“Has it happened before?” I asked. “To you or to anyone in your building?”
Nina gave me a sour look and sucked in more smoke. Ines answered my question.
“No, detective, it has not happened to anyone in our building, before or since.”
“Did you get a look at the guy?”
“He was just a blur,” Ines said.
“Did you report this to the police?”
Ines shook her head and looked down. Nina snorted. “You and the fucking cops again,” she said.
I sighed. “Why didn’t you tell me about this before?”
“Why the hell should I?” Nina said. “It was nothing then and it’s nothing now- despite your scare tactics, and Nes’s hysteria. It didn’t have anything to do with what I hired you for.”
“I think you may be wrong about that.”
Nina shook her head and drained her wineglass. Ines took a cigarette from Nina’s pack, pinched the filter off, and lit it. Her movements were very slow and her eyes never left the tabletop.
“Has there been anything else?” I asked.
“Not that I have noticed,” Ines said. She looked up at me. “What shall we do now, detective?”
“I know some people who could watch your block for a while, to see if anyone is staking out your place.”
“What are you, nuts?” Nina’s laugh was contemptuous.
Ines’s face was still. “Mierda,” she whispered.
“I told you,” Nina said, “this is about him looking for more workand now he’s bringing his friends into it.”
Ines turned to me. “Is there danger… to Guillermo?”
“I don’t think so. Whoever is doing this is interested in Danes. If they’re watching you, it’s because they think he’ll turn up.”
“Which means they’re fucking stupid.” Nina snorted. “Nes, you can’t seriously believe this crap?”
Ines was silent.
“It won’t take long to find out if I’m wrong,” I said.
“It won’t take any time at all,” Nina said quickly, “because it’s not going to happen.”
Ines looked up, and she and Nina stared at each other. “Nina-”
Nina put her hands on Ines’s knees. Her voice fell to a whisper. “Forget it, Nes. I’ve had enough of this guy- enough of this whole thing. I don’t want people snooping on us and scaring Billy. It’s just not going to happen.” She turned to me, and her tone sharpened.
“Are you clear on that, March? It’s not going to happen. Now take your conspiracies and your friends and clear the fuck out of here. I’m sorry I ever hired you, and if you don’t leave us alone my lawyer will make you sorry too.” Nina stubbed out her cigarette. Red patches of anger flared on her cheeks. “Clear out, I said. What’s the matter- you have nothing else to do? You have nothing else to fill your time?”
Ines sat still and very straight and stared hard at nothing. I stood and rolled my shoulders to work out the stiffness, but it didn’t help. I walked away.
My building was quiet when I got home, and I was wet and angry. I toweled off my hair and changed my clothes, and then I was just angry. I brewed a fresh pot of coffee and sat in the dark and watched the night come on, and the rain turn into thunderstorms, and the storms engulf the city. After a while I switched on a light and picked up my phone and called Tom Neary.
Peter Spiegelman
JM02 – Death's Little Helpers aka No Way Home
20
By Sunday morning, the storms were east of Cape Cod, the sky was empty and blue, and I was downtown, following Tom Neary through the darkened halls of Brill Associates. He led me through the high-rent client district, past mahogany-clad conference rooms, and down corridors lined with gilt-framed paintings, to a pair of metal doors. We went through and came out on the other side of the tracks: fluorescent lighting, dingy walls, threadbare carpeting, shabby cubicles, and- as a general rule- no clients allowed. Neary’s office was in a corner.
It was a good-sized room but spartan in its fittings, which consisted mainly of metal furniture and unsteady piles of paper. His office artwork was a whiteboard, covered by the faded arrows and boxes of an unintelligible diagram. I sat in a straight-backed chair in a big square of sunlight. Neary sat at his metal desk and put his sneakered feet up. He took the lid from a cup of coffee and blew the steam away.
“Getting fired twice in three days and by the same client- that’s impressive, even for you.” He sipped his coffee. “You may have hosed my weekend, but at least you’re entertaining.”
“Happy to oblige,” I said. “But I’m not sure the second time really constitutes a firing. It was more like a validation of her original decision.”
“I won’t split hairs,” he said. “Did Irene Pratt ever call you back?”
“Last night, to say she’d spent a couple of hours telling her story to the Pace security people and again to Turpin- who jumped to the same conclusions about the breakin that she had.”
“She see anything at her apartment?”
“Nope. No sign of the Grand Prix or the guy with the mustache.”
“Which doesn’t mean there wasn’t someone there.” Neary looked into his cup and then at me. “You hear from Turpin?”
“No.”
“You will.”
“You don’t think they’ll just call the cops?”
“Not over this,” Neary said. “They call the cops and they have to tell the whole Danes story. No way his management wants that attention- from the cops or the press.” He upended his coffee cup to get the last few drops, and looked at me. “You sure you want to do this?” he asked.
“I’m sure.”
Neary shook his head and smiled. “People who work for a living don’t do this shit, no matter how curious they are.” I nodded. “This is how people get the idea you’re a dilettante, you know? Not me, mind you. I don’t make a habit of turning away business, and I’d never bad-mouth a client- at least not to his face.”
“That’s where you and I differ,” I said. “That, and the fact that my professional discount is better.” I looked at my watch. “Think they’ll be here soon?” As I spoke, two men appeared at the office door. I recognized them both.
Juan Pritchard was about my height and half again as wide, with coffee-colored skin and black hair cut short. He had a broad friendly face, a square chin, and a mouth always set in a half smile. The impression of affability was tempered by his large calloused knuckles and by the scar that ran from his left temple to below his collar line and was dissipated completely by the look in his stony black eyes. He wore khaki gabardines, a black linen shirt, and sleek rimless glasses, and he nodded at me as he came through the door.
Eddie Sikes came in behind him, wearing wilted pants and a long-sleeved brown shirt. He was five-nine and wiry, and his black hair was long and unkempt. There was a gold hoop in his right ear and a day’s gray growth on his lean face. His pale eyes gave away nothing.
“Hey,” he said to Neary. His voice was a scratchy whisper. Sikes carried a white paper bag, and from it he produced two cups of coffee. He handed one to Pritchard and the two of them sat on Neary’s sofa.
“Got a couple more of those?” It was a woman’s voice and it was full of the Bronx. Lorna DiLillo was tall and dark and limber-looking. Her full lips were glossy, and there was a skeptical light in her brown eyes. She swept a wave of shiny black hair from her shoulder and took off her denim jacket. There was a black automatic holstered butt forward at her hip.
Victor Colonna was with her. He was small, fine-featured, and grave, and his smooth hair was precisely cut and combed. His white shirt was immaculate and bright against his skin. His eyes moved quickly around the room.
“Always got your back,” Sikes rasped, and he drew two more coffees from his paper bag. DiLillo and Colonna crossed the room to collect them. Pritchard held out a massive fist and DiLillo bumped it lightly with her own as she
