Authors: Peter Leonard
Unknown Remains (6 page)
“Drink up, I've got to go to bed.”
“You can tell me how you feel about what happened, whatever it is. I don't judge, and the conversation doesn't go any further than me.”
“You don't have to write a report and send it to HR?”
“Whatever you say to me is strictly confidential.” Maybe it was the booze, maybe it was the low light, but Diane McCann looked sad now. He wanted to seize the moment, take advantage of the situation.
“Not tonight. I'm tired.”
“You'll feel better, I promise you.” Cobb wanted to keep pushing but cautioned himself against overdoing it. Wait till the next session, he told himselfâthinking like a grief counselor. He left the untouched drink where it was, moved around the island counter, reached out like a preacher, and took her hands in his. “We're gonna get through this,” he said like it was his problem, too. Diane McCann had tears in her eyes, all the toughness gone out of her, acting like a little girl now. He hugged her and she hung on. He could feel her breasts against his chest. Cobb wondering, in her vulnerable state, should he make a move, try to get some, but she pushed out of his embrace and looked away, probably embarrassed 'cause she'd let her guard down. “Would you mind if I called you tomorrow?”
“Okay.”
He'd hit a nerve. Jesus, he'd hit something. “Hang in there,” Cobb said, moving toward the French doors. “I'll let myself out.”
She followed him anyway, and when he was outside on the patio, he heard her lock the door.
He went to Friday's across from the hotel and saw Ruben sitting at the bar, trying to deal a bleached blonde with big knockers, Ruben talking, gesturing with his hands. The woman looked bored. Ruben took off one of his diamond rings, big ugly thing set in yellow gold, and handed it to the woman. She looked at the ring and handed it back, got up, said something to Ruben, and walked toward the restrooms.
Cobb came up behind him. “What'd you do, scare her?”
“She wants me to take her home. Husband's out of town.”
That wasn't the way it looked to Cobb. “Yeah? Where is she?”
“In the can.” He picked up his glass and took a drink. “All it takes is confidence. Doesn't matter what you look like. Know what I mean?”
Ruben said that a lot: “Know what I mean?” Like what he was saying was some big fucking mystery.
“Tell her you were a fighter?”
“I might've mentioned it.”
Might've mentioned it? It was the first thing out of his mouth, before he said his name. Cobb signaled the bartender and ordered a 7 and 7.
“How'd you do with McCann's wife?”
“I softened her up. She's almost ready to talk, wants to tell someone about her problems. You've got to be patient, look for the right opening, the right opportunity. Like boxing, huh?”
Ruben glanced at him without expression, big hand wrapped around the lowball glass. “What do you know about it?”
“I see them as parallels, similar or corresponding situations.”
“Hey, Duane, why don't you go fuck yourself.”
Cobb didn't take offense. He thought of Ruben as a gorilla or an orangutan, the man doing everything on instinct. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the woman Ruben'd been talking to coming back to the bar. Cobb couldn't believe it. He'd have bet the farm she didn't want anything to do with the charming ex-fighter. “I'll see you in the morning.”
Cobb sipped his coffee and put the cup back on the saucer. “Tell me about your general state of mind.”
“It's unsettled. I'm anxious, agitated, pissed off, rattledânot necessarily in that order.”
“That's perfectly understandable after what you've been through.” He cut a piece of quiche with his fork and stabbed it, but didn't bring it to his mouth. “Do you blame yourself for surviving?”
In a moment of weakness, she had agreed to meet Duane Cobb for breakfast. He seemed harmless enough, and she kind of felt sorry for him in the sweater vest, the plaid shirt, and striped tie, like he'd been beamed from a Catholic prep school. Diane thought sweater vests had gone out with dickies and earth shoes, but nobody had told Cobb. “I'm not in denial, and I don't blame myself. Am I angry? You bet.”
“Are you angry because Jack's gone, and you didn't get to say goodbye, tell him you loved him?”
“I found out he had a girlfriend.”
Cobb shoveled the forkful of quiche in his mouth, chewed, and swallowed before he said, “How'd that make you feel?”
“In a way it was good. It took my mind off missing him, but that's not how I want to remember Jack. It makes me feel like a fool.”
“There's nothin' about it that's fair.” Cobb pinched a strawberry between his thumb and index finger. “Tell him what you think. I believe Jack can hear you. Tell him you're disappointed in him.”
“I'm a little more than disappointed.” She sipped the cappuccino.
“Don't hold back.” He popped the strawberry in his mouth.
They were in a bistro in downtown Greenwich. Diane didn't want him in her house. Cobb ate the last bite of quiche. Still chewing, he said, “I hope Jack had life insurance, and you're set financially. Have you received a check from the insurance company yet?”
“You're getting a little off track, aren't you?”
“It's all part of the process. It's part of your overall well-being. Mental, spiritual, financial. Do you own your house, or do you have a mortgage?”
“I have a mortgage.”
“Are you able to meet the payments?”
“If I can't, I'll sell it.”
“I know a financial consultant, a good one. I can have him set up a meeting if you want.”
“Thanks for your concern, but I'll handle it myself.” What was this sudden interest in money? It didn't sound right, didn't feel right. She'd had enough of Cobb and decided it was time to go. She stood up.
“What're you doing?”
“I'm going.”
“May I leave you with a thought?” He took a beat. “âWhat we have once enjoyed we can never lose. All whom we have loved deeply become part of us.'”
“Is that from your book of uplifting recitations to live by?”
“No, it's from Helen Keller.”
“Now you're quoting deaf, dumb, and blind teenagers, huh?”
The next afternoon
,
Diane saw the mailman on her side of the street a couple houses away. She parked in the driveway, went inside, and watched Lloyd, in his blue uniform, come up the front walk. She opened the glass storm door and greeted him.
Lloyd was a good guy but he was a talker. One time she asked him how many miles he walked in a day, and he gave her a fifteen-minute answer. The moral of the story: never ask a mailman a question.
“How're you doing, Diane? I'm sorry to hear about Jack. I hope you got my card.”
“I did, thanks.” He'd been calling them by their first names since they moved into the house a year ago. Diane thought it was odd. Lloyd delivered their mail and probably thought he knew them.
“Here you go.” He handed her a pile of magazines and envelopes.
“Lloyd, let me ask you something. Have you noticed anything unusual in the past couple weeks?”
He glanced at her and shrugged. “Not sure what you mean.”
She wasn't, either.
“There have been a lot of funerals.”
“Anything else?”
“I saw these two guys sitting in a car out front a couple times.”
“What were they doing?”
“First time, I thought they were looking for an address, stopping by to pay their respects. But then I saw them again a couple days later.”
“What do they look like?”
“One was clean-cut and fair, wore a shirt and tie. The other one was dark, not a black man, but ethnic and mean-looking.”
The descriptions fit Cobb and the Heavy. Why would they be together? It didn't make sense, couldn't be right. “What kind of car?”
“A dark sedan, a Toyota maybe, or a Honda.”
“If you see them again, let me know, will you?”
She stood at the kitchen counter and called the corporate headquarters of Sterns & Morrison in San Francisco and asked for Susan Howe.
“Mrs. McCann, I hope you're doing well. How can I help you?”
“I'm surprised that someone from your office didn't call or e-mail to say a grief counselor would be contacting me.”
“I'm sorry, I'm not sure what you're talking about. You think Sterns and Morrison hired a grief counselor for you? We didn't.”
“He said he was hired by the company.”
Susan said, “What's his name?”
“Duane Cobb.”
“I've never heard of him, and I can assure you we did not hire Mr. Cobb.” Susan paused. “If this man contacts you again, I'd suggest you call the police. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
Another surprise. If Cobb wasn't a grief counselor, what did he want? Diane would have to wait for him to show up. She'd decide what to do. One thing was clear: she was on her own. There was no one she could go to for help.
Cobb studied Jack McCann's cell phone bill again from the comfort of his room at the Holiday Inn. There were two calls made on the morning of 9/11. One had been recorded at 9:14
AM
, from New Jersey. He didn't recognize the number; it wasn't the girlfriend's. He dialed and listened to it ring several times before a man's voice said, “Hello.”
“Is Jack there?”
“You've got the wrong number.” Flat midwestern accent.
“Who's this?”
Guy disconnected, cut Cobb off. He'd have to find out whose number it was and where he lived. Jack had called the number about half an hour after the first plane hit. Jack was in the middle of an emergency, a life-and-death situation, and made a phone call to someone.
The second call was to his wife's cell phone at 9:23
AM
. Cobb's guess, either McCann didn't think he was going make it out of the tower and called her, or when the plane hit, he saw a solution to his problems, came up with an exit strategy, called, and told her the situation looked hopeless. The call lasted one minute and thirty-seven seconds, awfully short for a final good-bye.
Cobb had also been opening cards: condolences from friends and relatives saying nice things about Jack McCann, cute stories and remembrances, and a few that just said, I'm sorry for your loss. He had taken the funeral registry, the list of everyone who had come to the funeral home, from the McCann's house. He'd noticed it on the kitchen counter the first time he'd stopped by, waited one morning for the wife to leave, and went in and took it.
The registry was leather bound and had a color photo of a golf course on the cover. Every name and address listed was in the area, either New York, New Jersey, or Connecticut. The three out-of-towners who sent cards were J. D. Hagan from Denver; Chris Beard, not sure if it was a guy or a girl, from Scottsdale, Arizona; and Keith Mullen from Tampa.
Cobb tried the first number Jack had called the morning of 9/11 again, and when the man said hello, Cobb said, “Am I talkin' to J. D.?”
“Who is this?”
“A friend of Jack's.”
Guy hung up on him again.
He called Kathy Zack, an old high school girlfriend he'd stayed in touch with who worked for the Illinois State Police.
“Corporal Zack,” she said in her girlish voice.
“Can you help out an old altar boy?”
“Duane?”
“How'd you know?”
“Who else but Duane Cobb would say something like that? How're you doing, you well?”
“Not bad.”
“Duane, you settled down yet?”
“I had, you'd know about it.”
“You calling 'cause you miss me? I must say I still do think about you.”
“That was one hell of a night,” Cobb said, like it had just happened. “I left the next day to make my fortune.”
“You got there yet?”
“I believe I'm close.”
“You're gonna call me when you do, aren't you? We got to celebrate.”
“You can count on it,” Cobb said. “I got a phone number. I need to find out who it belongs to and where the person lives. Think you can help me out?”
“You know that's against the law,” Kathy said in a serious tone of voice, followed by a few seconds of silence and then laughter. “Well, what're you waitin' for, Duane? Give it to me.”
“I forgot what a kidder you are.” Cobb read her the number, and she said, “It's gonna take a half hour or so. Where can I reach you?”
“Find him yet?” Frank DiCicco said. His Mafia name was Frankie Cheech. That's how he was referred to on the street, though Cobb would never say it to his face. Frank was sitting at a table with Dominic Benigno, Dapper Dom, in the almost empty restaurant dining room. The two big men had their elbows on the table and looked like they were crowding each other. Frank had a white cloth napkin tucked in the neck of his shirt and wiped his mouth after every bite.
“Sit down, how can I eat, you clowns standing there?”
Cobb and Ruben sat. Now Dominic Benigno whispered something to Frank in Italian, got up, and glanced at Ruben. “I seen Micky Ward kick your ass. Now you're tiptoeing for chili, uh?”
Ruben stared at him without expression, Cobb wondering what he was thinking. Dominic Benigno grinned, patted Ruben on the cheek, and walked out of the dining room.
Frank's bodyguards sat at another table about twenty feet away, keeping an eye on them. They looked bored. Val, the one with the ponytail, yawned. Cobb didn't like watching someone eat, but Frank was the neatest eater he'd ever seen. Wouldn't let his fillet touch the mashed potatoes and gravy or peas. Cobb thought it was a mortal sin. He'd have taken a big glob of potatoes, dipped it in the gravy, then pressed the potatoes into a mess of peas and shoveled it in his mouth.
“We're not gonna find McCann,” Cobb said. “'Cause he's dead.”
“You seen his body, know that for a fact?”
“We went to his funeral.”
“What does that prove?” Frank could be a real asshole.
“There's a death certificate.”
“You know how easy it is to get one of those?”
“We've been hanging around the house; he's not there.”
“I could've told you that.”
“We had a nice talk with the girlfriend,” Cobb said.
“Let me guess, she don't know where he's at, either.”
“She hasn't heard from him, is convinced he went down with the tower.”
“Uh-huh. Why's this my problem?” Frank ate the fillet first, taking tiny bird bites and wiping his mouth. Then the peas, one thing at a time, still nothing touching, and then the potatoes and gravy. Cobb had grown up on scrapple: pork scraps and trimmings his mother would pour white gravy over, and he'd dip bread into. That was eating.
“Just telling you,” Ruben said, “what we know.”
“Just telling me,” Frank said, mimicking Ruben. “You ain't opened your mouth, but you just tellin' me, uh?”
“I checked his phone bill,” Cobb said. “Last call Jack McCann made was at nine twenty-three the morning of nine-eleven.”
“So he got a new phone,” Frank said. “That ever cross your mind?”
Frank dabbed his mouth with the napkin, picked up his wineglass, took a sip, and wiped the rim with his index finger where there was a little smudge of food.
“Owes me seven-fifty. The man's dead I'm gonna have to collect it from someone else.” Frank pointed his fork at Cobb like he might stab him with it. “How 'bout you, Duane? You gonna give it to me?” Now he aimed the fork at Ruben. “Or how 'bout you?” Frank drank some wine. “Or get it from the wife. That occur to either of you?”
Cobb said, “How do you suggest we do that?”
“Send Ruben in, scare the shit out of her.”
Ruben looked at him with a blank face.
“One of you knows more than he's saying is what I think.”
Cobb said, “What's that supposed to mean?”
Frank took a sip of wine and looked at him. “I know how this works. You tell me he's dead, keep the seven hundred and fifty grand. I'd probably think that way too I was in your situation.”
“There's only one problem,” Cobb said. “McCann is dead. I think you're gonna have to write this one off.”
Cobb wondered why Frank was squeezing lemon on his hands and drying them with the napkin. Now Frank bent his fingers and turned his big hairy hands, so he could look at his manicured nails, which had a semi-gloss finish.
“You got a week. You don't get the money, I'll be going to your funeral. Both of yous.”
Cobb nodded at Ruben, and they got up and walked out of the restaurant, Cobb asking himself why he thought Frank would just take his word for it, accept the fact that Jack McCann was dead. Cobb didn't believe it himself, and Frank didn't have to.
“What do you think?” Ruben said when they were driving back to Connecticut. “Why's this our problem?”
“'Cause Frank made it our problem.”
“You believe what he says?”
“What exactly are you talking about?”
“He's gonna come after us we don't get the money.”
“Oh, I believe that. Frank thinks what he wants to think, and reality's nowhere in sight.”
“Somebody come after me, I'm gonna put the motherfucker down.”
“You think they're gonna challenge you to a fight, âHey Ruben, let's get in the ring'? They're gonna hit you when you least expect it. They're gonna shoot you or run you over and dump your body in a landfill or a construction site. They'll put you in the foundation of a building.” Cobb paused. “We've got to put more pressure on McCann's wife, get her to give us the insurance money, get Frank off our back.”
Ruben said, “Who's the asshole sitting at the table we came in?”
“Dominic Benigno, Frank's enforcer.”
Ruben shook his head. “That's him, uh? He don't look like much.”
“Tell that to the people he's killed. He shoots his victims in the head, then stabs them through the heart. Hangs the body over a bathtub and dismembers the person. Wraps the body parts in plastic and buries them. No body, no crime.” Cobb glanced in the rearview mirror. “He kidnapped the twelve-year-old son of an informer, Placido Gaspare, tortured the kid, sent pictures to the old man, a federal witness, so he wouldn't testify against Frank. Ended up dissolving the boy's body in a barrel of acid. The family couldn't bury the kid, couldn't mourn properly. Dominic Benigno's a psychopath. You don't want him after you. Believe me. That's why we need to get the money, get this over with.”
“You think I'm afraid of him?”
“You're not, you should be.”
Cobb parked in
the Holiday Inn lot and told Ruben he was going to his room. Ruben said he was going to drive to Darien and drop in on Diane McCann. Cobb's phone beeped. He took it out of his shirt pocket and saw that Kathy Zack had called and left a message.
According to Kathy, the phone number Jack had called the morning of 9/11 was registered to a guy named Joseph Sculley, who lived in a Jersey suburb called Ridgewood, forty-five minutes from Manhattan by car. Cobb remembered him. McCann's friend with the fish-belly-white skin who gave the eulogy.
He debated whether to bring Ruben with him and thought it might be easier to take care of this one alone.
