The Granite Moth (18 page)

Simon stopped chuckling when he saw the angle of my arm. He glanced at the debris on the net and started to backpedal, anxiety making his bluster less convincing than before. He might have been a little off, but he'd have to be full-on crackpot to take a potential lawsuit in stride.

“We've
never had any trouble with our equipment before. And you're not a client, remember? This was
quid pro quo
. And you've already wasted five of your precious minutes,” he said, gesturing toward the office window where I could see a greasy face peering at me through the window. “You ready for your chat?”

It didn't seem like the best idea given my injury and discombobulation, but when would I have another chance? The NYPD hadn't charged the juggler with anything, leaving him free to run whenever he pleased. And Ellis knew where I was. What was this job if not a series of calculated risks? I waved at the window with my unhurt arm and walked toward the matching plastic chairs in front, making a small stand by not going inside to be trapped. I guess the suspect must have approved of my compromise because I heard the door squeak open seconds later. He lowered himself beside me.

“Do I need a translator?” I asked, and he flicked his tongue at me suggestively. “Cute,” I said, managing not to scream. “I bet the ladies are lined up around the block.”

“Righ, and I'm marsssing in a leotard for girsss.”

I couldn't tell if the hissing was for effect or a genuine lisp, but I was glad that I was able to understand him. He rubbed his face in a white towel, leaving uneven streaks of purple and green on his cheeks and forehead. They didn't compliment the acne, and I guessed his age to be early twenties, maybe even younger. He was small, and a well-timed shove could easily send him flying.

“Money's money,” I said, but fine. He wasn't waiting around for women. It was apparent that the tongue split was new, still puffy from the surgery, and I guessed the procedure to be a thousand bucks, maybe more. Nothing compared to the elaborate cobra tattoo that circled his forearm, each scale precisely rendered, both fangs dripping blood. Three thousand at least.
When working undercover, the youngest Costa had gotten a six-inch gold and red dragon that set him back two grand. Of course, Nino was known for being taken in by swindlers. Eva got the whole family's share of common sense.

“I wouldn hur my own kin on purpossse.”

“So it was an accident. Let's say, someone paid you to start a fire, create a page six story for the tabloids, not two corpses. A jury might understand that. Especially if you help me.”

I glanced in Simon's direction. He was standing too far away to hear, but I had no doubt that his friend would repeat the entire conversation. Snake man was looking at him, too, and rubbing at a stubborn spot of makeup. There was a quarter-sized patch of irritated skin, two bumps rising on the corners. He picked at them until one started bleeding, then turned toward me. “I was pusssed.”

“Let's say that's true then. Let's say someone shoved you from behind. You would turn to see who it was, right? You don't seem like a pushover to me.”

“Ssso many disssquises. Ssso many masssks.” He stood up, signaling that my time was up, then said without a trace of a speech problem: “After awhile, who can keep track of what's real and what's fantasy?”

The emergency room visit was blessedly short, and I was free two hours later with my arm in a sling and my head in the clouds. It had taken two people to reset my partially dislocated elbow, and twice as many pain meds. I had treated myself to a cab ride and was looking forward to lying down on my office futon for the rest of the day. Of course, it wasn't the calm oasis I was expecting, but instead the battleground for one very pissed off assistant.

I had never seen Meeza mad before, and in my haze, I didn't recognize the signs at first: crossed arms, tapping foot, furrowed brow. Even her first words didn't clue me in, an overly polite inquiry as to my whereabouts. I mumbled something about the ER and sank down beside her on the couch. She leapt up as if I'd thrown water on her, and an idea clicked slowly into place.

“So now I'm a suspect,” Meeza began, cutting me off before I could explain that V.P. had threatened me.

“Of course not. I trust you completely.” While the words came out clearly, I felt as if I were shouting down a long hallway.

“Then you should trust Vincent. You introduced us,
aare bhagvaan
.” I wanted to object to my role as matchmaker since that had certainly never been my intention, but Meeza was on a roll. “Years of old widows, barely adults with fuzz on their chins, a yeller, a taxidermist, a man who laughed so loudly at his own jokes that snot would dip out of his nose. Anyone would do, according to my family. Then finally,
finally
, I meet a real winner. Sweet to me, employed. Smile as cute as a—a damn cricket.” She flushed when she swore, but kept going. “You know what I think? I think—I think you're no good at being a friend.”

Meeza swallowed hard, and tears filled her doe-like eyes. I stood and tried to hug her, but black spots swam in my vision. My assistant wasn't having any of it anyway.

When she left, the office looked a lot bleaker. I dialed Ellis from the office landline and paced back and forth with not quite military precision, but an A for effort. I needed to stay awake. Three steps toward the window, three steps away. Deep breaths helped, but it seemed to take longer than usual for the detective to pick up. I could hear good-natured shouting in the background when he said “hello.” I wondered how he was balancing his real caseload at the precinct with the pro bono work on his brother's disappearance.

“
Discretion, thy name is Dekker.”

“She'll recover.”

“So you knew my sweet assistant would object to your interrogation methods, but still preceded to—what—key a few cars, drop some judge names, make a nuisance of yourself?”

My lucidity surprised me. Either the walking or irritation was working. Ellis didn't respond, and I did another office lap, reminding myself that he had lost a brother, not a date. I could be more sympathetic if I made an effort.

“How'd the interview with V.P. go?” I asked.

“What'd you find out?”

The change in subject made me feel as if something was being hidden from me, but I told him about my meeting with Simon and the juggler, Indigo Ivan according to the flyer he gave me as a parting gift. “Ol' Indigo is sticking with his story that someone pushed him. Claims everyone around him was wearing masks. But Simon's protective of his friend. Can you run a background check? Simon Simpson, his card says. Indigo wouldn't tell me his real name, but I'll see if I can find out anything from the parade registration.”

When Ellis agreed to the background check without argument, I knew he was keeping something from me and said as much. After a pause, he started talking in a voice of practiced neutrality.

“When I went out to V.P.'s place, there were a dozen or so visible vehicles on the premises, ranging in value from a few hundred dollars to a few thousands.”

I'd been to V.P.'s so-called car lot and knew the scene he was describing. “Jalopies, right.” I'd driven my fair share of them.

“Yeah, but after poking around, I found a secret facility.”

The VIP garage. I was familiar. V.P. kept his nicest stolen vehicles in an air-conditioned hanger of sorts. I'd been upgraded after I introduced him to Meeza. I felt queasy at the thought, and I sat down, waiting for
Ellis to tell me something that I didn't already know.

“I recognized one of the cars.”

“What do you mean?”

“There aren't too many Teslas on the road. And Lars's is that color and model. Silver, convertible.”

“Tags?”

“Brand new. Michigan. V.P.'s fakes are better than ever.”

I paused, wondering if Ellis was overreacting. I mean, there are plenty of wealthy Manhattanites who might have, ahem, lent V.P. their $100,000 car, right? And even if Ellis really had seen his brother's Tesla, what connection could there possibly be between Vincent Patel—small-time crook with big-time ambitions—and Lars Dekker—millionaire and playboy? I'm all for the mixing of classes, but how did these two even meet?

“Could V.P. have taken him for his car?” I ventured, shaking my head even as I made the suggestion.

Ellis paused again, and I closed my eyes. I couldn't stay awake much longer, but I wanted to know the details. “He didn't deny threatening you,” Ellis said, quietly so that anyone around him wouldn't overhear. I could picture him glancing over his shoulder for eavesdroppers. “He seemed proud of it really. Ready to follow through.”

“But I just met Lars,” I objected, my face hot as I realized that I may have put someone else's life in danger. It wasn't the first time, but it was the first time since I'd left my undercover job. Even then, I only felt mildly guilty for putting people like the Costas in harm's way. They knew that they weren't pushing life insurance policies. But why had I let myself get attached to people in the real world?
But I like him,
I thought.

“But you like him,” Ellis said. I hung up and dreamed of a car filled with snakes, their mouths dripping blood, their fangs smashing into the windows as they tried to escape.

CHAPTER TWENTY

I
decided that the “No Loitering” sign didn't apply to pesky P.I.s, and I leaned against the dark windows of a dress shop featuring robot mannequins. Their silver faces were twisted into garish smiles, and I vowed never to wear the sweaters they advertised even if I could afford them. Which I probably couldn't considering that I was hardly a block away from the most expensive stretch of Fifth Avenue, sipping a lukewarm coffee and keeping my eye on the revolving doors across the street. Sure, it was a long shot that Sybil would be back to her gambling habits so soon after our traumatic night together, but I'd woken up at midnight, my internal clock disoriented by the pain meds. A stakeout beat rearranging my filing cabinet.

I'd donned the Kennedy S. Vanders wig to make it easier for the woman to recognize me. She wouldn't trust me, but fingers crossed, she wouldn't pepper spray me either. I'd tried calling her Winston & Winston lawyers as directed, but the assistants had taken messages then—just a hunch—threw them in the trash. One Tesla notwithstanding, it seemed unlikely that Ernesto's death and Lars's disappearance weren't linked
somehow. I wasn't sure if I was waiting to speak to a suspect or a potential victim.

Ellis had promised to contact Lars's midtown garage, see if his car had been parked there lately. He would also try to get his hands on V.P.'s phone records, but I knew that would be a waste of time. V.P. used disposables, texting his new number to clients every couple of weeks. Meeza must have been too infatuated to question this unusual practice. Or perhaps I'd set a bad example. I didn't replace my phones monthly, but I'd had three sets of personal and business lines since she'd known me. They were my yearly birthday present to myself. What can I say? I know how to have a good time.

Luck was on my side for once, because around 2
A.M.
, Sybil came barreling out into the night. She had an unlit cigarette dangling from her lips, and I figured I could steal a few minutes of her time before she hailed a taxi. A gypsy cab honked at her, but she waved it away, then covered her lighter to block the wind. I forced myself not to sprint toward her, but instead, waited for traffic to clear before approaching. She took in my banged up arm, exhaling smoke in my direction. “I know your type,” she said. “The looking for trouble type. Not my favorite.”

“Nor mine,” I said, stopping a few feet from her personal space. Sybil Sheridon had been easy to research. At twenty-five, she'd bought her first local television station in California, and by thirty-five, she was a media bigwig. One of
Forbes
Most Powerful Women in 2003 and 2004. Her bio since then was a little light, but there'd been rumors about an advisory position on Hillary Clinton's as yet unannounced presidential campaign. She'd been the least polished of anyone in the poker room, save the victim, but I expected her net worth and connections would give the others, well, a run for their money.

“I'm glad that's
settled then. I won't be answering any of your questions, but you can stand here inhaling secondhand smoke if that's your bag.”

“I want to find out what happened to Ernesto Belasco.”

“Beats me, honey. Beats me.” She sounded tough, but her eyes watered. This time when she exhaled, she turned to blow the smoke away from me. At this small victory, I took a step closer and could smell whiskey on her breath or seeping from her pours. She was drunk but coherent.

“You don't have to answer any questions. Tell me about him. Whatever you remember.”

Sybil thought over this offer and must have decided that it was acceptable because she mentioned that she'd been a Skyview member since it opened two years ago.
Right after Eva's wedding
, I thought.
What a honeymoon gift.
I pondered how the rich and famous found out about these exclusive places. Was there some sort of Listserv for new yacht parties and so on?