Dead Money (8 page)

I’ll try to ignore the ambiguity in that last.

Excellent.

All right.

All right.

I COULDN’T SLEEP
. Again.

I went downstairs to the kitchen, avoiding the living room on the way. I warmed myself a glass of milk on the stove. I always warmed my milk on the stove. The microwave made it taste strange. Like someone had peeled an onion over it.

I would have added some Scotch, but we ran a dry house. Except for Melissa’s statutory AA bottle. The temptation talisman. They’re supposed to keep one in the house. To show that they can live without touching it.

No smoking in the house either. No substances, Dr. Steiglitz insisted. I had to sneak out back. Maybe I should quit, I often thought. It’s bad for you, I’d heard.

I took my warm glass to the bedroom. I lay down. I turned on the TV. CNN. The Albanians were protesting in Macedonia. Fascinating. I watched blankly. I drank the milk slowly.

The milk didn’t do it for me.

I gave in to it. I had no choice. I got up. I smoothed the creases from my suit. I sucked in my gut. I said, okay, that’s you, in the mirror there. That’s you. You’re good-looking, sort of. Accomplished. Compared to most. You have nothing to fear. Get back to the bar.

And so I went. I glanced into the living room. Melissa on the couch, reading. I went out the back door. Around the side of the house. Down the block. Back to the Wolf’s Lair.

I sauntered through the door. It felt like I had never left. I looked around, surveying my territory. I sniffed the air, to see if any strange dogs had left new spoor.

I didn’t see Jake.

I felt a vague and unexpected disappointment.

Thom behind the bar. His welcoming smile.

The usual?

Can’t say no.

Make it a double?

Thom knew my predilections.

Twist my arm, I said.

Thom poured my drink, wiped the counter clean. The Scotch was warm and comforting. I took a magazine from the rack.
The Economist
. What’s happening in Armenia. The Minister of Justice announces court reform. Good luck.

Two stools down, an older guy. I’d seen him there before. Long gray hair. Ponytail. Kodiaks. Pall Mall non-filter. Thick hands. Thin lips. A worldly air. A working man. A poet. I remembered his name. Hal.

Hey Thom? I asked.

Rick.

You know this Jake guy?

Sure, he said. Been around here quite a bit lately.

Says he’s a carpenter. So I hear.

You know anybody can tell me if his work’s any good?

Not really, Thom said. But I can ask around.

I’d appreciate it, I said.

Hal turned to me.

Hey, man.

Hey, Hal.

What’s up?

Nothing much.

What brings you here?

I don’t know. Conflict. Disaster. Depression.

More laughter. The dark warm mahogany of the bar. The cool brass rail.

Hey, you were talking about Jake? asked Hal.

Yeah.

Kind of weird, that guy.

Weird? How so?

I don’t know. Just something about him. Something in his eyes. The way he looks at you.

How’s that?

Like you’re not there. Like he’s thinking of something else.

I hadn’t noticed that.

Look for it, next time. You’ll see what I mean.

I made a mental note.

Hal went back to his beer, I to my double. The Scotch began to do its work. The warm seeped slow and dreamlike into my extremities. I drank the rest. I sat awhile. My brain slowed down. I smiled, paid Thom, ambled for the door.

Now, I thought, I can sleep.

MELISSA WAS ON THE COUCH
, legs curled beneath her, head askew. Sleeping. I stood, wondering. Daring to wonder. What would it be like to make love to her? I’d forgotten. And anyway, my recollection, if I had one, would have been misleading. She was a different person now.

If I disturbed her she’d be angry. Her sleep had not come easily, since her return from the hospital. What little rest she got was precious. To her, and to the rest of us. When she’d had some sleep she was less difficult.

I found a blanket, spread it over her. I leaned over. Braced myself on the sofa arm. Looked into her face. The face I loved. I took a chance. I kissed her forehead. Her eyelids fluttered, but she did not wake.

A victory.

I turned away. I crossed the room. I went upstairs. The stairs were steep. My feet were heavy.

Exhaustion. The house was full of it.

I SLEPT. I WOKE.
It was black outside. I willed myself back to sleep. I woke again. The sun was up.

My feet were clammy. I could tell I smelled. I made myself take a shower. I avoided the mirror. Last time I’d looked, I’d seen small veins sprouting on my nose. I’d tried to console myself. Just the Second Law of Thermodynamics at work. Entropy. All things tend toward a state of maximum disorder. There was nothing I could do about it. It was a law. And I was a lawyer. I was bound to uphold the law.

I trudged to Kelly’s room.

Wake up, I said. It’s a beautiful day.

I know, she mumbled, turning over and putting a pillow over her head, I can’t wait til I’m awake.

Oh, all right, I said. I guess you’ve earned a late morning. I’m not sure how.

For being me, she mumbled.

That’ll do, I said.

At the office the air was heavy and gray. I answered some calls. I read some faxes and e-mails. I delegated some trivial tasks.

I had to get out of there.

I made an appointment to see the Assistant District Attorney in charge of Jules’s case. Some hotshot young guy, I’d been told. I knew I wasn’t going to get much out of him. But it was a good idea to feel him out. See which way the wind was blowing.

The ADA’s office was at the end of a long narrow corridor in an old gray building in lower Manhattan. The door was closed. The receptionist asked me to wait outside for a few minutes. While he finished a phone call.

There was nowhere to sit. I amused myself by examining the bulletin board. It was plastered with the usual bureaucratic detritus. Badly photocopied wanted posters. Employee of the month announcement, eight months out of date. Tattered menus from the many local take-out joints.

The office door opened. The ADA waved me in.

Hi, he said. Russell Graham.

He shook my hand with a firm grip. He had a strong chin and a Roman nose. A generic name. I could tell he was going places.

He shared a small room, replete with the usual government-issue squalor. Battered gray filing cabinets. Ancient oak swivel chairs. Ink stains. Piles of dusty files that looked as if they hadn’t been consulted since the Great Depression. And, speaking of depression, a rumpled colleague, asleep with his head on his desk, his nose dangerously close to an ashtray overflowing with chewed cigar butts.

Russell, I said loudly. Pleased to meet you. Rick Redman. I’m representing Jules FitzGibbon.

The rumpled fellow lifted his head. Rubbed his eyes. Looked around in confusion. Scuttled out the door.

Russell gave me a rueful smile. Made no comment.

Good to meet you, he said.

You might change your mind about that later, I said.

He laughed good-naturedly.

How can I help you? he asked.

Well, frankly, I said, I don’t know anything about this Larry Silver case. I’d be happy to hear whatever you’re willing to share with me.

There was a pause while he thought about that.

There’s not much to tell, he said. It seems to be pretty straightforward. At least six neighbors heard the fight. The kid is found dead in the alley an hour later. Blunt trauma. That’s about it.

So I gather Jules is a suspect?

I think you can assume that.

Stupid question, I guess, I said with a grin.

He didn’t return the smile.

Any other suspects? I asked.

I’m not sure that I’m at liberty to tell you that.

I understand.

At the appropriate time.

Yes.

What about physical evidence?

You know, I’d like to help you. Or at least, I’d like to help you within the constraints of my duty to the State. Now, it’s no secret to you, I’m sure, that Mr. FitzGibbon, the father, is rather well connected. In fact, he’s the chairman of and biggest single contributor to the mayor’s antidrug campaign.

So I understand.

Of course, that would never affect the way we prosecute the case. But, well, you understand.

I wasn’t sure I did. I tried to say so as diplomatically as I could. With a questioning look.

Let’s just say, said the ADA, that I’m likely to be weighing my words perhaps a bit more carefully than I would in other circumstances.

I understand, I said. Of course. But if there’s anything you can tell me. About any physical evidence. That you’re at liberty to reveal.

I’m sorry, said Russell Graham, ADA, with a sorrowful shake of the head that seemed almost genuine. But there’s not much to say. We’re doing the usual forensics. You’ll get them when you’re entitled to them.

If and when.

If and when, he smiled.

I was just wondering, I said. If Jules did it, why would he leave the body right there? In an alley? Right after a loud fight that everybody in his building must have heard? Doesn’t really make sense, does it?

Crimes of passion, said the ADA with a hint of irony. People aren’t always thinking too clearly.

Crimes of passion?

They were in the middle of a fight. Uncontrolled anger. People don’t act rationally. Or maybe he was trying to hide the body, put it in the Dumpster, and somebody came along. Scared him away.

All right. I see you have your theories. All I can say is, he says he didn’t do it. So I’m not sure there’s anything more to talk about. Right now, anyway.

I understand.

Clearly he did. And clearly this wasn’t going anywhere.

I’d been hoping for some kind of response. Something about the kind of plea that might be available if the kid got charged. A crime of passion, after all. He’d said it himself. Not first degree. Plead it down to manslaughter. Depraved indifference. Whatever. I sat for a moment, waiting for Russell Graham, ADA, to say something that might go somewhere.

His smile was obliging.

No words followed.

Damn, I thought. This guy’s no fun.

I had to get
something
out of him before I left.

Could I ask you one favor? I said.

Ask away.

Well, if you do end up charging Jules, down the road?

Yes?

Let’s not do the perp walk thing, okay? Handcuffs and all that? I can bring him in.

Well, said the ADA evenly, I’ll certainly take that into consideration.

I appreciate that. I’ll be in touch.

You know where to reach me.

I left the building with a spring in my step, bursting with pride at my show of wit and investigative acumen.

FitzGibbon’s kid was in good hands.

I CALLED JULES
. He was home. On the way to his loft I stopped to look at the alley where the body had been found.

It was a normal alley. Apartment buildings on either side. A tall metal fence blocking egress at the far end. Razor wire on top. Garbage cans. Wind-blown trash. A Dumpster. The smell of motor oil and rot.

The body had been found propped up against the Dumpster, at the far end of the alley. There was no bloodstain now, if there had ever been. Blunt trauma. Not necessarily a great deal of blood. Anyway, there would be crime scene photos. I’d try to get a look at them later.

There were four doors leading off the alley, three on one side, one on the other. All were of the metal kind. No visible handles. They could only be opened from the inside, it seemed.

I made a note to check out where the doors led.

Fire escapes clung to the side of each building. They were the type with a retracting last flight. Nobody without a ladder could climb them from the outside. The bottom flights were in the retracted position. They looked in working order.

I surveyed the scene.

No way out, for Larry Silver.

I could smell the fear.

I looked more closely at the metal door on the left. It had an abandoned air. Long shoots of weeds grew through the cracks in the asphalt in front of it. Not a door that had been used for months, at least.

I looked at the doors on the other side. Same thing. Emergency exits, probably.

I went back to the Dumpster. Got down on my knees. Peered underneath.

Two green eyes peered back.

I hope you don’t have rabies, I said to them, and tossed a pebble in their direction.

The cat skittered off.

I had an urge to apologize.

I went around the Dumpster.

The cat was sitting contentedly on top of a stack of graying two-by-fours. It was black, with a white spot over one eye. White front feet. Damn cute. It didn’t look like an alley cat. No scars. No scabies. Clearly it belonged to someone. Maybe it was lost. It had a collar. Perhaps its address was on the collar. I felt obliged to find out. Take it back to its home.

Sorry, I said.

It stared at me. I approached it slowly. It sat and stared some more. A street cat would have hissed, spat, run away. This one stayed. Watched me creep up on it. Cocked its head to one side.

When I got within a couple of feet, the cat took one last look at me. Sprinted away.

Damn, I thought. Another metaphor.

I left the alley. Turned right. Three blocks to Jules’s building. The downstairs door was ajar. The elevator wasn’t working. I climbed the stairs. I knocked. I heard voices. One was sharp, female, not pleased. The other was Jules. Some argument going on. I couldn’t hear the words.

I knocked again.

The voices stopped. A minute going by. Metal machine music starting up. From somewhere inside.

The door opened. Jules was wearing baggy jeans slung down low, Union Jack boxers underneath, half exposed. And nothing else. If you didn’t count the tattoos. Japanese, they looked like. And a large leonine thing on his chest. An odd pattern of scars on his belly.