Witch House (5 page)

“What do you think of Adam?” I asked.

Carlos gave me a lazy shrug. “He seems all
right. What do you think?”

“I don’t know.”

“What? You don’t think he is mournful enough.
It’s not like he was
that
close to his father.”

“No, that’s not it.”

“What then?”

“It’s probably nothing, but did you notice
when we first got to the house, he asked if his father had gotten
into trouble already?”

“I remember.”

“And then he said, ‘I told him last night not
to….’, but I interrupted him, telling him his father was dead.”

Carlos started the car and backed it out of
the drive. “I don’t get it. What is so suspicious about that?”

“Nothing, by itself. It is just that later
when I asked him when he last saw his father, he said noon
yesterday. Then he said after his dad called the taxi and left for
Stephanie’s, he never came back and they never spoke again.
Therefore, he could not have told him anything last night.”

“So, he said last night when he meant
yesterday.” Carlos dropped the car into gear and headed east.
“What’s the difference?”

“Okay, how `bout just before we left? In
talking about Stephanie Stiles, he said that if he found out she
capped his dad, he’d let us know.”

“You don’t think he would?”

“Oh, I’m sure he would. What I want to know
is how he knew someone capped his dad. I didn’t say he was
shot.”

“I think capped can be used generically when
talking about someone getting murdered.”

“Really?”

“Tony, come on, the kid just found out
someone killed his father. Cut him some slack. You really do get
too analytical sometimes, you know that?”

“Yeah,” I said, and I thought he was right.
Sometimes I do get too analytical over things. I know it can bog
down an investigation if you let it, but it can also place the
proverbial nail in the coffin if it is sharp enough. The trick is
learning how to chew it up and spit it out without losing the
taste. “You’re probably right,” I told him. “That’s why I keep you
around, to keep me grounded.”

“And to remind you when it’s time to
eat.”

I looked at my watch. “It’s barely
eleven-thirty.”

“I know,” he said, as if that were late.
“Aren’t you glad I reminded you?”

“All right, fine.” I gestured a forward
course with the flip of my wrist. “I see you are already heading to
the Percolator anyway. Maybe we can interview Trish Rosado while we
are there.”

“Hey….” He turned his head to me. “That’s
good thinking. Then you could write lunch off as a business
expense.”

“No, Carlos, it doesn’t work that way.”

“Why not? You’ll be paying for two lunches.
Who would know?”

“Are you kidding?” I did not think he was,
but I thought I would give him the benefit of the doubt. “You know
what? I am going to pretend I did not hear that. I hope that’s not
what you’re teaching Spinelli.”

I watched his lips draw together tightly to
the point where prune lines gathered on his chin. He kept his focus
straight ahead, but from the way they narrowed, I could tell he
wanted desperately to say something about it. He waited until I
turned my head again before mumbling just loud enough for me to
hear. “Was only tryin` to help.”

I could not help smiling. I know he saw me
through the corner of his eye, and I think it pissed him off. Not
that pissing off Carlos is such a bad thing. It has its rewards.
For one, Carlos gets extremely quiet when he is pissed, which
leaves me with peace of mind to digest newly acquired information.
In this case, the information that just did not sit right with me
was something Adam said about Stephanie Stiles. He made no bones
about his feelings for her, calling her a slut bag. Clearly, he
knew something about her that René Landau did not know on the
morning of his release. At the risk of forfeiting what little quiet
time I had for the duration of the ride to the Percolator, I turned
and asked Carlos about her.

“Stiles?” he said, seemingly snapping out of
a distant train of thought. Although with Carlos, he may have only
been debating over what to eat for lunch: meatball sub or chicken
parmesan over linguini.

“Stephanie Stiles,” I repeated. “Did you call
Spinelli like I asked you to and request he send you her
picture?”

“Oh, yeah, I sent him a text form Landau’s
place while you were questioning him.”

“And?”

“He sent this.” Carlos pulled his phone from
his top pocket, thumbed the screen a few times and then handed it
to me. “It’s a picture from her driver’s license. Quite the
chassis, eh?”

“Chassis?”

“Sure, look at her.”

“Carlos, how do you know these things?”

“What things?”

“This lingo crap, like back there at
Landau’s. I thought I lost that interview and you stepped in with
your whale-tail badunk-a-dunk whatever and saved it.”

“Yeah? You think I saved the interview?”

“You know it. What is a badunk-a-dunk,
anyway?”

“Oh, that’s a….you know, a fine booty.”

“You mean like Lilith’s?”

He laughed. “No. hers is a badink-a-dink,
more petite.”

“You’re making that up.”

“Seriously! I wouldn’t punk you. You’re my
peeps.”

“Your peeps?” I shook my head. “Never mind.
Drive.”

Carlos and I have been going to the
Percolator since long before we were detectives. It is the
quintessential diner for cops, offering free coffee and two-for-one
donuts for anyone in law enforcement. Besides that, they do have
one hell of a lunch menu. Carlos knows it by heart; the weekly
specials, the killer combos, the mix and match seafood ferry and
the never advertised but always available potluck power plate,
which is actually a ridiculously large plate of random leftovers
from the Saturday afternoon buffet. Frankly, I think they made it
up just for Carlos, as I mentioned, they never advertise it.

A small bell over the door chimes softly when
you enter the Percolator. It is a subtle precursor to the harsh,
sometimes dirty sounds that bleed in off the street for the few
moments the door is open. Over the years, I have learned to use
that bell as a trigger to shut out those sounds and embrace the
cacophony of a working diner, its dishes clanging, glasses and
silverware pinging, and the murmur of blurred conversations
peppered with laughter chirping from booth-to-booth like so many
crickets in a field. Combine that with the smell of bacon, coffee
and a hint of Pine Sol disinfectant, and you have the makings of
heaven on earth, especially on a cold, rainy day.

Mary Higgins, perhaps the oldest soul still
working the diner from those early days, met Carlos and me at the
door and offered to seat us. I asked her if we could sit in Trish’s
section, and she looked at me strangely.

“Trish?” She gave Carlos a similar look. “We
don’t have a Trish working here.”

“You don’t?”

She shook her head lightly, and I watched her
scan the floor briskly as if dredging up all the girls named Trish
that she had ever worked with through the years. When she looked up
at us again, I concluded that nary one could she recalled. “No,”
she said flatly.

I gave Carlos a bump to the arm. “Adam lied
to us. I don’t believe it.” I said to Mary, “He told us his
girlfriend worked here.”

“Wait,” she said. “Adam Landau?”

“Yes.”

A smile came to her slowly. “Oh,” and she
laughed lightly. “You’re talking about Pat.”

“Who?”

“Patricia.” I must admit, I still did not get
it. She slowed it down for me. “Pa-
trich
-a?”

“Oh, Patricia, of course.”

“Yes, around here she goes by Pat.”

“I see.” I turned to Carlos. “I should have
mentioned her last name.”

He pulled back a cocky grin. “It’s all in the
details.”

To Mary I said, “Is Pat working today?”

She pointed toward the back of the diner.
“Pat’s got section four today. Come on, I’ll seat you.”

We followed her to a booth in the back of
section four. I slid into the seat facing the front door, sticking
Carlos in the one with a rip in the upholstery. I scarcely had the
menu open when he said, “I know who she is now.”

I peered up over the top of the sandwich
page. “What?”

“Trish, or Pat, or whatever she calls
herself. I remember her now. She’s the cute blond from
Ipswich.”

“The one with the dimples,” I said.

“Yeah, that’s her. You said she reminds you
of Shirley Temple.”

“Sure, I remember. She’s a nice kid.”

“I think so. She—oops, forget it. Here she
comes.”

Trish Rosado came to our table without the
usual dimpled smile by which Carlos and I remembered her. She
seemed not exactly nervous, but definitely tentative. I suspected
that Adam had called her shortly after we left his house and told
her we were coming. “Gentlemen?” She forced that smile I mentioned
earlier. I noticed the nametag on her uniform said Pat, as Mary
Higgins had pointed out. “How are we this morning?”

I checked my watch. It was still morning,
barely. “We’re good, and you?”

“Fine.” She turned to Carlos. “Detective,
have you had time to look at the menu?”

“Don’t need to,” he said. “I’ll have the
special and a large iced tea, no ice.”

“Okay, and you, Detective?”

“Toast and coffee, please.”

“Is that it?”

“Yes. That’s all.”

She scribbled the order down on her pad. “All
right, I’ll get your orders in immediately.”

She started away, and I called her back.
“Excuse me.” She returned, and I almost thought I saw a surprised
look on her face, but I knew better. “Do you have a moment?”

She tucked her pad and pencil into her apron.
“Sure.”

“Can I ask you a few questions?”

That forced smile returned. “Of course.”

“We were just up to see your boyfriend,
Adam.”

“Ah-huh.”

“You know about his father?”

I watched her lips thin to pale white lines.
“Yes, I heard,” she said. “Adam called me. He said someone killed
his dad?”

“That’s right. Someone shot him outside a bar
down on Jefferson last night.”

She shook her head. “That’s awful. I know
that has Adam very upset. He sounded on the verge of tears over the
phone.”

“I’m not surprised, but I am surprised you
are not leaving work to be with him.”

“I will later.” She hiked her thumb up over
her shoulder toward the kitchen. “We’re short-staffed right now.
Two girls called out sick and we’re coming into the lunch rush. I
can’t leave just yet.”

“I understand. I will make this quick. Let me
ask you, have you ever met Adam’s father?”

“Yes…I mean, no.”

I looked across the table at Carlos. He
seemed as curious about that answer as I was. “Which is it?”

“No,” she said, more convincingly this time.
“I never met him.”

“Has Adam ever said anything to you about his
father getting out of prison and maybe coming into a lot of
money?”

That made her laugh. “Are you talking about
the money from the robbery?”

“Why, did you hear something like that?”

“No.” She shook her head faintly. “All Adam
wanted to do was reunite with his father, maybe do some fishing up
at the lake and make up for a whole lot of lost time.”

“So, he never mentioned the money?”

“Oh sure, he mentioned the money, but only to
the extent of what a shame it was that it all got burnt up in the
fire. He was just a kid at the time, you know. If the money was out
there somewhere, I’m sure someone would have found it by now.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right.”

“Well, if you’ll excuse me, we’re getting
busy.”

I let her take only a step or two away before
calling her back once more, only now that she had cleared the air;
her attitude seemed less tolerant of my distractions. She returned
to the booth, striking the same pose that Lilith assumes when she
is fed up with my bullshit. “Yes, Detective?” Even sounded like
Lilith.

I smiled up at her. “Sorry, I forgot to ask;
can you tell me where Adam was between, say, one and three this
morning?”

She hesitated only slightly, perhaps
wondering if we already knew the answer. “Adam was home last night
with me.”

“All night?”

“Yes.” She shied away some, her face turning
a bashful shade of pink. “I sleep over sometimes,” she said, her
ridged stance softening by degrees. “I think he is going to ask me
to marry him.”

“Really? Congratulations, I hope.” She smiled
again, and nothing about it this time seemed forced to me at all.
“Thanks for your time.”

She turned and walked away. I watched her
until she had turned the corner by the cash register and
disappeared into the kitchen. When I looked at Carlos, I realized
he had been watching me watching her. He smiled teasingly. “You old
dog, you.”

My face grew flush. “What?”

“You know what. You were watching her
ass.”

I pulled back in mock disgust at his
accusation. “I most certainly was not.”

“Yes you were. I watched you.”

“I was thinking.”

“`Bout what, how to get into her…” he did the
cutesy finger quotation marks in the air, “good graces?”

“No, I don’t want to get into her good
graces.”

“You don’t?”

“No!”

He leaned in across the table some. “Ahem,
you do know that by good graces, I mean her pants.”

“Yes, Carlos. I know that.”

“Oh.” He looked back over his shoulder, I
assumed to make sure Trish was not standing there. “Because I
wouldn’t mind getting into her—”

“Drop it, Carlos. She’s a subject in an
ongoing investigation.”

“What, you think she is lying to you?”

“No, I happen to believe she is telling the
truth, but this is an ongoing investigation and she may still have
information pertinent to the case.”