by Delia Rosen
The woman’s eyes moved toward me like little machines. The rest of her face was immobile. Even the curling cigarette smoke seemed to stand still. Strangely, her eyes were not bloodshot. Either she’d cried it all out the first day or I needed to find out which brand of liquid tears she was using.
Or maybe she’s one of those delayed-reaction mourners, I thought. People who don’t lose it until all their public responsibilities of grief and receiving comfort have ended.
“Come in,” she said, turning on a cloud of smoke like the Lone Ranger.
Tonto was not far off. Jason McCoy lurked behind her, by a big gold-framed hall mirror. He was not what I had imagined. He was not a big man, only about five-five, with the same big eyes and round face, but bald. He was wearing a black suit and a confused look.
We followed Brenda into her large dining room. Jason hung back to bring up the rear. The room smelled like apple pie. Brenda motioned for us to sit at the large oak table covered with pies, plates of cookies, chips and dips, and cans of soda near an ice bucket. A spread for mourners. The table leg nearest the hall was chewed up. I saw the culprits lying around it like two large fur wraps, a pair of smallish French bulldogs. I could see into the living room from where I stood. In front of the TV, on a large white sectional, sat a blond-haired gentleman—a tall man, judging by his long legs. He was watching what must have been a recording of a college basketball game, since it was so early in the day.
Brenda noticed me staring.
“That’s Dave,” she told us.
She said it loud enough so that Dave heard. He turned and looked at us and went back to watching the game.
“He was Joe’s best friend since grade school.” She fixed her big robot eyes on me. “He’s taking this very hard.”
“Understandably,” Grant said.
Brenda slid into a chair at the head of the table. Jason closed the pocket doors between the living and dining rooms so we’d have privacy, but not before the dogs slipped in. The officer then took up a position behind his sister. I couldn’t decide if he looked more like a regent to the queen or a bailiff at an arraignment. Either way, it was a wall of McCoy. I flashed to one of those amber-tinged daguerreotypes from the nineteenth century, a historical photo from the era of the Hatfield-McCoy hostilities.
Our hostess gestured to two other chairs. Grant held mine out for me. He sat beside me at the near end of the table. The dogs were between us. Every breath seemed like a little growl. I sneezed. Brenda took a final drag on her cigarette and ground it out hard. She glared at me through the smoke like a Disney villainess.
“Officer McCoy,” Grant said, “Ms. Katz and I figured it was time you met. Got to ask your questions, clear the air.”
I looked at Brenda. “Mrs. Silvio, I just want to tell you how sorry I am for your loss—”
“Words,” she said, cutting me off.
I swallowed the oath that would naturally have come flying forth.
“Mrs. Silvio, Gwen is here to try and clear the air and answer any questions you both have about what happened,” Grant said. “She came willingly with no preconditions.”
“We appreciate that,” Jason said. “We do have some questions.”
Grant put a hand on my knee out of view of our hosts. I guess that was my signal when to speak and when to shut up. I’d defer to him on that. Following my instincts would result only in corn chips being flung.
Jason stepped from behind his sister and leaned on the table like a little, hairless Perry Mason.
“You say you didn’t know my brother-in-law, even though you’ve been doing business with the bakery for over a decade.”
“I’ve been down here less than a year,” I said. “During that time, someone else was doing my ordering.”
“Joe sometimes drove the delivery truck,” Jason said.
“I almost never got in before seven,” I replied. “Thomasina Jackson, my manager, is the early riser on the crew.”
“You have time cards to prove that?” Jason asked.
“No.”
Grant was working my knee with his hand like an ape at the controls of a space capsule. Up, down, up, down. I jerked my leg, and he stopped. I sneezed.
“So you can’t prove that,” Jason said.
“And you picked a fight with me,” Brenda added hotly. “Why?”
“That had nothing to do with your late husband,” I said. “He was trying to make good on what I admitted was our screwup. As you may recall, I appreciated it.”
Jason was regarding me like I imagined he would look at a target on a shooting range. No, scratch that. Like a living, fleeing felon he felt he had a right to shoot.
“You’re a single lady,” he said.
“I am.”
“In a strange town.”
“An unfamiliar town,” I said. “The Emerald City would be a strange town.”
His brow scrunched for a moment. Then he gave up trying to figure that out. “We only have your word that you did not know, and were not interested in, Joe Silvio.”
“That’s right,” I said. “And may I add, you have only your tawdry suspicions to think that I was interested in the married Mr. Silvio.”
“Who happened to be co-owner of a bread factory,” Jason said. “And you happen to use a lot of bread, almost as much as our biggest customer, the Fried Sandwich Shack. How do we know you weren’t looking to woo your way into a discount?”
“Hold on,” Grant said. “That’s—”
“A motive!” Brenda said, cutting in.
“Ridiculous,” Grant said.
“Not to someone who is worried about the bottom line!” Brenda replied.
“Someone?” Grant said. “What exactly do you mean, Mrs. Silvio?”
I sat there silently as Grant made ready not only to defend my honor but also to stave off what was starting to smell like an attack on my people. God, I was tired of that stereotype. What was more disappointing, though, was that by trotting it out, the wall of McCoys was adding bricks to the stereotype of Southerners as ignorant, provincial racists—which I knew was not true.
Brenda muttered something about New Yorkers, Jason ran some statistic up the flagpole about homicide and spurned lovers, and even the dogs barked. I reached out, grabbed a white-chocolate-covered pretzel, and chewed it up in a few bites. I took another and did the same. Between this and Robert’s meringue and the cigarette I craved, this homicide was not going to do my health any good.
“People,” I said as I chewed a third pretzel, “this is getting us nowhere.”
Grant and Jason had both leaned forward like leashed tigers. Grant sat back, and Jason stood. The dogs had lifted their heads like dogs, and when order was restored, they lay back on their paws.
Grant ended the brief time-out.
“You’ve laid out a lot of assumptions, Officer McCoy, but no evidence,” he said. “If you have anything, anything at all, a scrap of fact to present, let’s have it.”
Jason’s spine straightened, and his head went back. His expression said, “Evidence? Who needs evidence?” His mouth said, “I don’t have proof, Detective Daniels. I only know what I suspect.”
“Great,” Grant replied. “That and a buck will get you coffee.”
Jason sneered. “Not at Starbucks.” He looked at me. “We know where you been getting your cuppa.”
“You’re wrong,” I said. “Cops drink free at Murray’s.”
The sneer deepened. It must’ve been the emphasis I put on cops. Or the idea that a Jew would treat anyone to anything.
Grant reached into his pocket. “Mrs. Silvio, I want you to look at something.”
He got up and handed her a folded stack of papers. She set it down before her and lit another cigarette from a pack beside the ashtray.
“My phone bill,” she said.
“Your home landline,” Grant said. “You see the numbers marked with a yellow line?”
“You can’t really miss them, can you?”
“It’s
a business phone,” Grant said. “York’s Sports Memorabilia on Fourth Avenue N.”
“That’s right.”
“It was called fifty-six times last month, nearly twice a day, and fifty-three times the month before that.” He looked around the room. “I don’t see any autographed balls or game-used jerseys on the walls. Perhaps in the living room?”
Brenda blew smoke. “Those things are costly. We do not have that kind of disposable income.”
“Then, what? Did either of you know the owner, a Tolliver York?”
Brenda grinned. “We did. Very well. He’s sitting in the next room.”
Grant seemed puzzled.
“Uses his middle name,” I said. “Who wouldn’t with a first name like Tolliver?”
Grant was just a half step behind me. “David, your husband’s best friend.”
Brenda smiled sweetly. “They talked, as you suggested, sometimes two or three times a day.”
“What about?” I asked.
“I don’t see how that’s any of your business,” Jason replied.
“What about?” Grant asked.
Jason’s lips became a single, angry line.
“I didn’t eavesdrop,” Brenda said.
“What about when they were together?” Grant asked, pressing.
“They laughed a lot,” she said with a kind of misty reflection, like a seer. “Talked about their childhood. Playing sports, chasing girls. Including me.”
“They both chased you?” Grant asked.
“Those two and Chuck Gailey and Bull Griffith and a whole bunch of others. I was very popular.”
“So they were like brothers?”
“Very much so,” Brenda said. “I remember when Dave served in Iraq. He volunteered for the first war. Joe was very, very upset. Very worried.” She smiled. “That was actually the start of his sports business. Before he left, Dave was concerned his mother would throw all his memorabilia out or sell it at a yard sale. She never really understood it and thought it was a waste of money. We took it in, stored it in the spare room. That was the time when online buying and selling were just getting started, and Joe would pick up items for Dave to surprise him with when he came back. That gave him the idea of opening the store.”
“Where did the money for the shop come from?” Grant asked.
“Dave’s folks,” she said. “They won a million and a half dollars in the state lottery. They moved to Hawaii and gave him what was left over.”
“So Joe had no interest in it.”
“Only as a friend,” she said.
“Mind if I talk to Dave?”
“Not at all, but I don’t think you’ll get much from him,” Brenda said. “He’s been very, very upset. He’s been comforting himself with Mr. Jack Daniels. It’s an odd thing, Detective. Looking after him has helped me not focus on how upset I am.” Jason laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. She pulled on her cigarette and exhaled. “I’m sure it will hit me at some point.”
Grant took the phone list and tucked it back in his pocket. He walked to his chair and leaned on the back. The dogs growled again. Brenda silenced them.
“Who knew where your husband was going to be that morning?” he asked.
“The bakers,” she said.
“You already spoke to them,” Jason put in.
“Baba and Marvin,” Grant said.
“That’s right,” Brenda said. “They adored Joe.”
“So they said,” Grant replied.
“He gave them season tickets to the Titans games every Christmas. He was a very thoughtful employer.”
I could have sworn Jason’s eyes shot to me at the word Christmas, but maybe I imagined it.
“Anyone else in Joe’s circle?” Grant asked.
“I’ve already talked to everyone around here, everyone he worked with, including the farmer who sold McCoy’s their eggs,” Jason said.
“I read your report,” Grant said.
“Then you know there’s nothing wrong on this end,” Jason said.
He looked at me again. Maybe it wasn’t my religion or my city of origin. Maybe he just hated all women who weren’t his sister. I didn’t see a wedding band on his finger. For all I knew, he and Robert were an item.
“You have no children. Is that correct?” Grant asked.
“You know she doesn’t,” Jason said.
“Just checking,” Grant said, watching Brenda’s reaction.
The woman had grown distant when he asked. Obviously, that was not by choice. One of them couldn’t.
“Did you ever try to adopt?” I asked.
Brenda fired a look at me. “What is that your business?”
“Did you?” Grant asked.
“How dare you both!”
“Did you?” Grant demanded.
“No!” she said. “We did not have time for children. Running the bakery after my father died was a full-time operation. I had a family full of policemen.” She threw the side of her head in Jason’s general direction. It wasn’t a loving gesture. “There was no one but Joe, and he worked more hours than any man ought to.”
She began sobbing. They were not crocodile tears, surprisingly. I didn’t know what about this woman was real, but the tears seemed to be.
Grant stood in contemplation. “I guess that does it for now,” he said. “Thank you, Mrs. Silvio. I’m sorry for your loss, and please accept my apologies for the intrusion. I hope you understand we just want to find the person or persons responsible.”
“Of course,” she said. She crushed her half-finished cigarette and looked at me. “Ms. Katz, may I ask you a question?”
“Certainly,” I said.
I’d already risen, and Grant had stepped up beside me. I didn’t need the support, but it was nice to know it was there.
“Are you always as pushy as you were when we spoke on the phone?”
“I don’t see what that has to do with anything,” Grant said.
“No, it’s okay,” I told him. “I was . . . pushy. I was stressed about my order. I had a new employee starting that day, a broken dishwasher, no repairman, and other stuff going on.”
I didn’t have to look at Grant to know that he knew that I meant him.
“Was it also that time of month?” Jason asked.
“Officer, are you out of your mind?” Grant wailed.
“We are permitted to ask that question,” Jason said.
“No, it is a question that is permitted during a psych evaluation when a doctor has already determined that a female suspect has a hormonal imbalance,” Grant said. “Not a single one of those requirements applies.”
Jason took the rebuke without flinching and without withdrawing the question. Which I didn’t bother answering.
I looked back at Brenda. “Even for us New Yorkers, most of us, anyway, there’s a big gap between being hostile—sorry, pushy—and homicidal. Most of us don’t cross that line.”
“Most, but not all,” Jason insisted.
“No, not all. But if you check my record, and I’m willing to bet you have, you’ll find that I have never been arrested, I was never the cause of domestic violence, and I have never, in fact, even received so much as a parking violation. Or, for that matter, even a health code violation. If you check TSA records, you will discover that it has never even been necessary to pat me down at an airport. I am a rational woman, Mrs. Silvio, Officer McCoy, even when I am under pressure or PMSing or being harassed by police or hounded by a public that wants to have a peek inside my house of horrors.”
Brenda averted her eyes.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Silvio, but you asked. Yes, I have been tense. But not tense enough to kill anyone.” Except Robert Reid, I thought.
“Your business has picked up since this happened, has it not?” Jason asked.
“Yeah,” I said, picking up a little steam, “it has. And, gee, who among my people wouldn’t revel in that? Oh, wait. Me. I’d trade all of this week’s receipts for one day of normalcy, Officer McCoy. One day
where all of you would back off.”
“It’s all right,” Grant said, putting an arm around me.
I shook it off. “It isn’t all right. Even if I had something to hide, even if I were a serial killer, we are innocent until proven otherwise—”
“Gwen—”
I went on. “You’re upset. It’s a shock. Hey, we all have tsuris. We all have troubles. That doesn’t give you an excuse to open a can of bias and start flinging accusations.”
“You were the only one at the scene!” Jason yelled back.
“Except for the killer!” I shouted. The dogs started barking. I wanted to kick them. “I didn’t know Joe Silvio! He was there on time with my order! I don’t even have a goddamn dog!” And as if to punctuate my outburst, I sneezed three times in a row.
Brenda came over to calm the dogs as Grant led me from the dining room. He slid a pocket door closed behind us as the dogs whammed against it.
“Gwen, calm down.”
I was shaking. I started to cry. The days had piled up, and I finally gave in under the weight. He ushered me out to the car, helped me in, jumped around to the driver’s side, and gave me his handkerchief.
I looked up, saw Brenda looking out the dining room window. There was a glare on the glass; I couldn’t tell if she was smiling or horrified.
“That went well,” I blubbered.
“Actually, it went fine,” Grant said. “Some things got aired, and you’ve pretty much sidelined McCoy. What about you?”
“I’ll be okay,” I assured Grant. He was hovering attentively across the gearshift.
“I know,” he said.
“I guess that was a little pushy,” I said.
“A little.”
I laughed. “That guy is a redneck putz.”
“Globalization and the world is a village notwithstanding, we still have a view of those.”
I wiped my eyes, blew my nose, and clutched the handkerchief. It was silly, but right now that was a source of strength. His, something a man had given me.
“I’m sorry I brought you,” Grant said.
“Don’t be. I needed that.”
“Why don’t we get some coffee, the over-a-dollar kind, before I take you back?”
“I have a better idea,” I said. “Why don’t you take me to the offices of the National?”