by Jamie Quaid
He’d been entering Lily’s apartment. I’d moved before I could question her. Had she been another spy? Or part of the family he kept warning me away from? I hadn’t known her well. Neither of us was at home much.
Paddy was more interested in the food than in me. He studied the construction of a fancy bruschetta topped with a pyramid of olives and cheese, pinned together with toothpicks. The appetizer chef should have been an architect.
“Doing fine,” he said absently, plucking off a cheese cube without bringing the structure tumbling down.
He hadn’t disputed the name I’d called him by. “Is your son out of the hospital yet?” I asked innocently. “I hope he wasn’t too seriously burned.”
That caught his attention. Gray eyes eerily like Max’s narrowed as he studied me and discarded a toothpick holding an olive captive. “We don’t speak,” he said flatly. “Stay away from them.”
“Why? Because they’ll harm me or because I can hurt them?”
He looked confused and returned to studying the tray. Apparently the bruschetta didn’t appeal. He chose a ham wrap concoction.
“I’m crazy,” he said carefully.
“Yeah, aren’t we all?” I ate the remains of the bruschetta he’d rejected. “Whoever killed Max was crazier than both of us, though.”
He nodded as if in agreement, or approval of the appetizer. His thick gray hair brushed his collar and covered his ears, but the distinguished man he’d once been was reflected in the still-sharp angles of his face. He exhibited none of the puffy, red-eyed weakness of an alcoholic or addict or even a schizoid. He knew good food and how to get it. Except for his clothes and hair, he’d been taking care of himself.
“Power makes men mad,” he said enigmatically.
“So we should go back to the Greek system of democracy and all draw stones and the ones who draw the wrong color are stuck governing for the next year?” I asked, testing his history.
He snorted. “The wealthy would be in Spain when the stones were drawn. They’d just buy whoever was in power that year.”
“Wow, that makes you more cynical than me.” And just as sane, relatively speaking. “So if I want to find out who cut Max’s brakes, where would I start?”
“My mother,” he said as if it were an epithet. “Eve is the root of all evil.” He popped a sausage blanket into his mouth and shambled off.
Max had said the grannies were more interested in money than Acme. Max had been known to be wrong, though. Crazy men had been known to be crazy, too.
Citing Eve as the root of all evil was not only lunacy but implied that women were to blame for the bad choices of men. Religious fanatics around the world latched onto that fallacy, pointing the finger of shame at the oppressed sex for the failures of the sex in power. Stupid bullies, all of them.
It wouldn’t do to grow angry, or I could be burning down mosques and temples and cathedrals around the world. I was curious enough to wonder if I could, and still sane enough not to try. How long could I maintain that sanity? I needed to look at the website claiming Saturn’s daughters died young. They probably flamed out from the sheer exhaustion of restraining themselves.
I debated between returning to my safe room to study, finding Andre and demanding access to Max’s papers, or hunting down Dane’s grandmother. Hunting a granny seemed simple enough.
First, I called Lance to learn if they’d made any progress in uncovering the perpetrator of the Escort’s damage. Gonzo would know, but Lance talked more.
“Hey, babe,” Lance greeted me groggily. Noon was kind of early for him. “Heard you had a little trouble. You okay?”
“I’m fine for now, thanks. Max’s papers are ugly reading. Have you found out anything about who would try to kill him?”
“Half his family, a few cops, and a biker or two,” he said with a chuckle. “That direction goes nowhere. But we did find out he was visiting the Vanderventer estate that afternoon. Gonzo says it’s possible the brake lines were cut only enough to leak out over time, and the accelerator line can be fixed to give out under stress, so Max may have driven away without noticing. His great-aunt lives north of the harbor from you.”
The Vanderventer estate? Where Dane’s grandmother had been serving tea?
“Aunt?” I asked warily. I still didn’t know the whole family tree. Was Paddy’s wife—Dane’s mother—still in the picture? Were there more aunts and uncles?
“Old lady Vanderventer,” Lance explained. “Seventies. Senator’s grandma.”
Bingo. The granny Dane was sharing tea with that afternoon. One of the grannies who owned half of Acme, and who Max had said liked to shop. Stupid men, always underestimating the power of women. Granny had the motive to keep Acme operating and the money to hire thugs, and the opportunity to have said thugs cut the Escort’s brakes.
“And did you know all the time that Max was from a rich family?” I asked, just so I’d know if I was the only clueless idiot.
“We don’t ask questions, babe. He didn’t bust us, so we didn’t bust him.”
I rolled my eyes at this simple platitude, but it was probably the best Lance’s foggy brain cells could produce. “Thanks, buddy,” I told him. “I don’t think granny would crawl under a car, but someone there must have.”
“Yeah, that’s what we’re thinking, but we can’t muscle around an old lady to find out.”
“That’s what you have me for. Let’s see what I can do.”
I hung up before he could argue. I was amazed Andre hadn’t already appeared to heave me over his shoulder, but he probably believed I’d actually study when I said I would. Foolish man. I’d like to have believed he was lining up AK-47s in my defense, but he had no way of knowing what I meant to do next.
I didn’t see Sarah until she sidled up to me after I tucked away my phone. She still looked like a fuzzy-headed orangutan, but I think she was a few inches taller than I’d seen her last—in torso, not legs, I guessed, glancing down at her stubby appendages. Had she been wishing she was taller while she was strangling a goon?
I was doubting her sanity as well as my own, but she thought we were buddies, and I didn’t disillusion her.
“Hey, I was thinking . . . if you don’t want to off the bad guys, I could be your bodyguard and do it for you,” she suggested, keeping her voice low. “I want to be one of the dancers, but Ernesto says my legs are too short.”
Yup, she’d wished for longer legs like mine. Chimpanzees and poles, a real natural, but probably not a crowd pleaser. I didn’t say that aloud.
Generously refraining from lecturing about the dangers of offing anyone to a serial killer’s daughter, I simply said, “You know, I hadn’t really been thinking about bodyguards, but if I do, I’ll think of you first. Thanks for offering.”
Before Sarah could make any more homicidal suggestions or someone told Andre I was out and about, I gathered up Milo and traipsed over to visit Cora at the detective agency.
29
Cora had the front door open to let in sunshine and fresh air. She beamed at me when I entered.
“I don’t believe in astrology, hon,” she said in greeting, “but I sure could change my mind if Saturn’s daughter can waltz a few naked dudes through here.”
“And that would be justice for whom?” I asked, taking one of Frank’s swivel chairs and making myself at home. I’d spent too many years biting my tongue not to enjoy saying what I thought. Cora was plugged in and smart enough to know as much as I did, given that astrology crack. She’d been talking to Andre and doing her research.
“Did you get your paycheck yet?” I inquired innocently.
She removed it from the drawer and waved it happily. “Buck-an-hour raise! Nordstrom’s shoe sale, here I come. I haven’t bought shoes since I moved my mom into that home.”
I didn’t know whether to cringe or glory in Andre’s undoing. I hadn’t really meant to empty his pockets, but people needed a basic living wage, and those working in the Zone deserved hazardous-duty p
ay.
“I need to check over at Bill’s to see if he has mine,” I said, covering up my nervousness by changing the subject. “Got time for a quick look-see for me?”
“Can’t leave the office,” she warned. “Frank’s out and I’m holding down the fort. How’s our invisible thief doing?”
“Haven’t seen him today.”
I actually said it with a straight face.
She threw a paper clip at me. “We need to find something to dump over his head so he can’t duck out like that. We’ll never know where he is.”
“He makes his clothes vanish. Don’t think paint will work.” Milo crawled out to sniff around the office. I pushed a foil package of apple cake I’d liberated from Chesty’s across the desk. “An official bribe. Will you look up Dane Vanderventer’s grandmother? I don’t even know her name.”
Cora’s eyes widened, but after examining the goody package, she popped the top of a diet Coke, offered me some, and roused her sleeping computer.
“Public figures are easy,” she said, typing lists into Google. “Charity balls, divorce courts, obits, in big letters on front pages.” She began calling up websites and printing.
“How do you get a computer to work down here?” I asked, skimming printouts to be certain they weren’t menus from China.
“Snake charming,” she replied ambiguously. “And Frank ran the cable. I’m betting it connects with Schwartz’s precinct and nothing down here.”
The cable might have been out of the Zone, but the hardware wasn’t. Either the Zone was afraid of Cora’s snakes or I’d better be careful how much of her info I believed.
Not wishing to really analyze atomic and/or chemical effects on underground wiring, I examined the paper as it came out of the machine. First one was a photo with Gloria Vanderventer next to two ex-presidents. In this light, with printer ink, she looked blond, toned, and nowhere near . . . whatever her age was. She looked younger than her son Paddy. Good plastic surgeons, excellent hairdressers, and physical trainers would do that for you, I guessed.
I skimmed through reports of donations to alma maters, chairmanships of foundations, and dinners hosted for her grandson. There was even one photo with Max’s grandmother, the woman in the hat at his funeral. Both women were grimacing as if it were a strain to be in the same room together. Nice to know other families were as dysfunctional as mine.
I pored over stories of the Vanderventer dynasty. Max’s grandfather and great-uncle had inherited a fortune from their parents, and both had built a legacy of Baltimore industries. Paddy was the only surviving son of either of the two brothers. Max’s mom was one of their daughters. Paddy had a degree in chemistry. Max’s mom had her MRS degree, marrying Senator MacNeill while he was still a junior congressman. He had power, she had wealth—the perfect couple.
Dane Vanderventer had walked into MacNeill’s Senate seat when the older gent resigned after the lobby-bribe scandal. Gloria Vanderventer had campaigned—lobbied—her grandson into the seat. At that point, she’d already outlived Dane’s granddad. I wondered why Paddy hadn’t been an option, but apparently Dane was a chip off the grandmaternal block.
None of this was really news, just confirmation of politics as usual. I took out the rap sheet with address and vital statistics and stuck it in my bag. I probably could have asked Max for this information, but he’d only have yelled and then probably not given it to me. So I skipped a step.
Thanking Cora and returning to the spring sunshine, I knew I should go home and study and save the Vanderventers for the weekend. I even called Jane, pretending I should gather more evidence before taking any drastic steps.
“How well did you do in chemistry?” I inquired.
“Is this a trick question?” Jane replied, suspicious. “Am I supposed to crack your code or just hang on while you bluff whoever’s there with you?”
“I have Max’s research on Acme,” I told her, appreciating how quickly she’d figured me out. “There’s a lot of chemistry jargon. I was hoping to find someone who could translate.” Given Max’s handwriting, we probably needed a team of translators.
“Not me,” she said decisively. “I’m taking a second job at Starbucks and it’s all I can do to count cash. Hey, in case you don’t know, the higher-ups at the precinct are foaming at the mouth to bring you in. And you’re now officially ‘Max’s bitch’ at the courthouse. Whose tail did you pull?”
“Max’s bitch,” how sweet.
Anger began to pool in my gut, not a good sign. I let Jane off the hook with some meaningless nonchalance and actually turned my churning fury toward home, trying to force myself to think of books.
A black Lincoln cruised by and slowed down. My paranoia escalated.
As far as I knew, the latest spies hadn’t kicked any dogs or done more than drive down the street. I could explode their tires for that, but I wouldn’t. I was still trying caution, especially if the cops intended to breathe down my back. Been there, done that, had the shattered bones to prove it.
But I didn’t believe I was going home to study any longer, either. My mind had skipped straight past reason to I despise bullies mode.
Tim as my one-man posse had worked last night. I wasn’t sure how effective he would be for long periods of time. I needed Schwartz and Andre and Bill, maybe even spooky Frank. But with no evidence, I couldn’t persuade them to my cause any better than I could convince the police that something was rotten in Denmark. I was starting to sympathize with Hamlet.
I was tired of waiting passively, taking whatever shit the Universe threw. I didn’t want guns catching me by surprise again. And I wanted to know who had killed Max. If all I’d done was terrify the senator into siccing the cops on me, maybe I needed to skip the law and go where the money was.
Cora had already said she couldn’t go with me. I didn’t think Tim had a phone. And anyway, there was only one person left crazy enough to join me without question. I was more nervous about taking on Sarah than a senator, but maybe she and I could form our own goon squad. Or gorilla band. I snickered nervously at the bad pun.
I slipped on down the alley, taking the back street to Chesty’s. Just for fun, I called Andre and left a message. Lance already knew my next step and hadn’t volunteered to ride shotgun, so I didn’t bother him again.
Sarah was totally thrilled that I included her in my quest for justice.
I should have forgotten the whole idiot plan the instant she nodded and tucked a kitchen knife in her beehive. “This is only an evidence-gathering mission,” I warned her. “No killing.”
“Only in self-defense,” she said eagerly.
Crap, I’d seen that scenario countless times. But beggars couldn’t be choosers and all that. “I’ll be back in a few minutes to pick you up,” I said in resignation.
It would be a little more than a few minutes. I had to run back up to Julius’s and pull on jeans and change out of the mirrored shirt into a henley. Still inappropriate for visiting, but my hideout wardrobe was limited.
Then I had to take the Harley to my old apartment on Westside to pick up the Miata. I didn’t want Sarah turning chimp on me if she took fright at the Harley’s speed. It was after two by then, so I ran up to check on Jane. She greeted me at the door with a whiny blond toddler over her shoulder.
“Tina! I hope you’re not rethinking your move because I can’t help you with chemistry,” she said worriedly. “Come in and let me put Bobby down for a nap.”
Jane’s furniture was as worn as mine, but she had an eye for design. She’d stuck dried wildflowers in a mayonnaise jar and hung old photos with frames rescued from trash bins and spray-painted in glossy red. Clever.
She’d hung bright red plastic plates on the walls in the kitchen. Maybe I should hire her to do my place should I survive long enough to ever have money.
Jane returned and filled a couple of red plastic glasses with iced tea. I complimented her on her décor, and she cheered up.
“It’s a pity people who live on n
othing can’t afford interior designers or I’d have my niche,” she happily agreed.
“Write a blog about designing on the cheap and ask for donations. When you get readers, sell ads,” I suggested. “Anyhow, I just stopped in to give you a heads-up; I didn’t dare speak on the phone. I don’t know what’s going down at Acme Chemical, but I think Max was killed to keep it quiet. And I think Dane Vanderventer knew about it.”
I didn’t mention the connection with the kids, not wanting to stretch credulity too far. The kids were my own personal vendetta, a wrong maybe I could right, even if I couldn’t bring Max back.
“Warn your boss,” I continued. “And when it turns out you’re right, maybe you’ll get credit for being in the know.”
She shrugged. “Unless I give him proven facts, he won’t listen, but I’ll see what I can do.”
Facts and evidence were damned difficult to locate. I couldn’t off a senator on suspicion of rottenness. I grimaced at the reminder. “I’m just keeping you current. Andre has the keys to those files I told you about. If I get blown sky-high like Max, you can tell Schwartz what I was doing. He’s one of the good guys.”
She nodded uncertainly. “You’re not planning on getting blown up, are you?”
I grinned and bounced the Miata keys in my palm. I’d finally turned a corner, picked up my chin, and seen the light. Or gone around the bend. Whatever. I was tired of being intimidated. To hell with cops and administrative control freaks. A brand-new Clancy was emerging from my self-imposed chrysalis. Max’s bitch, indeed.
“I turned the tables and may have made a few people mad. Now I have to up the ante or run. I’m not running.”
Jane grimaced at my challenging grin. “I’d run.”
Fair warning. But it felt soooo good not to keep my head down any longer. I’d been repressing a lot of steam.
• • •
Out in the parking lot where Andre had left my car, I noticed my little Miata had a new windshield and the convertible roof was up and working. I was pretty sure Papa Saturn hadn’t fixed my vehicle, so I figured I owed Andre again, drat the man. He still hadn’t returned my call.