by S. J. Rozan
"Because you pay chickenshit to the people who grow them, the people who used to own that land," I said.
He shook his head. "Doesn't matter why. Profit is profit." "And what about Grice?" "What about him?"
"I could understand if there were strong-arm work involved. But I haven't heard that. People are falling all over themselves to sell their farms to you. So how come you're willing to invest in Grice's future?"
"Smith, let me tell you again: this is none of your business. My daughter's safety should be concerning you. It should be keeping you up nights. Because if anything’s happened to Ginny-" He stopped as the earrings from my pocket skidded, jingling, across his desk. He looked up. "What's this?" "Hers?" Sanderson glanced at them. "No. They're too flashy for her” "Christ, Sanderson, you're a case." I picked up the photograph from his desk, passed it to Lydia, who as usual, was leaning by the window. She studied it, handed it back to me. I offered it to Sanderson. The spun gold of Ginny's hair and the tilt of her head combined to hide all but the tip of one earring, but the amethyst bauble was unmistakable.
He paled, picked up one earring between finger and thumb. He said, "Where did you get them?"
"You really didn't recognize them? That picture's right under your nose every day, Sanderson." He scowled.
"Sanderson," I said, "there's a lot you don’t know, and a lot I don't know. Let's fill each other in." I sat, put a match to a cigarette. Then I had to get up and retrieve the ashtray, as I had two days before. "Your daughter," I told him, "met Jimmy Antonelli in a bar sometime last month." At the word bar his eyes flashed and he started to say something, but I went on. "It was Grice who told you they were seeing each other, wasn't it? You're a pawn, Sanderson. Grice couldn't talk me into finding Jimmy for him, so he thought maybe you could. By the way, did he tell you he owns the bar where they met?"
He didn't answer, but the look in his iron eyes told me I wouldn't have liked anything he'd said anyway.
I went on: "Ginny dropped Jimmy about a week ago. She told him she'd met someone else. Someone tougher than he was, she said. There are probably a lot of men in this county tougher than Jimmy, but I found those earrings in Frank Grice's apartment."
Suddenly a pencil broke in Sanderson's grip. He looked at the yellow splinters, then at me. "This is crap!"
"There's more. Last Friday someone broke into a house near Central Bridge and stole some valuable things. Your daughter has been fencing those things."
"What the hell are you trying—"
"There's at least one witness who can identify her, and if I have to I'll find more. But here's where what you want and what I want may come together. The stuff from that burglary that's already been sold we'll forget about. But there was a crate with some paintings in it. Six of them. They haven't surfaced yet. The police don't know about this. If I get the paintings back, they never will."
Sanderson was livid, his jaw clamped shut in his round face until he found enough control to speak. "You stupid bastard," he hissed. "You think you're smart enough to set Ginny up and blackmail me? You don't know what league you're playing in, Smith. Where did you get these? Where is my daughter?" He crushed the earrings in his shaking hand.
"Ask Grice," I said. "Get my paintings back. And who knows? Maybe you can talk your daughter into coming home."
"You bastard," he repeated. His eyes shone with a molten rage.
"Sanderson," I said softly, tapped my finger on Ginny's picture, "you threw it away."
"Get out of here!" Sanderson screamed, apoplectic. Lydia looked at me. I nodded. She straightened up, walked unhurriedly before me out Sanderson's office door.
"That was exciting," Lydia said as we left the plant. "But you didn't tell him you'd seen her."
"It wouldn't have helped. Actually, I think it would have made things worse. That I was so close, but I didn't bring her home."
Lydia nodded. "There's something peculiar."
"All of this is peculiar. What do you have in mind?"
"Well, Jimmy said Grice didn't want anything to do with Ginny. Why wouldn't he? And if Jimmy was right, what made Grice change his mind?"
"Maybe he didn't. There are lots of guys tougher than Jimmy."
"But the earrings—?"
"I'm not sure. But this should loosen things up."
"You think Sanderson will go straight to Grice?"
"Wouldn't you?"
"I don't know. I've never been anyone's father." She looked up at me quickly, said, "God, Bill, I'm sorry."
I didn't look at her, shook my head. "You don't have to tiptoe."
"I'm sorry," she said again.
Now I met her gaze. Usually, Lydia's eyes are a hard, pure black, like polished ebony or basalt; but sometimes, unpredictably, they soften to an infinite liquid depth. They were that way now, and I thought of the quarry, Jimmy's shack next to the wide black water deep with secrets, like Lydia's eyes.
I said nothing, and she understood.
We'd reached the car. I'd put it close to the building, in a "Reserved" space in the Executive Parking area around the back. I unlocked her side, went around to mine; but I didn't get a chance to get in.
A big blue Ford was parked nose to nose with my Acura. Three of its four doors sprang open together, three figures jumped out, and in three hands guns glinted, even in the dullness of the day.
Lydia, halfway into the car, froze. I did the same. "Tell her to get out!" Otis snarled. "And to keep her hands where I can see em!"
"She speaks English," I said evenly. Lydia stepped out of the car, her hands raised. "Lydia," I said, "this is Otis and Arnold and Ted. They're creeps." To Arnold I said, "You guys must be running out of cars. You used that one already." It was the one they’d been in Monday night at Antonelli's, Grice and Arnold and Wally Gould, and I should have spotted it the minute we walked into this lot.
"Shut up!" Otis ordered. Ted came over and frisked me. "This time he ain't even got a holster, Otis," he complained. "Do the girl," Otis said in disgust. Ted crossed to Lydia's side of the car. Otis jerked his head at Arnold, who came and went over me again, more expertly and roughly than Ted had. Arnold stepped away, shook his head. Ted, meanwhile, pocketed Lydia's .38. He didn't bother to search my car, so he didn't even come close to the .22 I'd strapped back under the dash between the visit to Grice's place, where I'd thought I might need it, and here, where I hadn't.
"Who's the gook?" Otis demanded. Lydia's cheeks flared hotly but she said nothing.
"She's a friend of mine."
"Your friends all carry guns?"
"Yours do."
"Yeah? And where's your goddamn rod this time?"
"This time the sheriff has it. Can you really shoot lefty?"
"Fuckin-A right I can! You wanna see, just keep flappin' your yap!"
Lydia spoke. "Who writes his dialogue?" she asked me.
"Mike Tyson. So what now, fellas? You shoot us here in the parking lot in the middle of the day and drive away?"
"You see anyone around who'd care if we did?" Otis snickered. The secluded area was empty except for us. "But I'm not supposed to shoot you till after Frank talks to you."
I shook my head. "I don't get Frank. I've been looking for him since yesterday. I even dropped by his place this morning. How come every time he wants me he thinks he has to send armed assholes to pick me up? And which of you assholes shot Tony Antonelli?"
Arnold growled, started toward me, but Otis said, "Uh- uh. Not here. Get in the car." He waved his gun around. Ted echoed gleefully, "Get in the car."
Lydia and I got in the car, in the places where they told us, Lydia in the middle of the back seat, me next to her. Arnold climbed in behind Ted, who was driving, Otis having been put on the Disabled List.
Otis waved his gun at me. "Turn around." I shifted in the seat. Arnold pulled out a set of handcuffs, leaned across Lydia. Ratchets clicked as steel closed tight around my wrists.
Otis put the gun about two inches from the end of Lydia's nose. "Now, we g
ot no cuffs for you, cutie pie," he said. "But we also got no use for you. So if you or smartass here do anything dumb, even once, I'm gonna blow your pretty face off, and no one's gonna care. Got it?"
Lydia said, "I've got it." Her voice was clear and steady.
Ted threw the Ford into gear and we started down the road.
It took us half an hour to climb to the green house through hills heavy with the weight of the sky. Maple trees shimmered with the shiny red-brown of buds waiting to open. A pair of hawks wheeled low against the clouds. In the heaviness of the day even the snowdrops seemed dulled, subdued.
From the corner of my eye I watched Lydia concentrate on the road, the turns and the miles we covered. Otis smoked. Every cell in my body begged for a cigarette, but I didn't give Otis the satisfaction of turning me down.
I knew where we were going; I had no need to do what Lydia was doing. I stared out the window, saw other things. I saw Eve Colgate's eyes, tiny jewels glowing in them; I saw blood from her heart spread across six paintings, blood which was still, after all this time, too fresh for the world to see. I saw Tony's blood, and Tony's face, backlit in red neon, trying to find a way to tell me something he needed me to know. I saw Jimmy as I'd seen him last night, filthy, exhausted, scared, but his eyes full of the same mixture of bravado and belief that had been there, years ago, when he'd followed me onto a wobbly rope bridge across a swollen creek because I'd said it was safe. And I saw a little girl with those same eyes.
And I heard voices, words: Lydia's; MacGregor's; Brinkman's, at the hospital.
And suddenly I knew.
A late-model Buick Regal was parked between Otis's black truck and a dark green Aries in the spongy place next to the house when we got there. The Aries had a triple-A sticker above the left tail light and cracks spiderwebbing out from a small hole in the rear window.
The air as we crossed to the decrepit porch was sharp, bringing on it the scents of pine and water; but that was only outside. I saw Lydia's nose wrinkle with distaste as we walked through the door.
Grice stood in the living room opening. "Well," he said. "It's about time. Nice of you to come, Smith."
"I've been looking for you. You didn't need this."
"Yeah, I heard you wanted to see me. I didn't like the way you put it."
"How'd I put it?"
He shrugged, smirked at Lydia. "Who's this?"
"A friend of mine."
"She got a name?"
"Lydia Chin," said Lydia, looking steadily at Grice.
"Cute," Grice said. He reached to touch her cheek. She slammed his hand aside. Her eyes blazed. "Grice!" I said sharply. My arms tugged uselessly against the cuffs. "You want to deal, leave her alone."
Grice stopped, open mouthed, eyes on Lydia. Then he laughed. "Well," he said, "maybe later." He looked at me. "Deal? I don't think so." Smiling, he asked Otis, "Where'd you find them?"
"We was lucky," Otis said. "When we was crossing the bridge, Ted spotted that fancy car of his going into the Appleseed lot. We sat and waited till they come out."
Grice whipped to face me. "You talked to Sanderson?"
"Yes."
He started to say something else, but recovered himself. Turning to Otis and Ted, he said casually, "Thanks, boys. Make yourselves scarce for a while. I'll let you know." Ted gave a mock military salute, headed to the kitchen. He lifted a six-pack of Miller from the fridge, clomped behind Otis up the stairs.
Grice waited until we heard the canned laughter of daytime TV drifting down after them. Then he looked at me, asked softly, "Did you tell him?"
"No. I didn't know. I didn't catch on until about ten minutes ago, on the way here."
He looked at me strangely. "Bullshit. You told Mike you knew, at the Creekside. You told everyone. Why do you think Arnold tried to take you out last night?"
At the Creekside. What had I said? I thought back, seeing the hostile faces, smelling the dull air, hearing my words.
"That wasn't my idea, by the way," Grice went on. "I was busy last night." He winked at Lydia. "So Arnold had to decide what to do about you, and Arnold gets a little carried away sometimes."
Arnold, who'd settled on one of the shabby brown chairs, smiled sheepishly.
"I figured that's why no one's found her yet," Grice went on. "Because you and that painter lady, or whatever she is, were going to try to shake me down." He grinned.
"No," I said. "That's not why. Eve doesn't know anything about it. And I didn't have it at the Creekside, Grice. I knew Ginny was with you. I knew she had the paintings and the truck. That was all I knew."
"You're kidding." His crooked mouth pursed. "Christ, you disappoint me, Smith." He shook his head in mock sorrow, spoke to Arnold. "See? I told you we could afford to back off. Plus, of course," he added, to me, "you're not worth as much to me dead, yet."
"You set Jimmy up for it, didn't you?" I said. "Like with Wally Gould? That was your frame, even though you didn't kill him, right?"
Grice laughed out loud. "Maybe you're not so dumb.
That was good, wasn't it? Quick thinking in a crisis, I mean."
"Any idiot would have thought of it. What was she doing, just showing off?"
"Uh-huh." He took a cigarette case from his pocket, opened it. Arnold jumped up, did the number with his lighter. "Give one to Smith," Grice told him. "He looks like he needs it."
I did need it. Arnold lit a cigarette, held it about six inches from me, grinning. Finally he stuck it in my mouth. I drew deep on it with the resentful gratitude of any addict who's waited too long for a fix.
Grice perched on the arm of Arnold's chair. "Sit down," he offered.
"I'll stand."
"Ma'am?" courteously, to Lydia.
"Go to hell," Lydia said.
Grice winked at her again. He went on: "Ginny thought I'd be impressed by the paintings. They were worth a cool million, she said. She talked like that. A cool million.' Shit." He shook his head, laughing. "She wanted me to fence them for her." He mimicked a prim young voice. '"We're gonna be rich, Frank. You and me!'"
"But you couldn't fence them, so they weren't worth anything."
"Sure I can. There's nothing can't be fenced. But that kind of shit takes time. I mean, years. She didn't want to wait."
"And you didn't want her trying it on her own."
"She was a fucking idiot. She couldn't keep her goddamn head down pushing nickel bags at Pussy Prep."
"And you couldn't afford for her to get caught. That would've screwed up your deal with Sanderson, if she'd dragged you in and he found out you'd been messing with his baby."
"Maybe it would've, maybe not," Grice shrugged. "But why take the chance? That pipeline thing is worth two, three million, all legal. 'Go back to Daddy, baby whore,' I told her. 'You're not ready for the big time.' 'Oh, no?' she says. She smiles that smile she had, kind of scary, you know? She walks up to Wally, presses her tits against him like she's been doing for days. He gets all hot. He was so dumb, Wally." Grice took a drag on his cigarette. Arnold nodded solemnly. "He never noticed when she pulled his gun outta his pants. Three lucking shots she put in that jerk. Then she said, 'Is that big time enough?' You know, she never stopped smiling."
Grice pressed his cigarette down into the ashtray. He smiled, folded one hand over the other in a gesture of finality.
My cigarette wasn't finished yet. I watched him through the smoke that drifted up past my eye. "And after you had Jimmy set up for that one, you figured you'd make it two," I said.
"Well, what the hell was I gonna do, send her home? She was bragging to everyone and his brother-in-law about the burglary, like she was the only broad ever stole anything. She would've called the newspapers to say she'd killed somebody."
"And that would have gotten you involved."
"You bet your ass. Besides, I was thinking about the paintings. I didn't want her to fuck that up for me."
"For you?"
"That's right. For me." He smiled the smile of a python thinking
about a mouse. "We went back to my place. Christ, that's what she wanted. We spent the whole next day in the sack. Just me and those tits and that pink ass. She was a great lay, Smith. You ever have her?"
I couldn't do anything but shake my head.
"Well, you should've. You missed something. She told me she talked to you, that night."
I spat my cigarette butt onto the floor, squashed it under my foot. "She was looking for Jimmy."
"She told me. She thought I'd be impressed if she found him for me. I would've, too. But you wouldn't tell her shit."
"After that," I said, trying to keep my voice calm, even, "that night, you took her to Eve's studio?"
"Hell, she took me! She still thought I just didn't believe her. She thought showing me where the goddamn paintings came from would change my mind. 'She's real famous, Frank.'" Mimicking, again. "'I learned all about her in school.' Christ, a million-dollar education, that broad was still dumber than shit."
"She was fifteen, Grice."
"And she'd've been sixteen one of these days, if she'd kept out of my way. I tried to get rid of her. I told Mike and those guys, Jimmy too, not to let her hang around, but she was balling 'em all, what were they gonna do?"
Grice stood, faced me close, slipped his hands in his pockets. "So tell me, Smith. Why hasn't the shit hit the fan yet?"
I ignored the question. "What was the setup?"
He stared, then shrugged. "I found Jimmy's gloves in the truck, left one of 'em next to her in the shed. Didn't you notice?" he asked sarcastically.
"That was all?"
"What did I need? Everyone knew he'd been screwing her. I had the truck, I had the gun. I had Brinkman chasing all over the county hunting Jimmy for doing Wally. The glove was plenty."
"The blood in the truck was hers? And the gun you killed her with—Gould's gun?"
"You know so fucking much, how come the whole county isn't screaming about it? You expect me to believe you weren't counting on a little shakedown?"
"Blackmail's your game, Grice. It isn't mine."