important element. He’s just another dead dog that happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. Well, Robert Tillman had been treated like that stray dog: a man in the wrong place at the wrong time. The irony was that if he had been murdered, the cops would have gone over every inch of his life, searching for the killer’s possible motive. But he hadn’t been murdered and, from what I could see, there was no connection between Robert Tillman, Alta Conseco, and Maya Watson beyond the unfortunate coincidence of proximity and unfortunate timing.
I dialed Maya Watson’s phone number. It rang a few times before going to voicemail. I didn’t really blame her for not answering her phone these days. She had no doubt changed her numbers more than once since March, but privacy, which had always been a cruel myth, was now nearly unattainable. No one knows that better than a private investigator. Before everyone used the internet like an anatomical appendage, we used to be able to find out pretty much everything about anyone. True, it used to take a little longer and it depended a little more on bribery, threat, and charm than on hacking, but the results were similar. I left a message, apologizing for what had transpired earlier and asking if we could get together to talk. I left my numbers and hung up.
I sat down at my computer and Googled Robert Tillman. If there was a connection between Tillman and the two EMTs, this was the place to start.
THIRTY-ONE
The High Line Bistro seemed like the logical second step after the Internet. Frankly, going back to the High Line was more like step 1-b. According to Google, there were a lot of Robert Tillmans in the world and most of them had accomplished a good deal more than landing a job as a prep cook at an overpriced Manhattan eatery. Even after I had made my search specific enough to get information on the Robert Tillman I was looking for, there wasn’t much to find worth looking at. In a world where every other putz on the street managed to achieve some diluted form of internet celebrity with a video of himself doing something creative or creatively stupid, Robert Tillman had managed to remain as anonymous and unheralded as a store brand soft drink. In fact, there wasn’t a single entry on him that predated his death.
The bartender recognized me immediately and smiled. Then, when she remembered why she recognized me, that lovely smile slid right off her face. It’s funny how people’s expressions so betray them. I knew a detective once, a guy named Micky Dingle, who used to watch TV with the sound off. He insisted it was good practice for learning how to read body language and facial expressions and it was hard to argue with his results. Dingle was a legendary interviewer- interviewer, that’s cop speak for interrogator-and had a knack for getting suspects to confess to their crimes, large and small. These days they would say Micky was attuned to unconscious physical cues and nonverbal communication. The FBI probably taught classes in it by showing videos of baboons doing threat behavior and dolphins recognizing themselves in mirrors.
I sat in the same barstool I’d occupied the last time I was here. There were actually a few other people at the bar this time around, so the bartender wasn’t pinned and wriggling in front of me like she had been during my previous visit. But we both knew she couldn’t avoid me forever.
“Sparkling water with a lime?” she asked.
“Good memory. Yeah, to start, sparkling water is fine. It’s Esme, right?”
“Esme, yes.”
“I’d also like a glass of Zin and a minute of your time.”
“The water is with my compliments. The Zinfandel you pay for, but my time is my own. And please do not bother showing me your badge again. It took me a little while to figure it out, but you are old enough to be my grandfather.”
“You know how to hurt a man’s pride, don’t you? No, I’m not a cop, but I used to play one on TV.”
She didn’t laugh. “I do not understand.”
“Bad joke, never mind. I used to be a cop and I use my old badge sometimes as kind of a shortcut is all. I am a licensed private investigator, though. And no, I guess you don’t have to talk to me, though I don’t know why you wouldn’t want to.”
“No one enjoys being lied to. It makes them feel foolish,” she said, pouring my Zinfandel.
“That wasn’t my intention, making you feel foolish, I mean. I’m very sorry if I did.”
The wine was so deeply red it was nearly black. I sipped: full-bodied, peppery with a hint of cherries. Pretty impressive stuff for wine by the glass, but at fifteen bucks a glass, the price was impressive too.
“What do you really want of me?”
“The truth?”
“That would be a change.”
“The first time I was just poking around on behalf of a client. It was more like fact finding than anything else.”
She got inexplicably agitated. “A client? What client?” Catching the semi-desperation in her voice, she calmed herself down. “Forgive me. I am not myself today.”
“That’s privileged information, Esme. I wouldn’t be a very good investigator if I was willing to come right out and tell you.”
She didn’t like that answer and moved away from me for the moment, but she was soon right back in front of me. “Please tell me,” she said, not-too subtly running the tip of her tongue over her red lips. “I would really like to know.”
“If I were thirty years younger and you looked at me like that, I might just tell you.”
“Please.”
“Sorry.”
Her lovely face turned to stone, her body clenching tight. “Is your client a woman?”
It was an odd question. I suppose I could have just said no and been done with it, but her reaction was so incredibly visceral I couldn’t let it go. “What’s wrong? What if it was a woman?”
“ Is it a woman?” she practically growled.
“I told you, I can’t say.”
“Please leave.” It might have sounded like a request, but it wasn’t.
“Miss, can I get another Black Label, please,” asked a man at the end of the bar in a thousand dollars worth of casual clothing, jiggling the ice in his freshly scotchless glass.
Esme did not turn her head. She did not move her legs. She did not answer him. “Please leave, now.”
I took another sip of Zin. “But I haven’t finished my wine.”
With that, Esme’s right arm shot forward, toppling my untouched glass of sparkling water into my lap, soaking my pants and jacket. “I am terribly sorry, sir,” she said, not looking or sounding the least bit sorry. “Please accept the wine as an apology. You will find towels in the men’s room.”
When I came out of the men’s room, Esme was gone. I asked after her.
“She quit,” said the hostess, glaring at me. “I don’t know what you said to upset her, but she was beside herself when she left.”
I threw her a curve. “Can I speak to Chef Liu, please?”
The hostess didn’t like that. “Why, sir, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Because I want to see if I can get him to quit too.”
Ten minutes later I was in a hot, cramped little office off the kitchen with Chef Liu. He remembered me as well and was still buying into me as a cop. He was polite, if a bit confused about what I’d done to make his bartender quit. I explained that my asking about Robert Tillman’s death had really seemed to upset Esme. That only confused him further.
“I don’t understand,” he said. “Esme did not see what happened. She did not even see Robert’s body. Why should she be so upset?”
Why indeed? “I can’t say. The last time I was here, you said Mr. Tillman had only been working here for a brief time and that he had skills in the kitchen.”
“A week, yes. He was a fine prep cook.”
“What does a prep cook do exactly?”
