Rubbed Out (8 page)

“Okay John. How long have you've been doing Janet Wilcox's hair?”

He twisted the silver AIDS bracelet on his left wrist around. “You mean that Palm Beach crash helmet do she insists on having?” He rolled his eyes. “God. I've been spraying those curls for ten—no, eleven years. Or is it twelve? I don't want to do the math. It's too frightening. Scary how fast time goes, isn't it?”

I agreed that it was.

He gestured with his free hand. “The principessa has a standing appointment every Thursday at nine-forty-five in the morning. Not that her majesty is ever here on time.”

He fastened a black nylon cape over my shoulders and told me to look down. Then he began to cut. I could hear the snick-snack of the scissors.

“Frankly,” he continued. “I'm surprised she left. I didn't think anything could pry her out of that house of hers. The way she talks, you'd think it was the Taj Mahal.”

I looked up.

“Don't do that,” John said. “I don't want to cut you.”

I went back to looking at my knees.

“Well, at least her husband is having a rest,” John added.

“I take it you don't like her.”

“Let's just say that she wants me to do back flips through burning hoops and then doesn't tip me.” He clicked his tongue against his teeth. “I just couldn't imagine living with her. She's one of those people that polish their grievances up like precious stones and take them out every time they have a chance.”

“It sounds as if she and her husband were a match.”

He grunted, put his scissors down, and ran both hands through my hair, pulling it out to either side as he studied my reflection.

“Do you think she's suicidal?” I asked thinking of what Wilcox had told me.

“Oh, please. She's a bitch.” He pronounced it beatch. “People like that don't kill themselves, they drive other people to it.”

Okay.

“Do you have any idea where she could have gone?”

He laughed. “Oh, yes. I think I can make a pretty good guess.”

And he told me what I wanted to know.

E
xcept for a woman wading through a snowbank to get to her car, the sidewalk was empty when I stepped outside the salon. The weatherman had promised it wouldn't get below twenty. The weatherman had lied. It felt as if we were into the single digits, but maybe that was because of the wind, which had kicked up again.

I jammed my hands in my pockets and headed for my vehicle. By the time I got there—a minute at most—my earlobes were stinging. After I pulled out onto James Street, I called Walter Wilcox at his office, but his secretary informed me he'd already gone home. I tried him there.

He picked up on the third ring. “Mike,” he said, sounding out of breath, as if he'd just run up the stairs.

“No. This is Robin Light.”

“Sorry.”

An SUV cut me off. “Idiot!” I yelled at the guy.

“What?” The phone crackled.

“Nothing.” I tried the heat. It still wasn't working. By the time it got going, I'd be where I had to go. “I might have a lead on your wife.”

Wilcox exhaled. “Thank God. I've been so worried. Where is she?”

“Down in the City.”

“You mean New York City?” Alarm undercut the relief in his voice.

“Yes.”

“That's impossible.”

“Not according to my sources.”

“But she hates that place. I could never get her to go down there.”

“Well, she's down there now.”

“Are you sure?”

“Moderately.”

“All those people.”

“Eight million.” Or was it more? Or less? I forget.

“How will you find her?”

“I think I can narrow down the odds considerably.”

Opera was playing in the background. I wondered if Wilcox ever listened to anything else. I wondered if he had a glass in his hand. I was willing to wager he did.

“Then you know who she's staying with?”

“I've got a name.”

“How did you get it?”

“From her hairdresser.”

“Janet's hairdresser?” I could hear the question in Wilcox's voice, and then he spelled it out. “You're sure she's reliable?”

“He,” I corrected as I sped through a yellow light because I was afraid I'd skid out if I stomped on the brakes.

All those years and Wilcox still didn't know anything about someone his wife had seen once a week every week for at least ten years. If that didn't encapsulate the problem with his marriage, nothing did. “Yeah,” I said, remembering the hairdresser's tone when he'd spoken about Janet. “I think he's reliable. And anyway, it's the only lead I've come up with so far.”

“That's good. That's very good.” I could hear the slur of alcohol in Wilcox's voice. “I want you to go down there and find her.”

I thought about leaving the store. I thought about the fact that I'd been spending too much time away from Zsa Zsa. I thought about the fact that the weather forecast was predicting a nor'easter coming up from the Carolinas. I thought about the fact that I'd been running on four hours of sleep a night for the past week.

“Sorry, but you're going to have to count me out. I'm sure Paul can find you someone to take over.”

“I don't care if he gets me Sherlock Holmes. You're the person I hired, you're the person I want.”

“Listen. . .”

“It's just going down to the City, for God's sake.”

I heard ice cubes clinking in a glass. Wilcox must be refreshing his drink.

“I know what it is.”

I pulled into the Dunkin' Donuts parking lot. I needed a large coffee and two chocolate-peanut doughnuts, and I needed them badly. I also needed to sit someplace warm and defrost my toes and my fingers. Especially my toes. Which felt like pieces of wood.

“It's not a big deal.”

“Then you go.”

“I can't. I have things to do up here.”

“So do I.”

“This is important.”

“I realize that, Walter,” I began when Wilcox interrupted.

“God love you. I won't forget this,” he cried. His vowels had become softer. He was starting to run his words together. “Call me the moment you've located her. And whatever you do, don't talk to her. I don't want to scare her.” And he hung up before I could reply.

I stared at the phone for a minute. Paul could deal with this. Wilcox was his client, after all. I went inside and got three doughnuts instead of two. I sat by the window and ate them and watched the lights of the cars going by and thought about New York City at dusk. When I lived down there, it had always seemed like the loneliest time of the day to me. It still did. I crushed my napkin, stuffed it into my empty coffee cup, tossed the cup in the trash, and drove over to Paul's office.

The State Tower Building was emptying out as people went home for dinner. Paul was on the phone when I walked through his office door.

“Wilcox,” he mouthed. I moved some newspapers off a chair and sat down while he told Wilcox not to worry. That he'd take care of everything.

“Get someone else. I'm not going,” I announced to Paul when he got off the line. “I already told him that. He just refuses to listen. Or he's too drunk to listen. I don't know which.”

“Not even for a two hundred and fifty dollar bonus?”

“Get real, Santini.”

“Okay. Five hundred.”

“I may be cheap, but I'm not that cheap.”

“A thousand extra for two days' work? Robin, come on. It's not that big a deal,” Paul said. “Manuel can fill in for you.”

And he reached in his back pocket, took out his wallet, counted out ten one-hundred-dollar bills, and laid them on the desk one at a time. Watching him, I realized he looked tired. Maybe it was the light, but the lines around his mouth looked deeper, the circles under his eyes darker.

The money was too good to turn down, which I'm sure Paul knew. And besides, it had occurred to me that maybe I needed to get out of Syracuse for a while. Sometimes any change of scenery is a good one. Especially when everywhere I went reminded me of George.

“Why do you care about Wilcox?”

Paul drummed his fingers on the desk. “I don't. I just like to keep my clients happy. Besides, he has some important friends.”

I snorted. “Like who?”

Paul rattled off the names of some local politicians as I folded up the bills and put them in my pocket.

“That's supposed to impress me?”

“No. But it's good for business.” Paul reached into his bottom desk drawer and brought out a bottle of twenty-five-year-old Scotch. “A gift from a grateful client of mine.” He grinned. “Let's drink to success. We can both use it.”

I certainly could. I looked at the bottle. It was warm in here. The radiator was making a comforting hissing noise. I could taste the peaty aftertaste of the Scotch. I could feel the warmth in my mouth and throat. So I said, sure. Why not? It had been a crappy week.

I took off my parka and threw it on the sofa. Paul pulled two glasses out of another drawer. They were smudged. I decided I didn't care. The alcohol would kill whatever pathogens were on them.

“Straight?” he asked.

“Is there another way?”

“Not for me.” He poured two fingers into my glass and handed it to me. “How's old Georgie doing?”

“I wouldn't know. I haven't seen him lately. Why are you asking?”

“Just making conversation.”

“Oh.” I wondered if Paul knew about Natalie. It wouldn't have surprised me if he did. Paul knew everything. I don't know how he did, but he did. He was like Manuel that way.

Paul raised his glass and I raised mine.

“To truth,” he said.

“I like success better.”

“To success then.”

We drank. Paul refilled our glasses. We lifted them again.

“To finding Janet Wilcox,” I proposed.

“To big fees,” Paul said.

We drank to that.

“Do you ever worry that you're drinking too much?” Paul asked.

“Sometimes. You?”

“Sometimes.”

I raised my glass and he poured me another shot, then did the same for himself.

Half an hour later I was stepping out of the elevator of the State Tower Building with my bonus, plus fifteen hundred dollars' worth of expense money, and the information I needed about the man Janet Wilcox was allegedly staying with in my backpack.

I went home, walked Zsa Zsa, had another couple of nightcaps, and fell asleep on the sofa watching television.

T
hat night I dreamt about Murphy. I was sitting in the middle of an island so small that there was only room for me. Murphy was standing over me telling me something about a wall and the color purple and that I shouldn't worry about the thing underneath when Zsa Zsa woke me up barking at a snowplow going down the street. My heart was still racing as I looked outside. The sky was white; the air was filled with flakes.

It looked beautiful and would drive lousy. I reached over and clicked to the Weather Channel. The announcer was predicting possible blizzard-like conditions as far down as the metropolitan area. Read New York City. Better and better. Especially since two inches of snow tended to paralyze the City.

I got on my boots, put on my parka, and walked outside with Zsa Zsa. She jumped in and out of the drifts. Little clumps of snow clung to her ears and nose.

“What do you think?” I asked her. “Should I go or stay?”

She woofed.

“Go. I agree. Nothing like a change of scenery to change your viewpoint.”

And I motioned for her to come back in. I dried her off with a big towel and went into the kitchen. I was just about to make myself some coffee, then go upstairs and tell Manuel what I was going to do, when Bethany waltzed into the kitchen.

“You were asleep when I came in,” she explained.

I stopped grinding the beans. “What are you doing here?”

“We have a snow day. It was on the television last night.”

“That's not the issue. You shouldn't be here.”

“Manuel's mom said it was okay.”

“Did she?”

I didn't think it was, but I bit my tongue. It was too early in the morning to talk about this.

“You think I'm lying?” Bethany demanded, putting her hands on her hips.

“I didn't say that.”

“Sorry.”

“I like your hair.”

She smiled. “Thanks.”

One thing was for sure. She looked better now than she had when her parents had hired me to find her last year when she'd run away. She'd lost weight since then as well as the platinum hair, the big gold earrings and chains, and the baggy clothes she'd been sporting. Despite what her father said, maybe she and Manuel were good for each other.

Of course, Manuel wasn't why she'd gotten booted out of her nice, middle-class Cazenovia household. That had to do with her generally lousy attitude. And it was pretty bad. But I don't know. If I had a kid, I don't think I'd give up on her so easily.

Bethany ran her finger down the handle of one of the mugs out on the counter. “I'm sixteen.”

“I know how old you are.”

“I'm not a kid.”

“In the eyes of the law you are. And what is this stuff Manuel was telling me about you divorcing your parents?”

Bethany slouched against the counter. “I can go to court and have myself declared an emancipated minor. My father told me he doesn't care. And my mother always follows everything he says.”

“Are you going to?”

“Maybe.”

“And who's going to support you?”

“Me. I'll get a job at the mall.”

“What about school?”

“I'll finish up at OCC.” Bethany studied her nails. “Manuel's mom says I can stay with her a little bit longer.”

“And then?”

“I'll figure something out.” Bethany reached over and took my hand. “Manuel said he's going to get me a golden retriever puppy.” She beamed. “I've always wanted one, but my father would never have one in the house. Too much hair.”

“Bethany, having a puppy is like having a baby.”

“I know.” Her smile got wider.

I didn't know what else to say. She reminded me of myself at that age, and it was too painful to watch.

She leaned against the kitchen counter. “So what are you up to?”

“I'm getting ready to go down to the City.”

“On a case?”

I nodded.

Her eyes widened. “Cool. I'll make your coffee for you and bring it up to you.”

“Sure. Thanks.” I turned to go upstairs and pack.

“And don't worry,” Bethany called after me. “I'll take good care of Zsa Zsa. And I'll make sure Manuel does the dishes and shovels the sidewalk.”

It was too bad she couldn't be like this with her own parents, I thought as I got a suitcase out of my closet, but I guess that wasn't going to happen. At least not any time soon. Zsa Zsa jumped on the bed and whined while I threw clothes into the suitcase. She knew I was going. By the time I got back down, Manuel was in the kitchen eating cereal.

“Maybe you should wait for the weather to clear,” he said.

“I'll be fine. I'll call you when I get into the City.”

Bethany came over and gave me a hug. “You be careful.”

“I will.” I hugged her back and knelt on the kitchen floor and hugged Zsa Zsa. She smelled like popcorn. “You be a good girl and take care of the house,” I crooned in her ear. She licked my chin. “Mommy will be back soon.”

She walked me to the door. When I pulled out of the driveway, she was on the chair looking out the window. Even though she was in good hands, I felt bad about leaving her.

Usually to get to New York City from Syracuse takes anywhere from four and a half to five and a half hours depending on the route you take, the time of day, and the weather. This time it took me seven. I probably should have taken the New York State Thruway. The State does a good job of keeping it clear in bad weather. Instead I went down through the Catskills on Route 17. In the spring, summer, and fall, it's a beautiful ride—a winding mountain road that goes through what is, for my money, some of the best scenery in New York State.

But not today. Today the road was littered with cars that had slid off into ditches. Given them and the periodic whiteouts, I drove at a prudent forty-five miles an hour. But by the time I reached the town of Liberty, New York, the snow had turned to flurries. The flurries, in turn, changed to a hard rain that thrummed on the hood of my car as I hit the Palisades Parkway.

My car headlights reflected off the wet asphalt. I had to hunch forward to see. When I reached the top level of the George Washington Bridge, my eyes were aching from the effort of focusing. The river was shrouded in fog, the Manhattan skyline hidden in the gray mists. Traffic moved slowly on the Henry Hudson Parkway—at least that hadn't changed—and I watched the lights from the apartments on the Palisades wink on and off as if they were sending Morse code.

I got off at the 96th Street entrance and went across town. Even though this side of the City had become fashionable, it still looked bleak in the rain, a picture of gray on gray, with people scurrying to where they had to go. I was glad I was in my car instead of out walking.

The apartment Janet Wilcox was supposedly camping out in belonged to a man named Salvatore Quintillo. According to Janet's hairdresser, Quintillo was a friend of Janet's from college. According to Paul, Quintillo was a one-time painter who now sold decorator art to doctors and dentists. He worked out of his apartment on 81st Street between Third Avenue and Lexington, as well as renting office space in the back of a small gallery on 95th Street.

I'd had an apartment three blocks away from Quintillo's before I moved upstate. I had good times there. Sad ones. Painful ones. Ones I had no desire to revisit.

But there were also the calls from the credit card companies, not to mention the sales tax I owed New York State and the five hundred dollars I owed the power company. So here I was. Back in my old neighborhood. The Upper East Side.

I'd read somewhere that this ZIP Code had the largest concentration of rich people in America. I believed it. When I was growing up, it hadn't been like that. It had been middle-middle class, with lots of mom-and-pop stores and restaurants—mostly Hungarian—where you could get an entire meal for eight dollars. Now there were food boutiques that displayed apples as if they were precious jewels and neighborhood restaurants that charged $10.50 for a BLT.

My mother was one of those rich people. She lived on Park Avenue. Eight blocks away from Quintillo's. A five-minute drive. A seven-minute walk. She lived in a white-glove building. Doorman. Elevator man. The whole schmeer. You walked into the lobby and you felt as if you should be talking in whispers. My mother's living room was as big as my dining room and living room combined. That place held a lot of memories for me. Most of them bad. That was one of the reasons I'd come to Syracuse. To put as much distance between her and me as possible.

I took a deep breath and turned my mind to what Paul had told me. From what he'd been able to ascertain, Quintillo did a good business helping Park Avenue docs maintain the upscale tone to their offices that enabled them to charge as much as they did. My question, given what I'd heard about Janet, was why were those two friends? What bound them together? According to everyone I'd talked to, Janet Wilcox had no friends. None at all. From everything I'd been told about her, I would have expected her to be staying in a hotel.

Too bad she wasn't. Then I could have sat in the lobby, read a book, and waited for her to come down.