was, his thoughts were a lot clearer today than… Christ, how long had he been in the hospital? He pressed the call button.
A bored looking nurse dressed in scrubs came into the room.
“How’s the headache, Mr. Serpe?” she asked, neglecting to pronounce the ‘e’ at the end of Serpe.
“Serp-ee,” Joe corrected. “And the headache feels like a curse.”
“Well, you’re more coherent than you were last night. That’s good. I’ll get you something for the headache.” She checked her watch. “The doctor should be making his rounds within the hour. Would you like me to get your sister? She’s sleeping out in the lounge.”
He wasn’t quite as coherent as the nurse thought, because the last time Joe checked he didn’t have a sister. Maybe concussions are like bad Star Trek episodes, only with more pain and fewer commercials.
“Mr. Serpe. Your sister?”
“Sure, send her in.”
Marla looked awful and wonderful. He sat up in bed. It wasn’t quite as dizzying and painful as he expected, but it wasn’t a joy either. Marla sat down next to him, running her hands over his head, silent tears streaming down her checks. She kissed him in a most unfamilial manner.
“Here, Mr. Serpe, take one of these and-” the nurse stopped mid-sentence. At least she no longer looked so bored.
He took the capsule and swallowed without water. The nurse left, shaking her head.
Joe held Marla close. “Sis, if I’d only known you were such a good kisser…”
“They weren’t going to let me stay or give me any information, so I told them I was your sister. How’s your head?”
“Hurts. How long have I been in here?”
“Bob Healy brought you in last night. You weren’t making much sense.”
“What happened to me?”
“You don’t remember?”
“I know I went to visit Frank at the Suffolk County Jail. It was snowing and I think I remember getting on the L.I.E., but things are sort of a jumble after that.”
“You had a car accident just off exit 70. That’s where Bob found you.”
“My brother’s car, shit! What-”
“Bob took care of it. It’s at his friend’s body shop. He called before to see how you were doing. He wants you to call him if you’re up to it.”
“Good, yeah, I have to tell him that Frank’s-”
“-protecting someone. Joe, you told him. He knows.”
“God, I musta been in bad shape yesterday, huh?”
“You scared the shit out of me.”
“I wasn’t trying.”
“Do you remember leaving me a phone message?” He just smiled. Marla rested her head on his shoulder.
“Are you nuts?” George Healy shouted at his brother. “First you got me sticking my nose in every case since Judge Crater’s disappearance and now you want me to ask the cops to search all their records for yesterday’s accident reports and abandoned cars. It snowed yesterday, if you hadn’t noticed. You have any idea how many accident reports there are going to be?”
“Just the L.I.E.”
“Just the L.I.E. what?”
“Between exits 72 and the Suffolk/Nassau border. So it would probably be a Highway Patrol report.”
“Do me a favor, Bob. Go to the dictionary and look up the meaning of the word ‘retirement.’”
As Joe had asked, Marla went back to his apartment to feed Mulligan and to pick out some clothing for him that didn’t smell of vomit or number two home heating oil. She understood that much of his request. She was far less certain about why Joe wanted the big picture of him and Frank standing under the Mayday Fuel Oil, Inc. sign. Removing the picture from the dresser, Marla noticed another picture. In it, Joe, his hair all black, face clean- shaven, held a young boy in his lap. The boy had Joe’s face, a Yankees cap on his head, and an oversized first baseman’s mitt on his right hand. She replaced the picture and, as instructed, reached into the rear of his sock drawer.
She felt the edges of a small box and got it out. Curious as she was, Marla didn’t open it. She packed all of this stuff neatly into Joe’s gym bag, rubbed Mulligan’s cheek and locked the door behind her. When she pulled out of the driveway, Marla was too lost in her own thoughts to see the black Navigator trailing her down the block.
The three of them sat in the booth of the Venus Diner. Joe, his head finally feeling a little better, sat next to Marla. Healy, just having finished detailing his first night on patrol with Pete Jr., sat across from them.
“So, you think he did Reyes?” Joe asked, sipping his coffee.
“The Strohmeyer kid did something to somebody. That I’m sure of. Was it Reyes? I don’t know, but the time line fits. I’ll push him a little harder tonight.”
Joe didn’t seem terribly pleased. “Even if he did Reyes, that leaves us with no connection to Cain.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” was as close to encouraging as Healy would get.
“And if this kid killed Reyes, there’s nothing to tie it to Toussant’s murder.”
Healy countered. “Not for nothing, Joe, but who says there has to be a connection?”
“I say. I feel it in my gut.”
“I said that to my brother and he told me it was gas.” Marla laughed. “Can I steal that line?”
“Be my guest,” Healy said. “So, you guys going back to your apartment?”
“Not what I had in mind. There’s stuff that needs to be done this afternoon.”
“Like what?”
“Marla’s going home to get some sleep,” Joe said. “She didn’t get much last night.”
“You’re the one that needs to rest,” Marla argued, a yawn betraying her.
“I’ll rest tonight when Bob’s out with this Strohmeyer kid. In the meantime, him and me, we’ve got somewhere to go.”
“Where’s that?” Healy asked. “A motel.”
“A motel, huh?” Healy puzzled.
“Maybe more than one.”
Even Marla was curious. “Why motels?”
“I may not remember much about yesterday, but I know Frank. He’s scared. There’s a reason he’s taking the fall for somebody here.”
“Blackmail. You think he’s being blackmailed!” Healy said. “I do. What’s the best way you know to blackmail a married man?”
“Sex,” Marla chimed in.
“Exactly. And when I spoke to his wife, she was weird about their marriage.”
Healy was skeptical. “It’s a stretch.”
“Let’s go find out.”
Located on the south service road of Sunrise Highway in Bayshore, the Blue Fountain Motor Inn was a monument to three hour rentals and questionable taste. Not that it showed much of itself to the outside world. It was the kind of place that you’d drive by without noticing unless you knew where it was or were specifically looking for it. Even so, you might miss the place. It had a small, poorly lit sign and narrow driveway. Pull into that driveway and you were greeted by a too-large, cast concrete fountain painted in sun-bleached royal blue. From the looks of the fountain, it hadn’t pumped a drop of water since Reagan’s last term. In the summer, the rain water that collected in its five basins was probably the breeding ground for half the mosquito population on Long Island.
The Blue Fountain was the fourteenth such venue Joe Serpe and Bob Healy had visited since leaving Marla at the diner and making a brief stop to make copies at the local Staples. Joe’s headache, which had come and gone in waves, was cresting again and Healy was getting discouraged.
“Your idea makes some sense, Joe, but you might be wrong.”
“I know Frank,” he said, dry-swallowing another pain pill.
“Okay, but this is the last stop today. It’s getting late and I’ve got to meet Strohmeyer in a few hours.”
