JM03 - Red Cat (21 page)

“What do you know about his plea?”

“He went for Assault Two.”

“Which sounded light, given what he did to that guy.”

“What I read, the guy was a real piece of shit.”

“Is that why Coyle went off on him?”

Darrow blew his nose again. “I couldn’t tell you why Jamie did what he did. But the file says he provided information that took a piece of shit off the street, and that’s why he got a deal.”

I nodded. And now, the $64,000 question. “You know where I can find him?”

“You try his job?”

“What job is that?”

“He works maintenance at a condo complex in Tarrytown. His uncle is the super, and Jamie has an apartment there, in the basement.”

“I didn’t know about that gig. I’d heard that he was working in the city somewhere…at some club.”

Darrow went still, and his eyes went suddenly hard. “What club?” he asked.

I shook my head. “I didn’t get the name.”

Darrow smacked his hand on the table, and made the mugs jump. “Fuckin’ Jamie,” he said. “He bitched about wanting extra money for school, but I didn’t think he’d be stupid enough to lie.”

“Did he do that often?”

Irritation creased Darrow’s heavy face. “This is the first time I know about,” he said. “The caseloads we get— there’s only so much you can check— only so many hours in the day. What are we supposed to do, live in their fucking pockets?”

I drank my soda and nodded. “You said before that Jamie was ambitious. Ambitious how?”

“He was always working a plan— not always the same one, mind you, but Jamie was always shooting for something. Make some money, finish school. Make some money, open a restaurant. Make some money, buy some property.”

“The money part was consistent.”

He shrugged. “Kid lives in the real world.”

I picked up the check, and Darrow and I walked out together. The light was already long and the wind felt like steel on my face. Darrow shivered and sneezed.

There was no oblique way to ask it, so I just asked. “Is Jamie a dangerous guy?”

Darrow turned to me. “Dangerous to who?”

“To anyone.”

“You know enough to know that’s a bullshit question. You, me, that old guy at the cash register in there— you push the right buttons with anyone, get them scared enough, angry enough, back ’em up against a wall, they’re dangerous.”

“And Jamie no more so than anybody else?”

“I wouldn’t have recommended him for discharge otherwise,” Darrow said. He pulled out a handkerchief, ran it under his nose, and squinted at me again. “On the other hand, I didn’t know shit about his moonlighting.”

24

Mike Metz was waiting in the lobby of Tommy Vickers’s building when I arrived. He was leaning on a column and tapping on his BlackBerry; his face was still pink from the cold, and full of concentration. We signed in at security, which did not quite entail a cavity search, and rode alone to the twenty-seventh floor. On the way, I talked about my meeting with Darrow. He drew a finger along his chin as the elevator crawled upward.

“Coyle’s a mixed bag, I guess,” he said when I was through. “He’s gotten over his anger issues, except for knocking you around, and he was a model parolee, except for lying to his PO. And he was apparently very serious about Holly, maybe enough to get seriously mad at her, or seriously violent.”

I watched the numbers change and thought about what Krug had told me— about how happy Holly had been— and what Lia said: “Look, he’s a good guy.”

“Everyone’s a mixed bag,” I said. “I’m not sure quite what to make of Coyle.” Mike looked at me, one narrow brow raised. The elevator stopped and the doors slid open. We stepped into an empty corridor.

“Your job is to develop alternative theories,” he said, “and this guy qualifies. Let the police sort out just how good a theory he is.”

Vickers’s office was at the end of the hall, a dark wooden door with shiny brass hardware and a brass plate that read “TEV Consulting.” We went in, into a good-sized waiting room done up in Hollywood corporate: teak paneling, Oriental rugs, brass lamps, green leather furniture heavy with brass tacks. The prints on the walls were nautical: packet ships and schooners, laden with treasure and headed for some faraway tax haven with no money-laundering statutes on the books and no extradition.

There were double doors ahead, and a big teak desk to the left; behind it was a woman whose hair was younger by decades than the rest of her. She was small and pale and powdered, and her improbable chestnut tresses were pulled in a cruel bun, away from her withered face. She looked from one of us to the other and squinted at her watch.

“Mr. March?” In person, her voice was even more fragile than it sounded on the phone.

“I’m March.”

The woman looked at Mike, and looked distressed. “I wasn’t expecting—”

A soft, raspy voice interrupted from the direction of the double doors. “It’s okay, Edie. There’s always room at the table for Mr. Metz.”

Thomas Vickers was five foot nine, with a blocky frame covered in well-cut navy wool. His hair was a glossy white helmet on his square head, and his hooded eyes were bright blue. His features were fine but weathered— their edges and peaks sanded by age and shot with veins— and I put him somewhere north of sixty.

He offered Mike a manicured hand. “Long time, Michael,” he said.

“I should have called first,” Mike said, smiling.

“Nonsense.” Vickers turned to me. “March, thanks for coming.” His grip was cold and surprisingly delicate. “And for bringing Michael along. I heard you did a lot of work for him; I didn’t know this was one of those times. Let’s sit.” Edie took our coats.

Mike followed Vickers, and I followed Mike— through the double doors and down a corridor lined with law books and silence. We turned a corner and passed a large office. The door was open and I saw a sofa, a big mahogany desk, and a green Oriental rug inside. And I saw a stocky, dark-haired man in black trousers and a chocolate-brown jacket. He was sitting on the sofa, looking at me. I paused and looked back, and he got up and closed the office door. I caught up with Mike and Vickers, and wondered about the tension I’d felt, and the odd sense of dГ©jЕ· vu.

We came to rest in a conference room that looked out on Broadway and Bowling Green and a piece of the darkening harbor. The walls that weren’t windows were covered in gray fabric and more nautical prints. The table was an ebony slab with a dozen chairs around it. There was an ebony console against the wall, with china cups and saucers on it. Vickers offered coffee and we declined. We sat at the table.

Vickers smoothed his tie and looked at me. “You never actually said why it is you’re interested in Cassandra Z,” he said.

I glanced at Mike, who moved his head minutely. “Missing persons,” I said.

Vickers nodded. “Cassandra being the person?” I nodded back. “Have you been to the police?”

“Not yet,” I said.

Vickers nodded. “Your client would rather not?” he asked. Mike saved me from answering.

“John told me you were going to talk to us about Cassandra, Tommy. Did he get that wrong?”

“No,” Vickers sighed, and smiled wearily. “He didn’t. You asked me about Cassandra; here’s what I can tell you: I was looking for her on behalf of a client; I spoke to the art dealer who represents her— a man named Orlando Krug— and eventually, I spoke to her. That was in December, over a month ago. Neither I nor my client has had any contact with her since.” He looked at both of us.

Mike stared out the window, and pursed his lips. I shook my head. “And…?” I said.

“And what?” Vickers asked.

“And that’s it? That’s what you called us in to say?”

“Actually, I just called you, not that I’m not glad to see Michael.”

“But that’s all you’ve got?” He nodded. “Why bother to say anything, then?”

He looked mildly puzzled. “You asked.”

“Is that all it takes?” My laugh was short and sharp. “Because if it is, I have plenty of other questions.”

Vickers sighed. “You have a reputation for being persistent. I thought I could save us all some time and undue effort, and let you move on to more productive things.” He looked at Mike. “I hope I haven’t miscalculated.”

“Of course not, Tommy,” Mike said. “And we appreciate you having us in. Nobody wants to waste time or cause unnecessary trouble, and if we could just follow up on a couple of things, then we’ll get out of your hair.” Vickers nodded vaguely and Mike smiled wider. “To start, what was it that you wanted to discuss with Cassandra?”

Vickers turned his palms up. “It’s a confidential matter, Michael; I’m sure you understand. I imagine your client feels much the same way.”

Mike nodded understandingly. “And your client is…?”

Vickers raised a white eyebrow. “A private person,” he said.

“Finding himself in one of Cassandra’s videos must’ve come as a surprise, then,” I said.

Vickers turned chilly eyes on me and tightened his mouth. “You’re missing the important point,” he said. “The important point is that I saw her once, over a month ago, and not again. Once. That’s the important point, son.”

My face tightened and I took a deep breath. “What about your client?” I asked.

“My client returned to New York a week ago, after three weeks in Latin America. And he can document his movements during that time.” He turned to Mike and smiled. “The itinerary makes it rock-solid, Michael.”

“Not really,” I said. “If he can afford you, then your client can afford all sorts of other help.”

Vickers looked at me as if I’d just crapped on his conference table. When he spoke, it was to Mike, and his voice was dry as kindling. “What the hell is with your friend? I invite him in to talk— as a favor, mind you— and I get this? I heard he was a hothead, but Christ…I mean, I could sit here asking you the same questions about your client— who he is, what he wants with this girl, and so forth— but am I doing that? No. Instead, I’m trying to help you out. And in return I get this?”

Mike gave him an apologetic shrug and looked at me. “Tommy’s right, John, there’s no call for us to speculate about things when he’s so willing to help,” he said. He turned back to Vickers. “January’s a nice time to get out of town, and go somewhere warm. Was Latin America a business trip?”

Vickers squinted. “How does that—”

“I’m sure you’re right— it probably doesn’t matter, and if the police think otherwise, I expect they’ll just ask.”

The hoods came down over Vickers’s blue eyes. “I have nothing to do with the police.”

Mike’s smile was guileless and his eyes were opened wide. “Of course you don’t,” he said. “And there’s no reason why you should.” And we were all quiet for a while.

It was Vickers who broke the silence. “Is that a threat, Michael?” he asked, though he didn’t seem much threatened.

“More of a proposal.”

“Proposing what, exactly?”

“That you tell us what your client wanted with Cassandra, and we go away and pursue the more productive things that you mentioned.”

Vickers smoothed his tie some more. “I don’t think so,” he said. “If the police have questions, so be it. We can’t help them, but if we have to waste time explaining that, then I guess that’s the way it is.”

Mike nodded. “Talking to the police, dealing with the press, questions about the business…all of that takes time.” His tone was sympathetic, even regretful.

“I don’t think the press—” Vickers began, but I cut him off.

“Your client is in a select group, Tommy: he’s the only guy in one of Cassandra’s videos to ever come looking for her, much less to find her. That alone makes for some elaborate explaining…especially given the timing.”

Vickers drummed his fingers on the tabletop for a while. Then he shook his head slowly. “You’re making things more complicated than they are, son— more complicated than they have to be— and you’re wasting your own time and your client’s money doing it. I spoke to this girl a month ago, and not again, and my client hasn’t seen or spoken to her in years.” He looked at Mike. “I’m asking you to trust me on this, Michael.”

Mike’s smile was small and bland. “That might be easier to do if we knew why you were looking for Holly in the first place.”

Vickers drank off whatever was in his cup, and sighed. “A girl like that— there must be a dozen other people you could talk to, more maybe. You really—”

“A girl like what?” I interrupted, and the anger in my voice surprised even me.

Vickers pursed his lips and looked at Mike. “He really can’t keep it in his pants, can he? That must cause you problems.”

Mike shrugged. “It’s the cross I bear,” he said coolly. Then he looked at me and twitched an eyebrow.

“I’ll meet you out front,” I said, and I left the room. Vickers didn’t say goodbye, and neither did I.

I paused by the corner office again, on my way back to the waiting room. The door was still shut and I thought about opening it and looking in on the dark-haired man, but I didn’t. Instead, I rode the elevator down and waited for Mike in a corner of the lobby. He was buttoning his coat as he approached.

“I’d forgotten what an arrogant bastard that guy is,” he said. “And those theatrics— either he’s lost his touch, or my standards are higher now than when I was twenty-five.” He smiled and ran a hand through his hair. “Your performance was far superior, by the way: no one does ‘volatile’ better.”

“It wasn’t entirely an act,” I said.

“The best performances never are.”

“Did Vickers say anything useful?”

Mike pulled out his BlackBerry and thumbed through messages while he spoke. “Not really. A vague offer to swap client names— a ‘You show me yours, I’ll show you mine’ sort of thing— but nothing sincere. He was never going to tell us shit.”

“Then what was the point of his invitation?”

“A calculated risk on Tommy’s part, I suppose— a chance to size you up, to dazzle you and befuddle you and maybe find something out. Best case, a chance to sell you on his story and get you to leave his client alone. All of which would’ve been worth the risk of stirring the pot a little, especially given that you already knew he’d been looking for Cassandra. I suspect he gave up on most of it when you brought me along.”