended up in the massive kitchen. Many of the boxes were gone already, hauled out by the movers, but a few remained. She didn’t seem interested in the boxes at this point, in where she or they were supposed to be going. She turned to find me there.
“This is harassment. You have no right. Go away!”
I pulled the hit woman’s picture out of my bag and showed it to her. “Do you recognize her?”
She gasped. “Where’d you get that?”
“I took it while she was sitting in police custody. She tried to commit murder for your husband. Who is she?”
“You’re insane.”
“You know I’m not. Who is she?”