Rubbed Out (22 page)

“Not now he's not. He's missing.”

“So what's that got to do with me?”

“That's what I'm trying to find out.” I clenched and unclenched my fingers to warm them up. “Do you know any Russians?”

“Like people from Russia?”

“That's what I just said.”

The kid looked at me as if I were crazy. “Why would I know that?”

“You might have run into them.”

“Where? Fayette Street?”

I gave up and tried another tack. “You talk to anybody about Manuel?”

The kid shook his head.

“Did you know he was living with me?”

“We didn't talk about that kind of stuff.”

“What kind of stuff?”

“Personal stuff.”

“What did you talk about then?”

Dirk Junior studied the ceiling while he thought. “Reptiles. Bands. Things like that.”

“Anyone ask you about him?”

“Like who?”

I sighed. George was right. This was turning into a dead end.

“Okay,” I told him. “At least tell me how Tiger Lily wound up in your backyard.”

“Myra's backyard.”

“Fine,” I agreed. “Myra's backyard.”

The way he told the story was long and confusing, but given what I knew it was plausible.

Not that it helped me at all.

“W
ell, that was a waste of time,” George said as he put the key in the ignition of his car.

“You're telling me something I don't know?” I turned up the collar on my jacket.

“Obviously not.” George nodded and changed the subject. “Have you spoken to Calli?”

“No. But I should. She was over at the house when I was down in New York.”

“So why haven't you?”

I slumped down in the seat and rubbed my arms. “I don't know. I guess I'm still mad at her for lying to me.”

George fiddled with the heat.

“Not to mention getting involved with another loser.” I glanced at George. He didn't say anything. “Calli said I'm too judgmental. Do you think so?”

“Let's say I think you're attached to your view of reality.”

“That's a diplomatic way of saying yes. Why? I'm being pretty good with you, considering.”

George touched the tips of his fingers together as he watched a car coming up the street. It slowed down as it went by us, then sped up again.

“I think we're on dangerous ground here. We should change the subject.”

“You're right. We should.” Two teenagers coming out of a house across the street gave our car the once-over. They probably thought we were narcs. I took a deep breath and let it out. White wisps hung in the air for a few seconds before dispersing. “Okay. You believe what Dirk Junior told us about Tiger Lily?”

“No. You?”

“Not really. Although it's possible.”

“Personally, I think his story is bullshit. I think he stole the dog and then pretended to tip Calli off, and she made up this whole other story to tell you so you wouldn't lecture her about Dirk.”

“I'm thinking I'd like to give the kid the benefit of the doubt.”

“Sucker.”

“Maybe.”

Actually, the more I thought about Dirk Junior's story, the more I decided George was right. According to Dirk Junior, he and Myra had gone to Calli's house to collect money that Dirk owed Myra, but Dirk didn't have it and Myra decided to take Tiger Lily instead, because she knew she'd be able to sell Lily's puppies.

At first Dirk said no, but Myra kept going and he capitulated, spineless jerk that he is. So Myra took Tiger Lily and chained her up outside. Luckily for Lily, according to Dirk Junior, he had a soft spot for goldens. After listening to her cry for two days, he couldn't stand it anymore. But he knew that talking to Myra was like talking to a tree, so he made an anonymous call to Calli, which was where I came in to the picture.

“This thing is such a mess.” I rubbed the back of my neck. I could feel a headache coming on.

“Here, let me do that,” George said. He drove with one hand and massaged my neck with the other. “That good?” he asked.

“Much better.”

“Naturally. I'm the best.”

“Not to mention humble.”

A short time later we pulled into my driveway. George took his hand off my neck and pinched the bridge of his nose. He looked like a man who needed to sleep for twelve hours straight, get up, have something to eat, and go back to bed for another twelve.

“I'll see what I can find out about the Russians,” he said.

“Maybe something you turn up will lead us to where they stashed Manuel.”

“Maybe,” George said, but he didn't sound convinced. He leaned his head back on the seat.

I lit another cigarette. The smoke swirled in front of my face and vanished—just like Manuel had, while I ran down my to-do list for George.

“I'll talk to the daughter and the art dealer again. Maybe I can shake loose something from one of them on what Janet Wilcox did with the money.”

“You think the two hundred and fifty thousand could be down in the City?”

“I have to assume that's the case.”

“She could have mailed it somewhere.”

“The idea has occurred to me.”

For all I knew, Janet Wilcox could have buried the money in the middle of the rose garden in Thornden Park, but that wasn't a productive line of thought and I wasn't going to follow it. I stubbed my cigarette out, cracked the window, and tossed the butt into the snow.

“I don't know why I keep smoking these things.”

“Because you're an idiot.”

“Thanks.”

“Any time.”

I watched one of my neighbors pull into her driveway and carry her miniature poodle into the house.

“The Russians probably found out about Manuel from Paul,” I said.

George shifted his weight around in his seat. “It seems like the most logical possibility,” he allowed.

We sat in silence for the next five minutes, neither of us wanting to get out of the car.

Finally I blurted out what I couldn't get the little voice inside my head to stop whispering in my ear. “Truth. You think Manuel's still alive?”

“Truth? Absolutely,” George said. “Nothing is happening to him until you get them their money.”

“And then when they have it . . .”

“And
muchacha,
I'm thinking.”

George smiled. It wasn't a reassuring sight. “That's not going to happen.”

“I hope not.”

“I won't let it.”

“Good to know.” I opened the door. The cold air rushed in. “Give my regards to Natalie,” I said as I got out.

George grunted. “Lay off, will you.”

“I was just being polite.”

“No, you weren't. You were being bitchy.”

“Okay, Dad. I was bitchy.”

I watched George pull out of the driveway and go down the street. When the taillights of his car vanished, I went inside my house. I hadn't put the bottle of Scotch George and I had been drinking away. It was still on the dining room table. I grabbed it and one of the glasses and went upstairs. I peeked into Manuel's bedroom on the way to my own. Bethany and Zsa Zsa were cuddled together in his bed. I tiptoed in and straightened out the comforter. Zsa Zsa opened her eyes, woofed a soft hello, closed her eyes, and went back to sleep.

I clicked on the light in my bedroom and poured myself a drink. I sipped the Scotch while I got ready for bed, but it didn't help. That click in my head that turns everything off didn't come.

I kept tossing and turning as I thought about Paul and the drinks we'd had together in his office and how I'd believed what he'd told me. Some women had no luck with men. I wondered if I was one of them, and then I wondered how the Russians had gotten hold of him and how long it had taken him to die. Then I started thinking about Manuel and where he was and how scared he must be feeling and how when it came down to it this whole thing was my fault and how the clock was ticking away.

Finally I couldn't stay in bed anymore. I threw off the covers, got up, retreived a yellow legal pad and a pencil from the drawer of my nightstand, and wrote down everybody and everything that I knew about the case. I wrote down Quintillo, Paul and Walter and Janet Wilcox and their daughter Stephanie, as well as Alima, Calli, Dirk, Dirk Junior, and the Russians.

Next I drew arrows connecting people together and wrote down every piece of information, no matter how insignificant, I had about those connections. There was something there. Something that would point me in Manuel's direction. There had to be.

Unfortunately, I couldn't see what it was. It was like having a name on the tip of your tongue but not being able to remember it. Finally, I put the pad on the bed beside me, turned off the light, and closed my eyes. Maybe if I relaxed, it would come to me. It didn't, but eventually I fell asleep anyway.

 

 

I woke up the next day feeling worse than I had when I went to bed. Around nine, after I'd walked Zsa Zsa and talked to Bethany, I started making phone calls. I couldn't get hold of Quintillo, but I did connect with Stephanie's roommate, who told me Stephanie had come back to Syracuse to sort through her parents' belongings.

“Wow,” the roommate said to me. “Are things weird these days or what?”

“Very weird.” And I hung up.

I could have called Stephanie, but face to face is always better, so I drove over to her parents' house instead. A quarter-sized patch of blue sky was visible in the east. The tree branches were wearing little caps of snow. The asphalt on the main streets was grayed out with salt. As I made a turn onto East Genesee, I spotted a black-and-gray tabby cat gingerly treading its way between two garbage cans, halting every ten steps or so to shake the snow off its paws.

I stopped at the nearest Mini Mart to get some coffee and a doughnut. When I got back in the car, I turned on the radio. The announcer was yammering on about how if it continued snowing the way it had been, we were going to hold the record for the most snow for this month of all the Upstate cities. What a thrill.

From the expression on Stephanie's face when she answered the door, she felt the same way about me that I'd felt about what the radio announcer was saying.

“I don't want to speak to you,” she informed me. “You bring bad luck.”

“That's a new one.”

“It's true.”

“You don't believe that, do you?”

Stephanie pursed her lips and looked away.

“I thought not.”

The black turtleneck sweater she was wearing made her look haggard. I'd be willing to guess she'd lost at least five more pounds since the last time I'd seen her.

“I think you might be interested in what I have to say.”

She sniffed. “Doubtful. I'm busy. Now go away.” And she tried to slam the door in my face.

But I had my foot jammed in the door already, so she couldn't. Doc Martens definitely have their uses.

“I'm sorry. I can't do that,” I told her as I pushed it open and stepped inside. “There are things we have to talk about.”

“What things?” Stephanie asked. She seemed a little more uncertain now that I was in her house.

“Your mother, for one.”

“I have nothing to say about her.”

“I think you do.”

“I'll call the police,” Stephanie threatened, but I could tell from the quaver in her voice that she really didn't mean it.

She was holding herself rigidly, as if she was afraid she'd shatter if she took a wrong step.

“Go ahead.”

I walked into the living room. Stephanie followed behind me. A black leather suitcase sat in the middle of the room. Other than that, the place looked pretty much the way it had the day I'd found her father.

“Did you just get in?”

“About half an hour ago.”

“You must have left the City early.”

Stephanie looked at me, then looked away. “I haven't been sleeping well lately.” I could tell that even that simple statement cost her.

“Join the club. You staying here?” Given what had happened, I knew that I wouldn't want to.

“It's just for a night or two.”

I indicated the room with my chin. “It must be hard to come back to this. Why aren't you staying with your friend?”

“She's away. What's it to you anyway?”

I favored her with one of my dazzling smiles. “Tell me, how come you wouldn't stay with your Dad when your mom left, but you're willing to stay here now?”

Stephanie flicked a piece of lint off her sweater. “You're the detective. You tell me.”

“Did you dislike your father that much?”

Stephanie leaned against the wall and folded her arms over her chest. “Why do you care?”

I looked around some more. “I'm just trying to understand.”

“Understand? There's nothing more to understand. They're both dead.”

“I know.”

“So what do you want with me?”

“I was wondering why you came up.”

“The same reason anyone would. To straighten things out.”

“I think maybe you had another reason.”

“You're right.” Stephanie tapped her nails on her upper arms. “I enjoy the snow. Can't get enough of that stuff.”

“Yeah. You look like a skier.” I ran a finger along the back of one of the chairs. “You been upstairs yet?”

Stephanie swallowed and shifted her weight from her right to her left foot. “I'm planning on sleeping on the sofa.”

“So you know what happened.”

“The police told me . . . They told me some. I didn't want to hear all of it.”

“That was smart.” I unzipped my parka.

Over the years, I've come to realize that truth can be an overrated commodity. There are some pictures it's better not to have rattling around inside your head.

Stephanie hugged herself. “I had to go down and identify my mother. I've never done anything like that before.”

“Most people haven't,” I said gently.

“She called me the morning before she died, you know.”

I stayed silent, waiting for her to continue.

“But I wasn't home. The message on my machine said she needed to talk to me.” Stephanie bit her lip. “I should have called her back, but I just didn't want to deal. She was nuts, you know. Really crazy. It was like my mother was different people, and you never knew who you were going to get. I should have called, though. Getting a caterer for the Nelsons' anniversary party could have waited.”

Stephanie walked over to the sofa, picked up one of the cushions off the floor, and put it back where it belonged. “Not that it matters now. She didn't give a shit about me. I don't know why I should care about her.” She was about to replace the second cushion when I heard a noise.