West 47th (28 page)

Andrew whispered swift instructions to Doris. She accompanied him to the outer office. Peaches accepted a Pepsi and Doris complimented her on her fingernails, which had kitten faces enameled on them. “They were nicer,” Peaches said, “but now some are chipping off. I had them done by a Korean woman two weeks ago. She also does great palm trees and flags.”

Andrew, meanwhile, was examining the earrings under ten-times magnification, noticing the insurance registry code number scratched on the backs near the base of the posts, so tiny it was hardly visible. “How much?” he asked again.

“Twenty thousand,” Peaches replied again.

“And you want cash you say?”

Will he ever get it? Peaches thought. She nodded.

“At the moment,” Andrew told her, “I don't have that much in the safe …”

“Shit,” from Peaches with a lot of
sh
.

“… but Doris will go to the bank for it.”

Peaches brightened. “Where's the bank?”

“I won't be ten minutes,” Doris assured and hurried out.

She was true to her word. She returned in eight.

Mitch was with her.

Peaches took a quick look at him and then tried to not look at him. Her instinct told her he could be a problem: he could be a cop. Or perhaps he was only a guy who naturally had that don't-fuck-with-me look. She also noticed Doris had come back empty-handed. “Hey, how about my money?” she demanded.

Andrew introduced Mitch as Investigator Laughton. Mitch went right at it. “Where did you get these earrings?”

“I found them,” Peaches said.

“Where?”

“In a taxi. I got in and there they were. Lucky for me, huh?”

Mitch pretended he was believing her, then shifted. “Who gave them to you?”

“I told you I found them in a taxi.”

“I know, but someone gave them to you.”

“Actually, yeah, someone.”

“Who?”

“My aunt. She left them to me when she died.”

“On her deathbed.”

“How did you know?”

“She took them off and tossed them to you.”

“Something like that.”

Mitch did an amused laugh. “Where else did you get them?”

Peaches thought for a while before saying smugly: “I blew a guy for them.” She enjoyed that explanation because there was a degree of truth to it.

“Generous guy.”

“Great blow job.” Peaches grinned.

“Who was the guy?”

The truth again. She saw no harm in it. “A guy named Floyd.”

“Floyd what?”

“A lot of people don't have last names anymore.”

“Is he from around here?”

“Brooklyn.” Once more she told herself no harm. There had to be ten thousand Floyds in Brooklyn. What fun it was telling truths this cop was taking to be lies.

Mitch had noticed the boots Peaches was wearing, their pointed steel-capped toes. He'd also guessed her weight to be around a hundred five or ten. He mentally placed her in the footprints he'd seen on the rear grounds of the Kalali house. She fit. She was the lightweight swift.

“You're full of stories,” he told her.

“Is that a nice way of saying I'm full of shit?”

“Yeah, now let me tell one. Saturday night, week before last, around midnight, you went with some guys out to Far Hills, New Jersey, to do a robbery. You got left off on the road that runs along the rear grounds of the house. You climbed over the wall and made for the house. Big, white contemporary house. Remember it?”

Don't say anything, Peaches told herself.

Mitch kept on. “The owners of the house had just gotten home from dinner. A man and his wife. They were the only ones at home. They were held at gunpoint while the jewelry was gathered up. The wife was cooperative. The husband wasn't. He got out of line and was killed. The wife panicked and was also shot.” Mitch paused. He could almost see his words sinking in. “How am I doing?”

Peaches tried to conceal her astonishment. This fucker knew everything, she thought. It was as though he'd been there when it happened.

She glanced at the way out. Should she try to make a run for it? She could outrun these people. She looked at Mitch and knew she'd never make it.

Keep on lying, her instincts advised.

She glanced at the earrings on the desk. Fucking earrings. She wished now she'd never seen them, that she'd let Floyd have them. She wished now that the only problem she had was having only sixteen dollars to her real name and no place to live.

Keep on lying, her instincts insisted.

She reached down into that place in her where her lies seemed to originate. She chose one but didn't believe it would get her out of this. She was jammed up, seriously jammed this time. Not like before. Those minor offenses such as shoplifting when she was juvenile. If she was still juvenile she'd tell this cop to kiss it.

What to do?

Her instincts told her to twist the truth.

She did a lengthy frown and bit her lower lip crookedly before giving in with a smaller, fragile voice. “It was supposed to be just a joy ride,” she said. “Floyd talked me into going along. I had no idea they were out to rob a house.”

Andy went into his inner office and phoned the police.

By the time they arrived Mitch had drawn it out of Peaches, the identity of Floyd. Mitch knew that particular Floyd, knew the crew. What's more he knew the fence that crew belonged to.

Chapter 22

“I'll wait up.”

“No,” Mitch told her, “go on to bed.”

“You won't be long.”

“I may be a while.” He was in the Lexus talking to her on the no-hands cellular. It was like she was a mid-air spirit.

“No matter, I'll wait up. I'll listen to something. One of those Dashiell Hammetts you got me.”

“I thought you'd already heard those.”

“Why are you still in the car?”

“I'm just sitting here.”

“I don't like tonight,” she said.

“Got the jeebies?” One of her resurrected words. She had others such as
nifty
and
hunky-dory
.

“Some,” she said vaguely, and then, more pointedly: “I felt around in your bottom drawer.”

“Oh?”

“You took the Beretta. You should have taken the Glock. And you didn't take a spare clip. Why did you take the Beretta?” Rapid firing at him.

“No particular reason. Just in case.”

“Nine to five should be enough. I want you home nights.”

“I usually am.”

“This is the second night out of four that you've been out. We should find you a nice, safe nine-to-fiver. Even better, how about a sleep-til-nooner?”

“Sure.”

“Sex and sloth. Doesn't that appeal to you?”

“I have to make a living Maddie.”

“Same old same old. When should I expect you?”

“Go to sleep.”

“Can't. I'm wired. You should have taken a spare clip. You should have taken the Glock. Where are you?”

“New Rochelle.”

“Hurley called a while ago.”

“What did he say?”

“He'll be back in town tomorrow.”

Mitch had spoken to Hurley on the phone around dinnertime. He'd told him about Peaches, the Kalali earrings and all, and Hurley had agreed with him on which crew and which fence was involved. Hurley had made him promise to put himself on hold, to wait, not make a move until he got back. Hurley had been adamant about that, so much so he'd drawn that promise out of Mitch three times during the course of their phone conversation.

For naught. Mitch couldn't possibly wait, knew he couldn't, gave it a halfhearted try and was still trying when he changed into some jeans and sneakers, and strapped on the holster rig for the Beretta next to his bare skin so the weapon would be out of sight beneath a lightweight chambray shirt. “Where did you tell Hurley I was?”

“Out. Just out. What else could I tell him? I didn't know where you were and now all I know is New Rochelle, which you've got to admit isn't very specific. Are you hungry?”

“No.” She'd made fresh gaspacho for dinner and had unintentionally inundated it with cayenne. “I had two helpings,” he fibbed. They'd gone down the disposal.

“Did you now?” she said skeptically.

“I could have gone for three.”

“Still, anytime you're out adventuring, you ought to carry along a snack. So you don't get low blood sugar. Low blood sugar could be a fatal handicap.”

Fatal
, he thought, indicated where her mind was. “You have to give some lessons tomorrow, don't you?”

“One. I did have two but Georgie Watson had to cancel.”

“Which is he?”

“The three-card monte kid who works on that cardboard box outside Winston's. He showed me how he does it. It's just a way of lying with your hands. Know the difference between lying and fibbing?”

“Yeah, but what?”

“Mercy.”

“I would have said consideration.”

“Same thing, sort of. Do you ever lie to me with your hands?”

“Never.”

“I love you, come on home.”

“I will in a while.”

“Whatever it is you're doing it's not worth it.”

“Not to you maybe.”

“Worth was the wrong word,” she said a bit apologetically. “What I meant to say was it's not essential.”

No comment from Mitch.

“Seriously, have you given any thought lately to not doing what you do?”

“And becoming a shopkeeper?”

“No, I agree you're not the shopkeeping sort. We could travel. We could go lots of lovely places and you could describe them to me. You know, like you did when we went to Florence.”

“Think so?”

“You weren't reading from a guidebook when we were in Florence, were you?”

“You asked me that at the time and I believe I told you I wasn't.”

“I know, but sometimes, not often, but sometimes when I ask you the same thing twice you give me different answers.”

“Can't put anything over on you.”

“Except yourself.”

Mitch tried to imagine what that would be like, just traveling around, going anywhere first-class with first-class her. Maybe he'd do it if he had the money, that much.

“You ought to see what I have on,” she said.

“Nothing?”

“Uh uh. A little silk something and four-inch heels. A little silk something is more effective than nothing. Especially with four-inch heels, wouldn't you say?”

Effective, he thought.

“It wouldn't take you long to get home. I could be doing sensational things to you only a half hour from now.”

“Stop worrying.”

“I'm not. I know you can take care of yourself, no matter what.”

“Keep thinking that.”

“I'll try. You're on the Kalali case, aren't you?”

“Yeah.”

“I wish you were just out playing poker. I'd even settle for out playing around,” she said and clicked off without a goodbye because, as usual, when it came to them, she disliked the word.

Mitch was parked off the corner of Paine Avenue where it intersected with Lyncroft. Ralph Lentini's house was diagonally across the way. There were no streetlights; however Mitch was able to see the house well enough.

Two stories topped by a shorter third and a wood-shingled roof that looked as though wind, with the help of rot, had made off with more than a few. Around the base of the structure scraggly, slighted rhododendrons were expressing their discontent, and along the property lines on each side were wild-looking twelve-foot-high boxwood hedges. On the right was a double-width concrete driveway.

Mitch had been parked there for nearly an hour and nothing about the house had changed. On the first floor there was still only one paltry light on, which Mitch guessed was a hall light, and there was still the variegated flickering of a television screen reflected upon a wall of the second-floor front room that Mitch believed was most likely a bedroom.

He'd decided not to make a move until there was a change, something that would tell him more definitely what the situation was. He had to contend with his impatience, told it to hang on, that this wasn't ordinary, wasteful wait, the difference being it had a high degree of anticipation in it, as well as imminent reward.

He punched in the CD player. Of the eight-disc load the most compatible with the moment was a rendition of composer Carl Maria von Weber's romantic concerto
Konzertstück
for piano and orchestra. Mitch was well-acquainted with the piece and its four movements: a lady's longing for her absent love, her fears for his safety, the excitement of his impending return and the passion of reunion.

A car went by, and, five minutes later, another, then a huffing, overdoing, middle-aged jogger and a woman walking a brace of pugs to all their pissing places.

Mitch fast-forwarded the Weber to the last movement. Wait was getting to him. He felt to see that he had his all-purpose knife, and his tiny waterproof Mag Lite. He made sure his sneaker laces were tied. He checked that he had a round in the firing chamber of the Beretta.

He took the Beretta off safety, snugged it back into its holster. It felt reassuring.

He got out of the car. It was good to stand. He walked to the corner and down Paine at a strolling pace, hands in the back jean pockets. There were no sidewalks. He crossed over and after a short ways was directly in front of Lentini's house. From that vantage the television was reflecting on the ceiling in that upper room. Maybe Ralph was up there asleep with the television on. Maybe he'd gone out and left it on, Mitch thought. There were various maybes.

He went up the drive. The grass at the rear of the house was high, dry and gone to seed. There was a swimming pool enclosed by a five-foot-high steel wire fence and a shed that Mitch surmised contained the pool heater, filter and maintenance equipment. The pool looked like a rectangular swamp. Its surface was coated with green scum. Algae upon algae. The smell of organic decay reached out beyond its boundaries.