Rubbed Out (24 page)

Q
uintillo's mouth dropped open. His eyes widened. He clutched his chest. For a moment, I thought I was going to have to call the EMTs because he was having a heart attack.

“How the fuck did you get in here?” he demanded when he'd recovered enough to talk.

“Oh. I'm your long-lost sister, didn't you know?”

He threw the mail he'd been clutching down on the table and reached in his pocket and pulled out his cell.

“I'm calling the management company right now.”

“Don't be mad at the super. He really thought I was your sister.”

“You're full of shit. How much did you give that little spic to let you in?”

“That's so un-PC.”

“Shut up.”

“You know your forehead gets red when you get angry? It's kind of cute.” And I gave him my most winning smile. For some reason Quintillo didn't fall down at my feet.

“I'll tell you one thing,” he said. “I'm getting my locks changed tomorrow. Let that little spic just try and get a spare key from me. And he can say good-bye to his Christmas bonus.”

“I take this to mean we're not dining together?”

Quintillo took a step toward me and shook a finger in my direction.

“I could have you arrested. In fact, I'm going to.”

“For what? Breaking and entering? Stealing?”

“How about unlawful entry?”

“Okay,” I conceded. “There is that. You could call the police—that's true. Only then you wouldn't know how much trouble you're in.”

Quintillo rubbed his chin with the knuckles of his right hand. “Trouble? I'm not in any trouble. You're the one that's in trouble.”

“Yes, you are. You're in the Janet Wilcox kind of trouble.”

He snorted. “We've been over this already. I told you everything I know about Janet. You have any more questions, go ask her.”

“I'd love to, only I can't.”

“And why is that?”

“Because it's hard to talk to dead people. Mediums are so unreliable these days.”

“She's not dead,” Quintillo sneered. “You're trying to con me.”

“Am I?” I pointed to his phone. “Call her daughter and find out.” And I gave him Stephanie's number in Syracuse.

Quintillo punched in the numbers and waited. “No one's home,” he announced.

“So leave a message and she'll call back.”

“I don't believe you.”

“Why would I lie?”

His eyes moved around the room inventorying the contents as he mulled the question over.

“I didn't take anything,” I said.

“I didn't say you did.” He pulled the beige cashmere scarf he was wearing around his neck off and folded it in two. “All right,” he conceded when he was done. “What happened to her?”

“She walked into the path of an oncoming bus on 42nd Street.”

Quintillo gave all his attention to laying the scarf on the back of a green leather armchair. Then took off his coat, carefully folded it in two, and placed it over the scarf. When he was through, he looked at me.

“You know, now that you mention it, I remember hearing something about something like that on the radio, but I wasn't really paying attention.”

“Neither was she. That was the problem.”

“Poor Janet,” Quintillo mused. “She was one of those people that nothing ever worked out for.”

He walked into his kitchen, got a glass off the sideboard, and opened the freezer. I heard the click of ice cubes going into the glass. Then he came back out, took a bottle of Stolichnaya off the desk in the living room, poured himself a couple of fingers, and drank half of it down.

“Want one?” he asked.

“I'll pass. Too much to do.”

“Suit yourself,” Quintillo said and took another sip. “It's unbelievable when I think about it,” he said to me. “This woman whom I haven't seen in—I don't want to tell you in how many years—calls me up out of the blue and asks me if she can stay with me and out of the kindness of my heart . . .”

“And fifteen hundred dollars,” I interjected.

Quintillo continued as if I hadn't said anything, “. . . I say yes, and since then all I've gotten is trouble. She was like Typhoid Mary, trailing misfortune in her wake.”

“That analogy isn't really correct. Typhoid Mary has gotten a really bum rap. It turns out that . . .”

Quintillo held up his hand. “It's been a long day, so do me a favor and spare me the history lesson. I'm not interested.”

I didn't say anything.

Quintillo finished the rest of his Stoli and poured himself another finger. “Just tell me what you want. I have an opening down in Soho I have to get ready to go to.”

“Basically, I have a problem I'm hoping you can solve for me.”

“And why would I want to do that?”

“Because otherwise you'll be a very unhappy person.”

“And your reason for saying that?”

I looked around his apartment. “So how's your business doing anyway? I wonder if all these works of art have their provenances in order.”

“They're fine,” Quintillo said, but I could tell from the way he said it that it wasn't true.

“All of them?” Most art dealers are part charm, part high-powered salesman, and part con man.

“Yes. All of them. Get to the point.”

“The point is this. Janet Wilcox took two hundred and fifty thousand dollars that didn't belong to her, and now the people she took it from want it back.”

“So you told me.”

“If they don't get it, they're prepared to kill a very dear friend of mine.”

“That's too bad, but what makes you think I have it?”

“Because she stayed with you.”

“That's pretty shaky.”

“Maybe, but it's the only thing I've got.”

“I told you. I haven't seen this woman in years. Why should she give me two hundred and fifty thousand dollars?”

“She could have asked you to hold it for her.”

“I wouldn't trust me with that. Why would she?”

“Maybe she told you it was something else.”

“She didn't. The only thing she left behind was a package of dried fruit. You're welcome to look through it if you want.”

“Maybe she hid it somewhere and didn't tell you.”

“I guess that's possible,” Quintillo conceded. “Although I don't see why she would do something like that.”

“Me either,” I conceded. “But it's a possibility I'd like to eliminate.”

Quintillo shrugged. “You want to look around, be my guest. Just don't take too long.”

“Thanks.”

I didn't tell him I'd already started.

“What I want to know is why the hell Janet Wilcox chose me?”

“I think she thought you were her friend.”

“That's sad.” Quintillo fished an ice cube out of his glass with the tip of his finger and put it in his mouth. “My dentist tells me this is a bad habit,” he said as he began to crunch down on it. “He says I'm going to chip the enamel on my teeth.”

Then he turned on the television and stood in front of it and watched the news as I went through the rest of his place. I had a feeling it was going to be a waste of time, and it was. I went through the motions anyway, because I couldn't afford to leave any possibility unexamined.

“No luck, huh?” Quintillo asked when I was done.

“Nope.”

“I didn't think you'd find anything.”

The radiator next to the window in the living room clanked. I skirted the chair and stood next to Quintillo.

“What did Janet Wilcox do when she left here?”

Quintillo's eyes left the screen for a moment.

“How do you mean?”

“Did she say anything? Do anything?”

Quintillo thought for a moment. “She told me she'd rented a place for herself and thanked me for allowing her to stay here. That's about it.”

“What else?”

“She had this big suitcase, so I offered to take it down for her while she went and got her car. It seemed the least I could do.” Quintillo screwed up his mouth while he tried to recall the sequence of events. “I think it took her about fifteen minutes to get it. She'd had to park up around 85th and First. Actually, I think driving in city traffic freaked her out.

“She buzzed me from downstairs and I came down with the suitcase and put it in her trunk. Then we hugged and she thanked me again and drove away, and that was the last I saw or heard of her.”

“What kind of car was she driving?”

“Nothing very sexy. One of those Volvo station wagons that soccer moms drive.”

“Anything else?”

Quintillo shook his head. “Not that I can remember.”

I gave him my card. “If you remember anything, anything at all, please call me.”

“Is there a finder's fee or anything like that?”

“Two thousand dollars.”

I didn't have it, but I'd get it.

“Fine.” Quintillo slipped my card in his wallet. “If I hear of anything, I'll be in touch.”

That had been a waste of time, I decided as I went down the stairs. I was walking out the front door of the apartment building and wondering if it was too late to catch the next flight back to Syracuse when it hit me.

Janet Wilcox's car. I'd forgotten all about it. It was the only place I could think of that I hadn't looked. Hopefully, the police hadn't impounded it yet. On the way up to the Bronx, I called George and asked him to check my notes for the license plate number of Janet Wilcox's vehicle.

G
eorge hadn't called back by the time I left Quintillo's apartment. I thought about phoning him to see what the holdup was, but managed to control my impulse. Not easily, but I did. I was also not happy to see that it was raining again. Cabs were scarce, and by the time I got one, my jacket was damp and my hair was wet.

I watched the beads of water clinging to the windows of the cab I was in as we charged up Third Avenue. Deliverymen on bikes darted between the moving cars. People at intersections jumped over large puddles caused by the storm sewers overflowing. Pedestrians huddled under umbrellas trying to keep the rain off. Red and yellow lights from the cars reflected off the wet asphalt. Neon store signs glowed in the dark.

As we moved through Spanish Harlem, the stores got smaller, the traffic lighter, and the sidewalks had fewer people on them. Turning onto a side street I watched three men, their hair slick with water, struggling to unload a sofa from a moving van while an elderly woman stood in the doorway of a run-down building holding the door open for them.

A little farther up, two squad cars were parked kitty-comer to a vacant lot, partially blocking traffic. A group of people were arguing with the two policemen. A woman wearing a down jacket over what looked like a nightgown was being held back by a teenage boy. He reminded me of Manuel. The icy feeling in the pit of my stomach started to grow again. I took a deep breath and made myself focus on Janet Wilcox's car.

God, I hoped that the police hadn't impounded it. Down in Manhattan, they came and towed you away in a heartbeat. I was counting on traffic rules and enforcement being a little laxer in the Bronx.

As the taxi headed onto the Third Avenue Bridge, a large neon sign winked on and off through the fog. I was just thinking it reminded me of a Cyclops when George called.

“I was getting worried,” I told him.

“Well, it might be helpful if you organized things a little better,” he said to me. “It would make things easier to find. Just a suggestion.”

“I'll bear that in mind for the next time.”

“Which I hope there isn't going to be. Got something to write with?”

“I will in a second.” I fished a pencil and piece of paper out of my backpack. “So how's life in the snowbelt?” I asked George as I scribbled down the numbers he'd just given me.

“Snowing. We've got another five inches so far today.”

“Glad I'm down here.”

I could hear the squeak of George's chair as he turned. He must be sitting in front of his computer.

“The flowers turned out to be a bust. No big surprise there. The order was phoned in, and the credit card turned out to be stolen.”

“Why am I not surprised?”

“To make matters even better, Phil tells me that in Russia they have this thing where you send even-numbered flowers for funerals and odd-numbered floral arrangements for happy occasions.”

I asked the question even though I knew what the answer would be.

“How many gladioli were there?”

“Ten.”

“Wonderful.”

The knot that seemed to have taken up permanent residence in my stomach got a little bit tighter. George coughed. I could hear the murmur of the television going in the background.

“These guys are really cute,” George said. “They send us a reminder, and we can't prove anything. I should have had Phil waiting outside. He could have followed them.”

“We didn't know they'd taken Manuel.”

“Yeah, but we knew they didn't want to talk to you about coming to their house for tea.”

“I take this to mean you haven't made any more progress.”

“We turned up another name, but we can't attach an address to him.”

I realized I was tapping my fingers against the car window. I couldn't seem to stay still.

“Syracuse isn't that large.”

“It's large enough. It's not New York City, but it's not Oren either. It's harder to get lost, but not impossible. Anyway, they could be living in Clay or Minoa or B'Ville. We're going to start going through every strip joint in the county tonight. Maybe they're hanging out in one of them.”

“Tough assignment.”

“That's what I said.” There was a click on the line. “Hold on,” George said, “it might be Phil.” But it wasn't.

“You think Phil's outfit would spot us the two hundred and fifty thousand if we can't find the money in time?” I asked George.

“I don't know. There isn't much in it for them.”

“Mafia guys.”

“Low-level Mafia guys.”

“Well, you know what they say. If you want to find out what the CEO of a company is doing, ask the cleaning staff.”

“You just made that up.”

“It doesn't mean it isn't true.” The taxi lurched to one side, and I grabbed the door handle to keep from sliding across the seat. “I don't understand why they don't have information on these guys. They must have wives and girlfriends. I'm sure they're calling them.”

“I'm sure they are, but there's only so far Phil can go unofficially. As it is, he's stretching the line pretty thin. For another thing, these guys are using their cells, not land lines. And thirdly, when we get down to it—we can't tie these clowns to anything. We can't tie them to Wilcox's death. We can't tie them to Santini's disappearance. We can't tie them to Manuel's disappearance. We can't even tie them to the friggin' flowers, for Christ's sake.”

“I know. I know.” I changed the topic to one a little less depressing. “How's Bethany doing?”

“The same way she was when I came over this morning. Badly. The only thing that's keeping her together is taking care of Zsa Zsa.”

“More guilt. Just what I need. Thank you so much,” I said to George as the taxi headed into the Bronx.

I was looking out the window. Piles of garbage bags were stacked in front of five-story brick buildings. Spindly trees glittered under the streetlights. Most of the cars parked along the curbs were cheaper than the models in Manhattan, and the people out on the street were dressed for warmth instead of style.

“Anytime,” he said. He paused for a moment, then said, “Maybe I should talk to some of Manuel's friends. See if they know anything.”

“I already have. They don't.”

“It never hurts to reinterview.”

“I don't think they'll talk to you.”

“Oh, yes, they will.” George's voice was grim.

“Fine.” I gave him the list. Even though George would never admit it, I knew his lack of success finding anything was gnawing away at his guts. “I'll call you when I find Janet Wilcox's car.”

“You do that,” George said and clicked off.

Ten minutes later the driver dropped me in front of the house Janet Wilcox had stayed at. The lights in the lower apartment were on. It looked as if someone was home. I climbed the steps and knocked. An elderly, heavyset woman in jogging pants and a bright fuchsia sweatshirt with the slogan
Grandmother of the Year
emblazoned across her chest, answered the door. She had a towel slung over one shoulder and was holding a wooden spoon in the other. The smell of roasting chicken floated out of the door.

“Yes?” she said peering up at me.

I glanced at the name on the mailbox. “Are you Mrs. Marino?”

“If you're selling anything, you'll have to come back when my husband's home.”

“It's nothing like that.” I introduced myself as Janet Wilcox's sister.

“Her sister?” Mrs. Marino studied my face. “You don't look like her sister.”

“Half-sister. Same mother, different fathers.”

Mrs. Marino shook her head. “All these—what do they call them—blended families. Things were a lot less complicated in my day, I can tell you that. You got married and you stayed married. Period. Whether you liked each other or not. Not that anyone asks my opinion.” She narrowed her eyes and inspected me carefully. “So why are you here again?”

I gave her the story I'd come up with in the taxi. “My sister was supposed to meet us down in the City for a family gathering. She never showed up, and when I couldn't get her on the phone I decided to come up and see what's going on.”

“Why not call the police?” Mrs. Marino wiped her hands on the dish towel on her shoulder.

I gave an apologetic shrug. “I don't want to say anything bad about her, but she was going out with this man . . . and frankly, I'm afraid she might have taken off with him again.”

Mrs. Marino grimaced. “Just like my sister, may she rest in peace. Ran off with a gambler who left her with three children.” She shook her head. “I swear some women don't have the sense that God gave them.”

“My sister doesn't.”

Mrs. Marino clicked her tongue against her teeth. “I haven't seen her in days. Not that I usually keep track, you understand,” she said quickly. “I always tell my tenants a person rents a place from me and it's like she isn't here.”

Why didn't I believe that?

Mrs. Marino made an adjustment to her towel. “The only reason I've been looking for her is that I need to talk to her about the rent. She's only paid up for one month, so I need to know what her plans are. If she's not going to stay, I have to get the place cleaned out.”

“I'll get her daughter to call you.”

Mrs. Marino nodded.

“I was thinking, do you know if my sister took her car?”

“How should I know that?”

“I assume she was storing it in your garage.”

“Oh, no.” Mrs. Marino put a wisp of gray hair back under her hairnet with her free hand. “There's no room down there for something like that.”

“Do you know where she put it?”

Mrs. Marino shrugged. “I suppose on the street along with everyone else's.” She turned to go. “If you don't mind, I have a chicken in the oven . . .”

I took a step forward. “I was wondering if I could just go upstairs for a moment and look around.”

Mrs. Marino gave me another hard look, then gestured for me to come in. The house was immaculate. The hall table and the tables in the living room were all overflowing with family pictures. I followed her into the kitchen. A pan full of hand-rolled pasta was drying on the kitchen table. An old cast-iron pan on top of the stove was bubbling with sauce. If my stomach wasn't turning and twisting, it would have made me want to eat.

“You know,” she said as she opened a drawer and took out a small, square tin can. “I'm seventy-six years old.” I watched her pry the lid off and go through the contents. “Ah, here we are,” she said. She handed me a key on a piece of red wool.

“You don't get to be my age without learning to mind your own business. I've done that with my children and their spouses and my grandchildren and I've found it works out just fine. Things have a way of arranging themselves the way they want to anyway regardless of what we do.”

She pointed to the key. “Don't forget to return this when you're done.”

“I won't.”

“They cost money to make, you know. And I either want the next month's rent, or I want your sister's belongings out of here, you understand?”

“Perfectly.”

“Good. My mother always said that a woman alone was trouble.” She turned and opened the oven door. “If you wouldn't mind letting yourself out, I have to baste the chicken.”

I did as requested.

 

 

Things looked exactly the way they had the last time I'd been in Janet Wilcox's flat. As far as I could see, nothing had been moved. But this time I really went through the place. I opened up every cabinet and went through every drawer. I took them out and examined the sides and the bottoms to make sure Janet hadn't taped the money to the bottom of them.

I looked behind the two sinks and in the toilet bowl tank. I took all the pillows off the sofa and easy chairs and ran my hands in the cracks formed by the junctures between the bottom and the sides. Then I tipped them over and looked underneath.

I lifted up the rug in the living room and the bedrooms. I stripped the bed and tipped the mattress off the box spring. I went through the hall and the bedroom closets inch by inch, but all I found were dust bunnies and a couple of old gum wrappers. I tapped on the baseboards and the walls, but they were solid. Last but not least, I went through Janet Wilcox's suitcase. I folded and unfolded every piece of clothing in it. I went through her toiletry bag and looked in her shoes.

I wanted to believe her suitcase had some sort of secret compartment, but I knew it didn't. It was just an ordinary piece of luggage that she'd probably bought at some place like Marshall's. The only thing that was unusual was that I couldn't find an address book or anything of that ilk. I knew she hadn't been carrying it in her bag. Maybe she'd kept it in the car.

By the time I was done putting everything back in order, my arms were aching, my nose was itching from the dust, and I was no nearer to finding the two hundred and fifty thousand dollars than I had been when I'd come up here.

“You find anything that would help you?” Mrs. Marino asked as I handed her the key.

“Unfortunately not.”

“Don't worry. Your sister will call you when this guy dumps her. Believe me. I know.” And she closed the door and went back to her cooking.

 

 

The rain had stopped, but it was still cold and damp. I zipped up my jacket and turned up the collar and put my gloves on and began my search for Janet Wilcox's car. I started on the block I was on and then began walking in ever widening circles. Of course, there was a chance that the car wasn't even on the street. Wilcox could have stored it in a garage or the police could have towed it. But right now, in light of any evidence to the contrary, I had to assume that Janet Wilcox had off-loaded her suitcase, then parked her car nearby—rela—tively speaking.