Part 25 (1/2)
”It's on the tape,” Heatley said. ”Where he says about the diamonds. What, eight years ago?”
”Before my time, Dale. Check Paulie's files.”
”I'm checking the files. Can't find a report.”
”Still an open case, right? I don't think they made an arrest. Paulie might have copied me in after O'Grady left. Have you checked with him?”
”Yeah. Sort of,” said Dale. ”Talked to his campaign manager. He'll come in 'as soon as he can make room in his schedule.' Frickin' politicians.”
”Maybe I can track down Paulie's paperwork.”
”Yeah, well, we need to get into Paul's place.”
”Knock yourselves out. Give you the spare key.”
”To have a look around.”
”Do what you have to do,” she said. She pulled the spare off her keychain and fished around in her drawer. ”You've got everything I found so far, but there's still a lot of s.h.i.+t to go through.” She found a piece of string. ”Fair warning.”
”It's his gun,” Dale said.
”Yeah, I know.” She hung the key on the string and tied a big bow.
”I mean in the Nimchuk thing,” Pete said.
”You got a match?”
”Nothing that'll hold up. Slugs all bent to s.h.i.+t. All they know is it was a Smith, Magnum, .357.
”Dead end.”
”Except this is his weapon. And he showed up in Dockerty without it.”
”Far as I know.”
”Next thing, this Russian dude has it.”
”Look guys. I don't want to know. It's all yours. If Paulie comes up dirty, it'll be because he was. And if there's a different way it went down, I know you guys will keep an open mind as much as you can. I'm taking some time off.” She handed Dale the key.
Not Jamaica this time. Maybe just check into a nice hotel for a week. Room service, spa, swimming pool, good bartender, did she mention room service? Forget about packing up Paulie's stuff. Let Lacsamana and Heatley have a week to go through the place with sniffer dogs if they wanted. They had everything she'd found and if there was any more, they could find it for themselves. And she'd stay away from her place as well, except to pack a bag. Wouldn't need much, credit cards, maybe she'd do some shopping, buy something, just to be buying something. Mostly just sleep a lot and get ma.s.sages and watch movies. Sounding better and better.
”You want to come out and get drunk?”
”I don't drink,” Stacy said.
”You want to come out and watch me get drunk?”
”Sure.”
”You can have the couch - it folds out if you want, but it works okay as is. I'd offer you the bed, but I don't think I've made it up for a month and there may be socks hidden under the blankets. Or worse.”
”This will do fine,” Stacy said.
”I'd apologize for the mess except that it usually looks like this and I'd really be apologizing for what I am. Which is a slob.”
”It's not dirty, just disorganized.”
”Right. Exact opposite of Paulie. His house, organized; his life, a mess.”
”Your house disorganized, your life . . .”
”Okay, not the exact opposite. But when it comes to the job. Notes, reports, details. I've got that s.h.i.+t covered.” She checked the refrigerator. ”There's a Red Bull, a Yoplait and a bottle of water.” She yanked the cork out of a mostly full bottle of Spanish red. ”I'll be drinking wine. Lots of wine.”
”I'm okay for now.” Stacy s.h.i.+fted a stack of newspapers and magazines and sat on the couch.
Adele grabbed a tall water gla.s.s decorated with flowers, filled it, had a big slurp and topped it up. She sat across from Stacy and the two women stared at opposite walls for a long moment. ”I have a couple of pictures I should probably hang. Spruce up the place.”
”Pictures of what?” Stacy had trouble with the words.
”Oh s.h.i.+t, I don't know. Scenery.” She had another drink. ”They came with the last joint.” They were both laughing. ”Getting there,” she said. ”You don't drink at all?”
”My parents were boozers. Both of them. It was a cautionary childhood.”
”My parents were Christers. Probably why I say f.u.c.k so much. But I still pray. Sometimes I do both at the same time.” She drained the gla.s.s, studied the flowers for a moment. ”Grova died of a heart attack, possibly brought on by 'enhanced interrogation,' but no direct connection. No prints, no weapon.”
”So no murder charge.”
”ME says he died around 03:30, give or take. The Russians have an alibi.”
”What about the dancer?”
”She has an alibi, too, not quite so solid, but it hasn't fallen apart yet.”
”They turning her loose?”
”Tomorrow. If they don't charge her. Why? You want her?”
”I figured I'd give her a lift home.”
”Why not?” She stood up. ”Sure you don't want something? We could send out. There's a Chinese place a block away.”
”Maybe later.”
Adele came back from the kitchen with the bottle and refilled her gla.s.s. There were wine-red brackets beside her upper lip. ”Stupid motherf.u.c.king b.a.s.t.a.r.d. I couldn't count the number of times I told him to shape up. Fat lot of good that was, save my f.u.c.king breath.”
”He must have had some good qualities.”
”Oh yeah. He was a prince.” She slumped in her chair. ”Never met a rule he couldn't bend. Or break.” She sat with the gla.s.s at her mouth for a while. ”Got my brother off a drug charge a couple of years back. Claimed he was a confidential informant. He didn't have to do that. Could've got his a.s.s in a sling for it.”