Part 5 (1/2)
”When I'm done with this case, I'll make sure we won't have to go through this again.”
”But-”
”But nothing. I've got everything I ever wanted, right now. As long as Sarah and I are enough for-”
”Shhh,” she said, pressing her finger across my lips. ”Let's go to bed.”
”Are you sure?”
”The only thing I've ever been more sure of is when I said 'I do.'”
Who was I to argue?
THE PHONE RANG, but it wasn't John Heaton. That would have been too much to ask. It was Thomas Geary's increasingly familiar if unwelcome voice that greeted me. He did have the good form to keep it short and sweet. The meeting with Senator Brightman had been arranged for later in the day out at Geary's house in Crocus Valley. Before I could protest, Geary a.s.sured me that I could have all the time alone with Brightman I wanted.
Katy was gone, her side of the bed still creased and warm from where she'd slept. I stayed behind for a little while to enjoy the scent of her that still lingered in the air. I felt light enough to float. They say you never really miss things until they're taken away. We would continue to wonder about what could have been and to quietly mourn our lost child. They also say you don't know how much you miss something until you get it back. I put my hand in Katy's vacant s.p.a.ce, running a finger across the creases in the sheet. I knew I had missed her, but not quite how much until now.
I DIDN'T SEE it until I got behind the wheel. There was something stuck between my winds.h.i.+eld and wiper blade: a business card. That's what you get, I thought, for being too lazy to pull into the garage. As I got back out of the car, I tried to guess what life-altering product or program this card was promoting. Was I going to make extra money working out of my home? Was I going to lose forty pounds safely and naturally, or was I going to learn how to buy real estate with no money down? I plucked the card. It was, oddly enough, one of mine. There was something written on the back.
There once was a man named Moses Who didn't know his a.s.s from where his toes is He took a case that was a total disgrace So that a killer could come out smelling like roses It was unsigned. A pity, considering Shakespeare, Blake, and Eliot were now all shaking in their shoes at the prospect of being dethroned. I crumpled up the card and flicked it at the sewer grate. My aim had been better when I was a kid. I hesitated and went to pick the card back up. Unballing it, I smoothed the card out as best I could and slipped it into my wallet.
The ride to the Brooklyn store went by in a flash, the words of the limerick repeating over and over again in my head. I ran through the list of possible candidates for its authors.h.i.+p. Whoever was responsible had gone to a lot of trouble to leave it for me to see. I hope he took the time to see the sights of scenic Sheepshead Bay. Maybe take in the late show at Pips Comedy Club or guzzle down a dozen littlenecks at Joe's Clam Bar.
Klaus seemed surprised to see me, but I let him know I was there only to pick up messages and do some work in the office. As far as the wine business went, he was to either handle it himself or refer it to Aaron.
”There's one message on your desk from a Larry McDonald, E-I-E-I-O, and one from someone who called himself Wit,” Klaus remarked with a smirk. ”You know Wittgenstein? My boss, the closet philosopher.”
”Yancy Whittle Fenn,” I said in my defense. ”All his best friends call him Wit.”
”Y. W. Fenn! Now I am impressed.”
”Good thing one of us is.”
I'd picked the Brooklyn store because it had an empty room next to the office. It was the perfect s.p.a.ce to lay out the contents of the Spivack and a.s.sociates file. While what I'd told Wit was true, that I didn't always work in a conventional manner, I wasn't exactly a psychic reader, either. Straightforward police work had its moments. I skimmed through the thick file, copying down certain facts and data that I might be able to put to use between now and my appointment with Brightman. I wrote down the street address of Brightman's community office, the place where Moira Heaton was last seen, and the name and number of the NYPD detective who'd handled the case. That done, I retreated to the office to make some calls.
”Hey, Larry, it's Moe.”
”Like I don't know your voice, schmuck.”
”So?”
”Remember the Hound's Tooth?”
”Now who's being a schmuck?” I chided. ”I'm retired, not senile.”
”Nine o'clock?”
”Ten's better.”
”We'll split the difference. Okay, Moe?”
”See you there.”
Actually, I felt kind of stupid now for having had Larry go through the trouble of getting me the files. What I hadn't known at the time I asked the favor was that I'd be the recipient of Joe Spivack's largesse. It was too late now. I doubted there was anything in the official police record that wouldn't be in the Spivack file. In fact, I wouldn't be at all surprised if the police record was substantially less comprehensive. Cops can afford to follow up on only so many leads. They're limited by time, caseload, and funding. On the other hand, private investigations are limited only by the depth of the client's pockets.
I dialed another seven-digit number.
”Who the h.e.l.l is this? It's ... The sun is still out, for heaven sakes.” Wit was sounding a wee bit hungover.
”You like limericks, Wit?”
”My head's killing me. Who is-”
”It's Moe Prager, your potential horse-trading partner. So, do you like limericks?”
”There once was a man from Nantucket ... You mean that sort of tripe?”
”Exactly. You wanna hear one?”
He didn't answer. I took that as a yes. I read off the back of my card.
”Such atrocious grammar,” he critiqued, sounding more like himself. ”Is that supposed to have some significance to me?”
”I don't know, I just thought I'd run it by you. Basically, I'm returning your call.”
”Have you given my proposition any further consideration?”
”I gave you my answer last night.”
”That,” he sn.i.g.g.e.red, ”was an answer. You still have time to go back and change it.”
”Nah, I always heard it was better to go with your first answer when you're being tested. Besides, too much erasing makes it hard to score.”
”Don't lose my number, Mr. Prager. We're still only in the first hour of the exam.”
I had to give the guy credit. He didn't back down easy. I'd have to watch him closely. His type could sneak right up and bite you in the a.s.s.
DETECTIVE ROB GLORIA was only too happy to meet me at what had once been State Senator Steven Brightman's community affairs office. Fortyish, bright-eyed and barrel-chested, he looked a little sharper than what I'd expected. Well deserved or not, Missing Persons had the rep of being a dumping ground for the barely adequate and downright inept. And my one close encounter with Missing Persons during the search for Patrick had only served to reinforce its bad reputation. But there were studs and stinkers in every bureau of the NYPD.
The now vacant storefront was on a busy street squeezed between a Chinese takeout and a real estate office. It was not unfamiliar to me. I'd seen pictures of the place in the Spivack file. The only hints of its former tenant were a sun-bleached campaign poster Scotch-taped to the inside of the plate-gla.s.s window and, just beneath it, a sign listing the new office address and phone numbers for reaching Brightman.
”You wanna have a look-see?” Detective Gloria asked, jingling a ring of keys.
”Sure.”
He opened the door with the ease of a man who'd done this several times before. He hadn't had to struggle, figuring out which keys went where. I liked that. He'd spent a lot of time here. This case meant something to him.
”Did you know John Heaton when he was on the job?” I wondered as Gloria pushed the door back for me.
”Nope.” He strode a few feet to his left. ”This is approximately where Moira Heaton's desk was. There were generally three or four other people working here, answering phones and such. She was the last one to leave that night, supposed to lock the doors at eight.”