“But you know the people,” Jesse said. “Got a suggestion?”
“The wife’s ready to pop,” Kelly Cruz said. “The old man is buried so deep inside somewhere that I got no clue on him.”
“And the help’s nowhere,” Jesse said.
Kelly Cruz shook her head.
“Nowhere,” she said. “Working for the Yankee dollar. Got no other interest.”
“You’re Cuban,” Jesse said.
“My mother is,” Kelly Cruz said.
“And Raymond.”
“And that doesn’t help.”
“Not a bit,” Kelly Cruz said. “About as much as you being a gringo will help with the Plums.”
“Gringo?” Jesse said.
“I’m trying to sound authentic,” Kelly Cruz said. “I was you I’d go for the mother, and how the pervert killed her daughter.”
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Jesse nodded. Kelly Cruz glanced at her watch.
“Eleven-fifty,” she said. “They’ll be drinking by the time we get there.”
“Good or bad?” Jesse said.
“Doesn’t seem to have much effect,” Kelly Cruz said.
“We’re expected,” Jesse said.
“We are, if they remember,” Kelly Cruz said.
The valet service knew a cop when they saw one. Nobody offered to take the Crown Vic, and nobody objected when Ortiz parked it right in front of the main entrance and got out. In the lobby, Ortiz showed his badge to the concierge.
She called upstairs, and when they got out of the elevator at the penthouse, the maid was waiting for them at the front door of the Plums’ vast condo. She led them through the un-ruffled living room to the terrace where the drink trolley had been wheeled into place, and a small buffet was set up.
Mrs. Plum, in a frothy ankle-length turquoise dress, was reclining on a chaise. Mr. Plum, wearing a white shirt and white linen slacks, sat erect in his chair near her head. Both were drinking Manhattans. Jesse stared at the father.
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O rtiz’s only duty was to add jurisdictional presence where Jesse and Kelly Cruz had
none. They declined to eat. Ortiz accepted a large plateful of assorted tea sandwiches and ate them quietly, leaning his hips against the railing of the terrace, and sipping mango iced tea from a glass he balanced on the top rail. Kelly Cruz sat opposite the Plums in a white satin chair with no arms. Jesse remained standing.
“Chief of police,” Willis Plum said. “That’s quite an achievement.”
Jesse ignored him.
“Mrs. Plum,” he said. “A while ago you told Detective R O B E R T B . P A R K E R
Cruz your husband had taken a trip at the beginning of June, and it appeared that you were mistaken.”
“I often am,” Mrs. Plum said, in a tone that didn’t mean it.
“Good news,” Jesse said. “You were right. He didn’t go to Tallahassee. But he was in the Boston area the first week in June.”
She looked quickly at her husband.
“I knew I was right,” she said.
Mr. Plum shook his head.
“He’s wrong, Mommy,” Plum said gently, “just like you were.”
“He has an E-ZPass transponder on his car,” Jesse said.
“It’s compatible with the Fast Lane system in Massachusetts.
He was driving on the Massachusetts Turnpike the first week in June.”
“Transponder,” she said.
“The car goes through the no-toll lane and is electroni-cally recorded. Toll is charged to your credit card.”
“The thing on the windshield,” Mrs. Plum said.
“It is useful almost everywhere north of Washington,” Mr.
Plum said. “I drive often to New York. It is a great time-saver.”
