Fry Me a Liver (15 page)

“In an accident on the job,” she said. “A landslide when a detonator cap went off in a worker's pocket. The other man lost his legs but survived.”

“That's awful,” I said. “I'm so sorry.”

“I had to fight for two years to get the insurance money that was due me,” she went on. “A Yankee firm in Hartford, Connecticut. They had to do their investigations, you see. It wasn't enough that I had insurance on my husband's life and he was, clearly, quite deceased.” She looked at me. “Did you have that problem with your restaurant?”

“No,” I admitted. “It was a different situation. That was a will. I inherited the property. All I had to do was pay a share of the estate tax.”

“Yes, well, I had problems with the estate too because there was no will,” Elsie went on. “We were so poorly prepared.”

The situation was unfortunate but Elsie was getting morose. And I was getting paranoid. I was waiting for her to say that the guy with the detonator cap was named Goldberg or the insurance agent was Horowitz. We thanked her for her hospitality.

“You will let me know, won't you?” she called after us.

“About?”

“Whether you will need a room.”

“Yes—of course, absolutely,” I said. I waved as I continued to walk.

“Worst continuity ever,” Kane chuckled.

“I forgot. I tend to get caught up in the moment. What about you? Did you remove the gum?”

He stopped, gasped in horror . . . then smiled. “Of course. Captain Health is very, very thorough.”

We got into the van. Before the doors were closed, I said, “I assume you found something in the room? You seem very, very excited.”

“I did find something,” he said. “A couple of somethings. First, a local cell phone number on a pad.” He had copied it down and read it to me. It was Newt's.

“Okay. We knew that. What else?”

He produced a receipt. I turned on my smart phone, read the receipt in the light. “An off-the-rack cell phone.”

“Purchased three days ago,” he said. “For cash, I'm willing to bet.”

“I'm not clear how this helps.”

“An improvised explosive device, triggered by a cell phone,” he said. “And just let your mind run for a second. Homemade devices include hydrogen peroxide, nitric acid, and nitromethane, still easy enough to get in very small amounts that don't raise flags. As for other ingredients, like pesticides and fertilizer—look along the path. They wouldn't even have had to buy that one.”

“All of that from a sales receipt?” I said. “Seems a big leap.”

“If we were trying to build a case before, maybe. But this is after. The bomb happened. A classic, terrorist IED. It could be that these folks were thinking of opening a restaurant here and didn't want the competition.”

“Those still seem like pretty giant steps to me,” I told him, switching off the light. I looked out at the street. “I still don't buy that they'd risk blowing up the kitchen with Benjamin down there.”

“Why not? Certainly removes them from the immediate list of suspects.”

“And what about planting the bomb?” I answered my own question. “A disguise. Grace used them to case my place. And they had the protest as a distraction. She could have been there while he was at my place. She rushed over in time to be seen.”

“There you go.”

“But even if it's possibly true,” I said, “emphasis on the ‘possibly,' what do we do with this? We aren't cops and we didn't exactly have a search warrant.”

“True, but we can tip off your detective friend that the receipt was in the office trash and have her take a legitimate look for the phone.”

“The office trash?”

“He was there, wasn't he? In your office, replacing the recipe book.”

“Yeah, but to be that stupid—”

“Maybe he plans to pin the thing on you. Maybe he's going to call them with an anonymous tip. For all we know, the cell phone is already there behind some books.”

That sent a chill up my back.

“Wouldn't there have had to be a receiver phone in the bomb debris?” I asked. “Wouldn't Bean be looking for a triggering device already?”

“Possibly,” he said. “There's only one way to find out. Call her.”

He was right. But now that we were at this point, part of me recoiled against further action.

“What's wrong?” he asked.

“Part of me is insisting—pretty loudly, in fact—that I not get involved.”

“Isn't it a little late for that?”

“Sneaking into their room isn't really—”

“No, I mean your deli was blown up, your people hurt, your livelihood seriously impacted, your hard work given a big flat tire. What part of your life is not involved?”

“That was passive,” I said. “Couldn't be helped. This is aggressive. I'm mad at them because of how they suckered Newt. They're going to say I have a vendetta.”

“And the facts will prove otherwise.”

“What if they don't?” I asked. “What if Bean goes in there and doesn't find anything? I can't show her the receipt and my credibility goes down the drain.”

“All valid points,” he admitted. “If you want to defend inactivity, I mean.”

That was a valid point too. “I should think about this,” I said.

“He may toss the phone.”

“How do you know he hasn't already?”

“I don't,” Kane said.

“You didn't find it.”

“I didn't have time to look. But I'm not sure it's the kind of thing you just dump in a trash can. Someone is likely to pull it out. You pack it in luggage where it won't raise any red flags, take it back to California, and lose it there. Do you want me to call?” he asked. “I will, if it helps.”

I looked down at my cell phone. Was I being reluctant to get in deeper or was I having trust issues with Kane? It was silly, but I didn't want to lean on a man. Not after the way Grant inserted himself in things.

“No,” I said, sitting back. “I have a better idea. Drive.”

“Where to?”

“Just follow my finger,” I said, pointing ahead. “I'll tell you where we're going.”

An argument could be made—and my brain was busy making it—that I was on my way to wrecking another relationship in its earliest, most improbable stages. Taking charge of this guy, pushing him around, supporting and then sort of disagreeing with his approach. On the flip side, I was a deli owner, not a private eye . . . despite my track record at solving crimes. These are decisions I shouldn't have to make. As a
balmalocha
, an expert, I was no
balmalocha
.

But, whether I asked for it or not, the responsibility had ended up on my shoulders. Yet there was a third option.

Benjamin and Grace had mentioned a few restaurants they wanted to visit. Only Suit and Thai was in walking distance of the Owlet. The place was popular with the business crowd during lunch, less so at dinnertime.

“Oh ho,” spoke Captain Health as he looked in the big window, past the pulled-back curtains that looked like big neckties. “Intimidation by proximity. I like it. Show up, see how they react.”

“Actually, I was thinking of something even more intimidating.”

“Really?”

“Yes. I think we should confront them with what we've—
you've
—found and see what they do.”

Kane was silent.

“My sense of it is they'd have five options,” I went on. “The first three would be deny, deny, deny, followed by bribe and flee. What do you think?”

Kane Iger did not say a word. I only heard his deep breathing.

“I take it you have some reservations,” I said.

“Some.”

“Share,” I said.

He reflected a moment longer, then said thoughtfully, “However they respond, we're not empowered to
do
anything. We can show up, which is innocent enough, and enjoy them squirming a little because—hell, because they're bad people. But everything beyond that is a matter for law enforcement.”

“Even though the evidence—and I use that term loosely—is very, very weak?”

“It's enough to send up a flare,” Kane said. “Then we can sit back and watch what happens. You walk in now, as you say, they will deny whatever you say. And we'll be asked to leave, having accomplished nothing but tipping them off.”

I looked in at the couple. They seemed relaxed enough, professional gourmands who were really into whatever they were eating. They were actually connecting over the meal, making eye contact, sharing from one another's chopsticks.

The tease annoyed me. We had gone from bold to craven. Maybe Kane was right, but I didn't like getting dressed up with nowhere to go.

Kane must have sensed my frustration. He grabbed my arm.

“Let's call Detective Bean,” he said.

I shook my head. “I still have credibility with her. I want to keep it. Plus—these guys hurt me. I want to go in.”

Kane relaxed his grip. “Okay, but to do what, exactly?”

“I don't know,” I admitted. “But I need to be in motion, toward something. I'm beginning to realize that's how I've done everything since I've been down here. Everything in New York was structured—the rules governing my work, the activities governing my downtime with my husband, the interaction with my mother that had boundaries designed to keep both of us away from the things that really bothered her. I'm not going to nurse bad juju anymore. I'm going to spread it around like
shmear
with chives. You coming?”

“Can we try a measured approach?” he asked.

“Meaning?”

“We go in, sit down for dinner, and see what they do before we charge over?” He smiled thinly. “It's what we in the South call a compromise.”

That made me laugh.

“All right,” I said. “We'll go in and just eat.”

He looked at me skeptically. “You're sure?”

“I'm sure.”

“Because last night, you warned me we were just going to make out and—”

“That was different.”

“I agree, and I liked
that
result,” he said. “If you create a scene in this place—those guys get to leave Nashville. We have to stay.”

“I don't plan to create a scene,” I said a little indignantly. “We're just poking the hornets' nest. A compromise, like you said.”

I opened the door and he got out as well. By the time we entered the restaurant, I was so tired of talking and negotiating that I pretty much forgot what I'd agreed to. Not that it mattered. Benjamin saw us and did not react at all. A moment later, Grace looked over and smiled slightly before returning to her meal. We were shown to a table. There were several empty tables between us. Kane ended up sitting with his back to them. I was just too fast for him.

“You sure you want to sit there?”

“Oh yeah.”

“Why, Gwen?”

“If I don't, I'll keep turning around and that'll be worse.”

He had to concede the logic of that. He didn't understand the growing emotional storm but I knew that until I had someone to pin the explosion on, these suntanned
yutzes
were going to be the target of my displeasure.

We ordered. If you asked
what
I ordered, I couldn't have told you. I watched them seeming to have a perfectly fine time while I was not.

“Relax,” Kane said, taking my hands in his. It was only then that I realized I had shredded my chopstick wrapper into fine little sections.

“I can't,” I apologized.

“You're not trying. Look at me,” Kane said. “Into my eyes.”

I made the effort. I looked. Then I looked past him at the happy couple.

“I've got to go over,” I said.

“Gwen, you promised.”

“I know. But if I don't stir things up, I'm going to blow up. Look, a few minutes ago you told me these guys might be bomb makers. I have to know.”

“I also told you why we can't be the ones to confront them.”

It may seem, at this point, that I qualified as totally meshuga. The description would be entirely accurate. I'd had it. Things had piled up from all sides—or, to be fair, I had taken them on—and I was worn out. I had to do something to change that dynamic.

I started to get up. Kane did not release my hands. He was holding them rather tightly.

“Let's get this to go,” he said.

“Uh-uh. I'm going to tell them we're on to them.”

“You can't.”

“I won't say anything more than that, just that they can expect to be hearing from John Law.”

“You
can't
,” he repeated.

Something about his manner had changed. He was no longer the affable guy who had helped shepherd me through a tough couple of days.

“Why?” I asked.

“Please sit,” he said.

I did. But I already knew what he was going to tell me. At least, I had a strong, strong feeling in the
kishkes
.

“You planted the receipt,” I said.

He seemed a little taken aback but not insulted. He lowered his eyes.

I sat hard. Everything, not just the anger, seemed to seep out of me and sag over the edge of the seat. Our food arrived. I looked at Kane through the steam.

“Are you going to explain?” I asked.

“I don't think I should.”

“That's not what I asked,” I said. “But a more important question first. Did you put a cell phone in the room too?”

“No,” he said. “We were going to find that somewhere else.”

“So the phone receipt, obviously, is yours.”

He nodded limply. Captain Health had met his kryptonite for the first time and didn't know how to handle it.

“What were you trying to do, impress me?” I asked.

“Partly that,” he said. “But partly also—I don't know if I can tell you.”

“Try. No, do more than try,” I insisted. “Spit it out. I have to know.”

Kane looked up hopefully. He must have thought he heard something compassionate in my voice but he was wrong. He obviously didn't find anything helpful in my eyes because after a moment he looked back down again.

“I don't want to talk about it,” he said. “I can't.”

“Captain Health, powerless in the face of truth.”

“No,” he said. “In the face of exposure. There's a reason he wears a mask and a costume.”

“Spare me the pop psychology. Not in the mood.”

“Gwen, I—”

“Stop.” I wasn't interested in mea culpas and humility. “How did you hope to pull this off?” I asked. “Ultimately, the evidence wouldn't have supported a legal case, would it? The police would have discovered that the phone you planted didn't call the number that triggered the explosion.”

“They would have discovered that I bought the phone so there'd be a number kids could call to get a message to Captain Health,” he said.

“And an anonymous caller would have assumed that random purchase was used to detonate a phone bomb . . . why?”

“A store clerk trying to do his or her part? A doctor or nurse who thinks I'm giving false hope to kids? A frustrated banker looking to get some press for the job he really loves? A super villain?”

It was too soon for him to make jokes; at least, I hoped it was a joke. I felt ill.

I motioned the waiter over, asked him to wrap up my dinner to go. I reached into my bag and found a twenty.

“Let me,” he said, taking out his wallet.

“Go to hell,” I replied.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “They hurt you. I wanted to hurt them.”

“Mister, did you get that bass ackward,” I said.

“Not the motives—”

“Are you insane or just moronically provincial?” I said with admitted bitterness. “Trust is goal number one. Without that, in any undertaking, you've got nothing. You, Captain Shlemiel, have nothing.”

“Fine. You don't have to be insulting.”

“Oh, now you're the wounded half? Jesus.”

I threw down the twenty, grabbed my sack of food on the way out, and left without looking back at anyone. It was surprisingly easy. I had no feeling inside, bupkes, not even a sense of betrayal. What Kane had done was stupid, my having had any interest in him was stupid and impulsive, and my plan going forward was to forget the whole damn thing—the investigation, Newt collaborating with the enemy, the enemies themselves, and everything else that was presently in my head. Remarkably, I didn't blame myself for anything that I had done over the last two days. It was post-traumatic stress, I told myself. No one would have been thinking clearly.

I walked the long walk until I reached my car and I drove until I reached my home. I had been praying quietly that Kane hadn't gone to his van to catch up to me there. He hadn't. I fed my two cats, microwaved dinner, and flopped on my crappy sofa with the Styrofoam container and chopsticks.

That was when I saw it: a note on the floor. It must have been slipped under the front door and made its way half under the carpet. I went over and picked up the envelope, saw my name handwritten in block letters, and went back to the chair.

“Fan mail from some flounder?” I wondered. It seemed an appropriate response. If my life wasn't currently a Rocky and Bullwinkle cartoon, I don't know what it was.

I opened the letter with a finger, figuring that if someone were trying to poison me there were easier ways to go about it. It was handwritten in pencil, one side of a large page. The heading at top said Edenist Party in red ink, from a rubber stamp. The spelling was accurate and the thoughts concise:

“I wonder,” I said to the cats, “how you guys would take to having a horse parked in the driveway.”

I decided not to find out. I had nothing on the calendar and a trip to his place might be a nice change. And who knows? Maybe the whole antitechnology lifestyle would appeal to me. I once went to the Amish country in Pennsylvania and wondered what it would be like effectively living in the nineteenth century. I looked up his address. He was located on Ashland City Highway facing the Cumberland River. It would be a short drive just west of the city, a little over twenty miles and a half hour . . . longer than that on horseback.

I channel surfed for a bit, checked e-mails, fell asleep in the bathtub, then went to bed for real.

If I had any dreams, I remembered none of them.

Which was the appropriate metaphor to end the day.