Inherit the Dead (18 page)

But hell, was he just thinking about himself, about the fact that he’d lost his daughter and his wife along with his shield and still wasn’t over it, never would be?

He looked up at the house, even on this drab, cold, February eve, the house seemed to whisper,
Yo, dipshit, this ain’t never . . .
ever
going to be your abode.

Right on the bluff overlooking the beach, and, fuck, a pool. You had the whole goddamn ocean—you needed a pool?

Perry parked and walked over to have a look. Something floating on the water’s surface . . . Jesus, couldn’t be . . . used condoms? Like, wouldn’t they . . . sink? What the hell sort of pool parties was Norman Loki throwing?

Shook himself,
Get straight
. Forget the damn pool. Forget your own bitterness. Stick to the case.

Perry looked up. Saw a face at the window.

Loki?

Last visit, Loki had been alone. Except for the Adonis trainer.

But hell, why did he feel like this was a goddamn contest? Just ’cause the guy didn’t seem to care, didn’t make him guilty. Or did it? Maybe Perry just wanted to fight with a man, a father, who had it all and didn’t seem to give a shit.

This time, Perry had ammunition: the interview with the politician, finding Angel’s car, the shifty mechanic part-time boyfriend—oh yeah, different ball game this time. Okay, not exactly ammo, but info. And information was power, isn’t that what they said? Whoever
they
were. He needed to feed it all back to Loki, see and hear how the man reacted.

Before he rang the bell, he tried to smooth the wrinkles of his slacks, his beat-up trench, get that tough no-shit vibe going. He looked down at his old dress shoes, damp and scuffed. Not so dressy anymore.

Physically shook himself, muttered, “Christo, goddamn it, get a grip. This isn’t about you.”

Pushed the bell and was once again treated to a few bars of “The Impossible Dream.”

Fuck on a pretentious bike.

He heard footsteps, slow, no hurry there then, the door eased open.

Norman, drink in hand, in shorts, garish maroon number, bare feet, and, worse, a bare chest. He said, “Salesmen to the back door.”

Perry said, “There have been some developments.”

Norman continued to look at him, like,
Who the fuck are you, dude?
And nervously glanced toward the back of the house. Something was off, Perry felt it.

He asked, “May I come in, sir?” Managing to leak a bit of edge on the
sir
.

Norman waved him in, peering closely at him, then said, “Got it, you’re the private dick.”

“How soon we forget.” Perry sighed, asked, “If you could maybe put a shirt on?”

“Whoa, Shamus, take a chill pill, life’s a beach, man.” Loki laughed.

The guy was even more stoned than last time. Perry wanted to slug him, hard and often, bring him back to reality. He knew he was taking something out on Loki that he wanted to take out on Randy Hyde or Cyrus Tweed or maybe even himself. But still.

Norman ambled off to grab a shirt, said, “Grab a pew, pilgrim.”

He’d affected some sort of stoner accent that slipped among, maybe, six different tones.

Perry sank into a leather sofa, and as it creaked and groaned, got up, moved to a hard wicker job. He could hear muted voices from the back and an angry buzz building. He took out his notebook, the police-issue one, a futile link to his glory days, if glory meant a job you relished.

Then Norman was back, a T-shirt with a faded logo of Jerry Garcia and the words
BE GRATEFUL, DEAD.

He moved to a bar in the corner, asked, “What’s your poison?”

Jesus.
Perry said, “Some water would be good.”

Norman turned, a highball glass in his hand, pushed. “No Long Island Tea? Rock your mundane world—you ain’t lived until you’ve got on the other side of ol’ Norm’s LIT . . . get it, LIT?”

Not just stoned, bombed. On booze.

Julia Drusilla’s words played again:
He drinks. Or did. And when he does . . . you’ve never seen such a personality change.

“Put the glass down,” Perry said.

Norman gave him an inebriated stare.

Time to rein him in. Perry said, “We found Angel’s car.”

Norman didn’t seem to hear him, fixed a lethal amount of some colored mess, drank deep, shuddered, said, “
We?
Or Five–O did, and you’re, like, grabbing the headline?”

Perry said, “The normal response would be to ask if she was in it.”

“What?” Norman gulped more booze, barked off a short laugh, said, “And where the be-jaysus would be the mystery in that?” This said in a very bad Irish lilt. He drained the glass. Then said, “You accusing me of something?” but didn’t wait for an answer, already adding more alcohol to his drink.

Perry really needed to get this schmuck’s attention and snapped, “Do I have to say it again? In a few days, Angel will come into a sizable inheritance; it’s vital she’s around to sign the document. You forget that, or you too stoned to remember?”

He let that simmer, hoping he’d shot a nice barb into Mr. Unruffleable, see him wiggle out of that.

Norman sucked on an ice cube noisily. “You think you’ve scored some sort of
points
with that revelation. Hey, news flash, I
wrote
the fucking document, drew up the whole gig.”

“I see,” Perry said. It looked like the booze was working in his favor. Last time Loki had denied any knowledge of the trust. “So, uh, you wrote Angel’s trust.”

“Just said, didn’t I?”

“So you did.” Loki really was out of control.
Right now, a good thing,
thought Perry.

Loki took another gulp of his drink. He shook his head. “Julia, my ex, she must have loved you, just flat out fucking loved you. She flashes her boobs, which I paid for during my stint as her loving husband, no matter what
she
says, and you swallow anything she dishes out as gospel. No wonder you had to quit the force.”

Perry was cool. Let the drunken fool ramble on. Maybe he’d say something else he shouldn’t. “Your wife—your ex-wife—flashed nothing. She’s worried about her daughter.”

Something flared in Loki’s eyes, sadness or disbelief or weariness, but it didn’t last long. Then a sound from the back diverted him, and he quickly added, “But hey, don’t feel bad. I figure you talked to that local politico my little girl is hanging with these days?”

“So you know about that?”

“A little birdie told me.”

“A little bird named Lilith?”

“Lilith?” Norman laughed. “She hates me. Tried to turn my daughter against me.”

Wouldn’t take much,
thought Perry.

“She pretends to be Angel’s friend . . . ”

“And she’s not?”

Norman swigged the last of his drink.

Perry injected steel in his voice, said, as Norman began to build another lethal drink, “I need you to pay attention, sir.”

Norm whirled round, fire in his drink-fueled eyes, spat, “Pay attention to
what
?”

Perry’s hands balled into fists.

Another sound came from the back bedroom, like . . . a giggle?

Perry asked, “Am I interrupting something?” Then a thought
occurred. “Is Angel here?” On his feet as he asked, his whole body poised for confrontation.

“What? No way.” Norman handed Perry a cut-glass tumbler, the water close to the brim, said, “Galway crystal, from the home country, make you feel right at home, Paddy.”

Perry put the glass down, had to count to ten. Was this jerk trying to avert him from all sorts of stuff? Was this drunk act maybe just that, an act? He said, “I really need you to focus.”

Norman did an exaggerated eye tightening, said, “Finding Angel’s car is no big deal. I know my daughter. Six years that girl lived with me—if I’d a hot nickel for every time she left that car, I’d be building an extension to this beach paradise. She’s fine.”

“How can you be so sure?” Did he know where she was?

Norman shook his head, and for another brief moment there was something on his face other than a boozy grin. Sadness? Anxiety? Perry wasn’t sure.

Perry said, “I took meetings with her former boyfriends, the mechanic and—”

Norman shook his head, all traces of sadness gone, butted in. “The grease monkey, now you want a suspect.
Jesus,
hello, did you see
the state of his nails
? I mean,
come on
! So okay, we can’t all afford manicures but a little pride, is that too much to ask, I mean,
is
it?” And he looked, pointedly, at Perry’s nails, which were chewed, and emitted a “hmph”: the words
I rest my case
hovering over their heads.

Perry’s fury was close to exploding. “If you have reason to believe any of those persons of interest might—”

He was cut off again by a roar of contemptuous laughter. Norman said, “Persons of
interest
? I mean, did you actually speak to them,
interest
? They’ve got to be two of the dreariest muthah’s on the planet; man, if you think they are
of interest,
I’d hate to meet who the fuck
you think is boring.” And paused, reeling a bit. Then said, “Don’t take it too personal, some of us are born to serve.” He fixed his eyes on Perry, and for a moment, the cool lawyer of old was present. He said, “You come barging in here as if you know something. Boyfriends? What do you think they’re going to tell you?”

Before Perry could answer, Norman continued. “Angel’s mother, my ex, she started a big brouhaha, dragging you in. Damn that Julia, had to go and—”

Perry tried to see what the guy was hiding. “The other day you—”

“Look, if I know my Angel, she’s out having herself a time, and that’s all. Being her daddy, ain’t no day at the Mardi Gras—you get some kin of your own someday, you’ll be feeling me,” he drunkenly sneered. The condescension hovering like napalm, the whole gig of parent vs. the poor childless bollix at play.

Perry snarled back, “I have a daughter, she’s fifteen years old, so, you know, I can
feel
you.”

“Yeah? Is she missing?”

Loaded. Norman had surely been looking into his past.

Perry, a straight shooter, even when it was to his detriment, said, “She’s with her mom.”

Norman sneered, “
Her mom,
what? You couldn’t keep it in your pants, that it?”

Perry had a second of darkness, then he had Norman by the T-shirt, hissed, “You listen to me, I’m trying to find your daughter, trying to empathize here, and you . . . ” He had to gasp for air. “I don’t know if you’re so stoned and drunk you can’t think straight but you had better start—”

“What?” Loki trying to stare him down with bloodshot eyes.

“You put on this, this act, mincing around like your daughter’s absence is some cosmic joke.” Perry managed to pull it back a notch,
let go of Norman, then reached for his water, gulped it down, tried to speak calmly. “How many times must I say it: I need you to pay attention. Call your ex-wife. I want her to hear the
condition
you’re in.”

Norman finished his drink then was rolling a spliff, licked the rim of the paper, fired it up, drew deep, coughed, said, “No shit, but that’s great fucking shit.” And then he looked right at Perry, though his eyes were unfocused.

Perry pushed, “Make the call to your ex-wife.”

The bedroom door opened and a young Hispanic man, looking all of maybe sixteen, dressed in a small fluffy towel round his middle, sauntered into the room, put one hand in Norman’s receding hair, lisped, “I’m Pedro, the pool person.” He then took the spliff out of Norman’s hand, took a long pull, coughed, muttered, “Oh, this sucks.” Made the accompanying sound.

Norman shrugged, said, “Tell you, cleaning those water filters is a pain in the butt.”

“Jesus.” Perry sighed. No use. This fool was gone.

Outside, it was
dark, just the lights from Norman’s beach house vanishing into the bluffs. Perry took a deep breath, then another. He needed something to clear his head after that. He got on his cell, made the call he’d wanted Loki to make, to Julia Drusilla, said he had to see her but it would be late. She told him to come, that she never slept so it didn’t matter. Then he called the East Hampton PD, tried again to reach Gawain. Impossible. Some local incident, a 7-Eleven stick-up gone bad. But Gawain had left him a message, which the deputy read: “Officer Gawain says to tell you that nothing incriminating has turned up in the prelims, the car is clean. No blood. No nothing. Appears to be simply abandoned.”

“Anything else?” Perry asked.

“Nope. That’s it. You have something you want me to report back?”

Yeah,
thought Perry.
Tell him I’m sick to death of the Hamptons.
But he said, “No.”

P
erry could not get Norman Loki out of his head. He puzzled over the guy’s insane behavior during the whole ride back to Manhattan. The guy was stoned and drunk beyond reason. His daughter was missing. He’d been living a lie, hiding his sexual orientation. Who knew about his homosexuality? Did Angel? Did Julia? Was the guy medicating his personal misery, or was he simply out of his mind? He could not shake the questions, even as he parked, then made his way to his client’s apartment for some answers.