THIRTY
Between the shock of Rico Tripoli’s newfound son showing up at my doorstep and the trauma over the realization that Mary Lambert had played me for a love-hungry dope, I had forgotten the dream I tried so hard to remember. Then, when I finally got back to sleep, it came to me again, but only in fragments and shards. In it, I was a dreamer once removed, like I was watching someone else’s dream and taking notes. There were flashes of John Tierney’s house and the altar room. This time the candles were lit and the panties were on the altar, but somehow the dreamer knew her bones weren’t there. The dreamer kept staring from the collage on the wall to the other photos on the altar, but then we were on the staircase to the bedroom. Black tear stains marked the faces of the saints, their moist, blackened eyes reflecting candlelight. The dreamer turned. I turned. The altar was there below us. On the wall, only a solitary photo of Sashi Bluntstone, eyes shut, her arms and legs bound behind her, her face almost beatific in death. Then nothing.
I called Sarah and for the first time in as long as I could remember, she sounded really pleased to hear from me.
“Hey, Dad.”
“Hey, kiddo. Where are you?”
“The office.”
“It’s Christmas Eve.”
“Pets get into all sorts of mischief at the holidays. Think about it: big trees, loose pine needles, lit candles, tiny glass bulbs, chocolate everywhere. Besides, Dad, when did Christmas Eve matter to you?”
“In a way it does. I think about Katy. When your mom and I were first married, I wanted to get a tree, but she wouldn’t hear of it. Converts are the worst.”
“Yeah, she was pretty strict about that stuff.”
“She was a better Jew than I ever was.”
“That’s not what Grandpa Izzy used to say.”
“You remember Mr. Roth? You were so young when he died.”
“I was almost ten. He told me you were a good Jew because you did good for people.”
“Then it was good he died when he did, before he could see the mess I made of things.”
“It wasn’t all your mess, Dad.”
“Thanks, kiddo.”
“You doing the usual tonight?”
I hesitated before answering. I wasn’t sure I wanted to try and explain Paul Stern to her. Shit, I wasn’t sure I could explain him to me.
“Yeah, the usual,” is what I said.
“Are you going to the memorial for Sashi? Max and Candy want you there. They want to thank you.”
“I’m coming, but I-”
“Hold on a second.” Sarah covered the mouthpiece. “Dad, I’ve got to go. I’ve got a beagle in here named Olivia who decided to eat a pound of chocolate Hanukah gelt.”
Go.”
“Love you, Dad. Bye.”
Hearing her say those words, the way she said them, so naturally, so unencumbered by the last seven years, made me think the guilt was worth bearing. They say there’s nothing like the love of a child. True. What I’d found out was that there was also nothing quite like the loss of that love. And hearing her mention Mr. Roth brought him back to me. Israel Roth, the father I had chosen. And me, the son he had chosen. I thought again about how pleased Mr. Roth would have been to know his real son had finally found his way in the world and that his son and I had been together when we scattered his ashes on the grounds of Auschwitz. Auschwitz, a hell Mr. Roth had survived, but a place from which he had never been fully liberated.
I went online and started researching the best Chinese, Thai, and Indian restaurants in the New York area. As I did, thoughts of Sarah, of Israel Roth, of Carmella’s son, who was named for Mr. Roth, of Paul Stern, and of Sashi Bluntstone swirled around in my head. The dream flashed back to me and was out of my head as quickly as it came. Then I found myself laughing at the thought of a beagle feasting on a pound of chocolate. My reverie was interrupted by the phone.
“Yeah.”
“Happy Holidays.” It was Detective McKenna.
“Merry Christmas.”
“How you doing?”
“Feeling pretty guilty, but it’s not all bad, I guess. My kid’s talking to me again.”
“That’s good.”
“Not for nothing, McKenna, but why the call?”
“Well, I heard about the reward.”
“I just bet you did,” I said. “I guess I have you to thank for that.”
“You deserved it even if you don’t think so.”
“Christmas is tomorrow, so we won’t argue about it. Why the call?”
“You were in terrible shape the last time I saw you and I was worried.”
“Thanks, but I’m okay. I’ve dealt with this shit before.”
“You going to the memorial?”
“You’re the second person to ask me that today. Yeah, I’m going, but I’ll keep my distance from the hostess. She’s a real piece of work.”
“That’s a kind way to put it. Just so you know, we’re calling off the search and wrapping stuff up.”
“Can I look at the evidence?” I heard myself say.
“What? I thought you said you were-”
“I am okay. I swear. It’s not that. Look, I talked to Tierney’s shrink.”
“Ogologlu?”
“Him, yeah. It helped me deal with the guilt. I just want to see if there was something I missed, something I should have seen. That’s all. I’ve started dreaming about Tierney’s house, for chrissakes.”
“I guess it’s okay. This case got to me too. Come around the day after Christmas. I’ll meet you in my office, but it stops after that.”
“Deal.”
“Sure. That’s what you said the last time. Merry Christmas.”
He hung up and managed not to apologize for wishing me Merry Christmas. Things were looking up.
THIRTY-ONE
Paul Stern showed up at eight sharp with a bottle of scotch, but it wasn’t any kind of scotch I’d ever seen.
“You’ve heard of single malt scotch, right, Moe?”
“Don’t be a wiseass, kid. I’m sure your PI told you how I earn a living.”
“Sorry. Yeah, she told me you own wine stores.”
“Well, we’ve been known to sell a bottle or three of Glenfiddich, Laphroaig, and Macallan.”
“This is single barrel scotch. A friend of mine belongs to a club that buys single barrels of fine unblended scotch and the club members get equal shares. Sometimes they have the barrel shipped over here and they have a party. Sometimes, like with this one, they have it bottled.”
“Just when you thought the idle rich had run out of ideas on how to waste money…”
“You resent money?”
“No. Just what people do with it,” I said, getting two rocks glasses from the shelf. “It’s just that when you
