Dead Money (41 page)

I don’t know, I said. It just came to me. I didn’t think it out. He was just so fucking calm about everything. And this is a kid who cuts himself. It didn’t make sense. There had to be something more. And why wouldn’t he tell us where he was? Why wouldn’t he take the opportunity to show he didn’t have anything to do with his father’s death? He knows he’s a prime suspect, with all that anger in him. And then it hit me. The phone calls. Raul and Ramon were using FitzGibbon’s offices. The phone calls didn’t have to be to FitzGibbon. They could have been to Raul, or Ramon. So I took a stab. What the hell.

I’m in awe.

About time.

So, my little genius, what were the phone calls about?

I haven’t figured that out yet. But I feel close. I feel really damn close.

I WENT HOME
. I had to see Kelly. Make sure she was all right.

She seemed to be all right.

I met Dorita at the White Stallion.

Where to from here? she asked.

The eternal question.

It may be eternal, but it still needs an answer.

The weak link. Where’s the next weak link?

Let’s think about it.

I’ll need a Scotch for that.

Why did I know you’d say that?

Because you’re brilliant.

True, true.

Almost as brilliant as me.

Hah. One lucky guess and suddenly you’re Albert Fucking Einstein

Winners make their own luck.

We’ll see.

It really all seems to revolve around the three brothers, doesn’t it? I said.

Can’t deny that. And Jules isn’t talking.

You are correct, ma’am.

Raul is too damn slick.

Right.

So that leaves Ramon.

Who never says a damn thing.

True enough. And you have to wonder why.

Because he’s too smart to say anything?

Contrary to the evidence.

Because he’s too damn stupid.

Correct. At least, an excellent working hypothesis.

Okay, and that buys us?

A weak link.

Waiting to be broken.

We toasted the stupid twin. We made a plan. We had another drink. We were oiled for battle.

Dorita called Ramon’s cell phone number.

Ramon, she said. Dorita Reed. So nice to hear your voice.

I rolled my eyes. Surely he wasn’t
that
stupid.

She glared me down.

We’ve been making some inquiries, she said into the phone. We’d like to talk with you about a couple more things. Any chance we could have a few minutes of your time?

I watched her listen.

I see, she said. I understand. But Ramon, I really think you should make the time.

She listened some more.

Ramon, she said. You need to think carefully. We’ve got some information. Something you really need to hear.

She listened.

She smiled a sneaky smile at me. She’d got the fish on the hook.

She hung up.

The Club at eleven, she said. The VIP room.

Wow. Can we get lap dances?

If you fancy a lap dance from a guy named Bruce.

I’ll consider that.

Hey, we have time for another drink.

Two, at least. Fancy that.

BY THE TIME WE GOT TO THE CLUB
we were buzzed and pumped. Or pumped and buzzed. I wasn’t sure. I was too buzzed.

Igor met us at the door. It seemed like old times. He escorted us to the VIP room. I had to admit they’d done a nice job. Plush seats of various sizes were scattered about, in a calculatedly random way. Huge glass tubes with a passing resemblance to giant lava lamps stretched from floor to ceiling. They were all aglow with a purple velvet light. It suffused the room. Strange things were happening inside them. Things that looked different from every angle and distance. Posing here and there were largely naked men and women, each as dark and delectable as crème brûlée.

Ramon was at the back of the room. Seated at the only couch that had a full-size table associated with it. The business nook.

We sat down. Each on a mushroom-like stool that sank with our weight into a comfortable cup. Whoosh. Immediately we were transported. Into the world of the spoiled and dissolute.

The spoiled part was new to me.

It was early enough that the music wasn’t cosmically loud. We could talk.

Hi, said Dorita.

Hello, said Ramon, with his usual defensive air.

Good to see you, I said, extending my hand, not without a frisson of dread.

Well founded, it turned out. I got the limp, wet hand again. I had to force a smile.

He sat impassively.

Dorita took the lead.

Ramon, she said. We’ve been talking to people. Looking around.

He said nothing. His face betrayed not an atom of reaction.

Funny thing, she said. We talked to Jules.

His left eye twitched.

Turns out he was there.

There?

When Mr. FitzGibbon died.

He didn’t take his eyes off her. I detected a tightening of the muscles in his neck.

We were kind of wondering, Dorita went on, what you might be able to tell us about that.

And maybe, I added, why it was that you and Raul seem to have forgotten to mention it.

He didn’t say a thing. He flagged one of the girls. She brought us drinks. Ramon a Perrier.

Dumb. But careful.

Well? Dorita said.

He still just stared at her.

Damn. I was right. We were talking to a brick.

Dorita bore down.

Ramon, she said. The silent treatment’s not going to do it for you. You were there. Raul was there. Jules was there. Somehow Mr. FitzGibbon managed to throw himself off a thirty-third-floor balcony despite the presence of the three of you. Somebody’s going to have to explain it. If it’s not you, it’ll be one of the others. I’m not sure you want that.

Ramon furrowed his brow. It made him look angry and mean. But I was beginning to understand. It was just his natural condition. Confused.

Do you agree? asked Dorita, soft and understanding.

I … don’t.

You don’t agree?

I don’t know.

Dorita tried again. She repeated the whole thing, in words of one syllable.

Ramon thought for a while. If it could be called thought.

I can’t tell you anything, he said.

Why not? asked Dorita. Are you afraid?

That got him animated. He sat up straight. He glared at her.

Ramon, I said. I need a minute with you.

I took him aside. I whispered in his ear.

Where’s the bat? I asked.

What?

The baseball bat.

He stared at me. I caught a hint of understanding in his gaze.

The cops never found the murder weapon, did they, Ramon?

I don’t know what you’re talking about, he mumbled.

Then how do I know it was a baseball bat?

Silence.

You might want to ask yourself that, Ramon.

He turned and left the room.

I sat back down next to Dorita.

Buy me another drink, I said. He might be a while.

You sure you don’t want Bruce over there? she asked. I might be able to swing you a discount.

Not tonight. I’m a little Bruced out.

Ah, too bad. That’s quite a Bruce they’ve got.

I can see that. And yet I’ll pass. Just this once.

What did you say to Ramon? she asked.

I asked him where the baseball bat was.

What baseball bat?

The one that killed Larry Silver.

I never heard anything about a baseball bat.

Neither did I, but I have the crime scene photos. Shape of the wound. Sure looks like a baseball bat to me. So I took another stab.

Keep that up and I might actually start admiring you.

Careful what you ask for, I said.

How’d he react? she asked.

Before I could answer, Igor appeared.

We looked at him. He looked at us.

Mr. FitzGibbon is indisposed, he said.

I’m shocked to hear that, I said. Please wish him a speedy recovery for us.

Thank you.

Listen, Dorita interjected, can we talk to you for a moment?

Igor gave her a lizard eye. Blank and ready to catch a fly.

We’re dealing with a murder case, she said. It’s a very serious business. I’m not sure that you want the Club to be tainted with this kind of thing.

Igor maintained his professionally neutral expression.

I only have one question, she said. And all I’m asking is for one
honest answer. You could lie to us. But the consequences might not be pleasant, if you do.

His stare was no less blank.

So here’s the question. Did Ramon say anything to you back there? Anything other than that he was ‘indisposed’? I’m not asking for anything more. Anything else you saw or knew or heard before. I’m only asking you about tonight. Right now. What you heard. What he said.

Damn. The babe was good. Giving him an easy out. Even if Ramon hadn’t actually said anything back there, the guy could say he had, tell us what he knew that way. Without implicating himself, taking any risk. Nice move.

Igor still didn’t respond.

Listen, I said, lurching into bad-cop mode. We can call our connections, have the cops descend on this place like flies on shit. Trust me, it won’t be pleasant. And it won’t be good for business. Your boss won’t be happy. But we’ll make you a deal. You tell us what Ramon said, we won’t make the call. Deal?

It’s got nothing to do with me, he said.

We understand that, said Dorita. No problem. You tell us what he said, your name won’t come up.

Igor looked at us each in turn.

We waited.

He only said one thing, he said at last.

Yes? said Dorita.

He said, ‘Fucking Veronica.’

‘Fucking Veronica’?

Yes.

As in, ‘that fucking Veronica’?

Right.

That’s the whole thing? she asked.

That’s all he said? I echoed.

That’s all.

Dorita looked at me. I looked at her.

Veronica.

Jesus Christ on a stick. Why hadn’t we thought of that before?

FITZGIBBON’S ONE TRUE LOVE
, said Dorita once we reached the street.

The twins’ adoptive mommy.

Jules’s stepmom.

Cherchez la stepmom?

Damn, she said. How blind have we been?

The one person we’ve never talked to.

Who’s connected to everyone.

The linchpin.

The hub of the wheel.

The cliché of the week.

How stupid could we be?

Blind.

We’re giving Ray Charles a run for his money, she said.

You couldn’t have come up with something more original?

It’s been a tough day.

I can’t argue with that. So, where the hell is she?

The sixty-four-million-dollar question.

Thousand.

Whatever. We find her, it’s all over. I can feel it in my bones. To coin a phrase.

Her husband just committed suicide, I agreed, and not only hasn’t she showed up, nobody’s even mentioned her.

If it smells like a fish.

Then it’s fishy.

Exactly. I guess.

Okay. Where’s Veronica?

Unfortunately, we can’t ask FitzGibbon.

We could try, I suggested.

I’m not into the séance thing anymore.

Me neither. He could have killed her.

Committed suicide out of remorse.

Certainly the simplest explanation.

They had an argument.

Not inconceivable.

She told him she’s found a new man.

Bronzed, half her age, I mused.

Looks good in a Speedo.

She flaunts him.

FitzGibbon flies into a rage.

Throttles her.

Or, more in character, hires somebody to kill her.

Ramon? I asked.

Could be.

Mr. Security.

Yes. And that might explain why everybody’s acting so weird.

They’re all in on it?

Well, at least they all know, she said. How could they not know? Mom vanishes one day? We’ve hardly heard a word about her from anyone. Jules’s hated stepmom. He’d want her gone. The twins’ adoptive mom. Maybe they hated her too.

Who knows?

Or at least it would be convenient for them if she were gone.

Eliminates an heir, doesn’t it?

Heiress.

Right.

A whole new bag of motives to play with.

It feels like Christmas.

Who’s been naughty and all that.

Right. Okay. Where to start?

Fire up the laptop, she said.

Good timing, I said, as Starbucks hove into view.

First I called Vinnie Price. Woke him up.

Jesus, he said, is it that important?

Yes, I said. And anyway, that’s an inappropriate question.

He laughed.

I asked him to get what he could get on one Veronica FitzGibbon, née … née what? We had no clue. Man, what artful detectives we were turning out to be. Veronica FitzGibbon, then.

Check it out, I said. Get what you can get.

I fired up the laptop.

There was some gossip column stuff on the Internet. She’d had a tiff with FitzGibbon. Public stuff. Yelling and screaming. Cutlery. Glassware.
The usual. She’d decided to take a cruise. Get away from it all. FitzGibbon. The big city. The stress. The pollution.

Interesting, I said.

Très
, said Dorita.

Skipped town.

Apparently.

We tracked Veronica through some personal data sites. Not strictly legal. She’d left the country, all right. A Norwegian cruise ship. Off to the Caribbean. From there to Europe.

Vinnie Price called back. There was a credit card trail. She’d spent a bloody fortune along the way. She’d boarded a ship for the return journey. From Marseille.

Then the trail vanished.

Not a sign. No more credit card receipts. No nothing.

I asked Vinnie where the credit card bills went to.

FitzGibbon, he said.

Interesting.

Just because we didn’t have anything after Marseille didn’t mean there wasn’t anything there. It was hardly likely that we’d found all the traces in two hours. Maybe she’d maxed out the credit card, switched to another one. Or cash. But it was curious. Tracing her movements had been so easy. It was like trailing a moose through city streets. A big, wealthy moose. And then, nothing. She vanished.