“Just around the block from the corner of Congress and Purchase.”
“One block down, one over, to be exact. But that’s not the most curious thing. Our contact at Cellular One told me where Wetterau was when he received the call.”
“I’m breathless.”
“Heading west on the Pike, just outside Natick.”
“So at four-forty, he’s heading to get the Steadicam.”
“And at five-twenty he’s in the middle of the intersection at Congress and Purchase.”
“About to get his head squashed.”
“Right. He parks his car in a garage on South Street, walks up Atlantic to Congress, and he’s crossing Purchase when he trips.”
“You talk to any cops about it?”
“Well, you know how the police feel these days about us in general and me in particular.”
I nodded. “Maybe you’ll think twice next time before you shoot a cop.”
“Ha-ha,” she said. “Luckily, Sallis & Salk has excellent relationships with the BPD.”
“So you had someone from there call.”
“Nah. I called Devin.”
“You called Devin.”
“Uh-huh. I asked him and he got back to me in about ten minutes.”
“Ten minutes.”
“Maybe fifteen. Anyway, I have the witness statements. All forty-six of them.” She patted the soft leather bag on the chair to her left. “Ta-da!”
“’Nother drink, folks?” Shakes Dooley emptied Angie’s ashtray and wiped the condensation ring from under her glass.
“Sure,” Angie said.
“And for the missus?” Shakes asked me.
“Fine for now, Shakes. Thanks.”
Shakes said, “What a pussy,” under his breath, and walked off to get Angie another Finlandia.
“So let me get this straight,” I said to Angie, “you call Devin and fifteen minutes later you have something I’ve been trying to get for four days.”
“’Bout the size of it.”
Shakes placed her drink in front of her. “There you go, doll.”
“‘Doll,’” I said when he walked away. “Who the hell says ‘doll’ anymore?”
“Yet he somehow makes it work,” Angie said, and sipped some vodka. “Go figure.”
“Man, I’m pissed at Devin.”
“Why? You bug him all the time for favors. I haven’t called him in almost a year.”
“True.”
“Plus, I’m prettier.”
“Debatable.”
She snorted. “Ask around, pal.”
I took a sip of my beer. It was warm. Popular with Europeans, I know, but so are blood sausage and Steven Seagal.
On Shakes’s next pass, I ordered a fresh one.
“Sure, I’ll be taking your car keys next.” He placed a frosty Beck’s in front of me, shot a look at Angie, and walked away.
“I’m getting dissed way too much lately.”
“Probably because you date defense attorneys who think a good wardrobe makes up for that lack-of-brains thing.”
I turned on my chair. “Oh, you know her?”
“No. I’ve heard half the men in the twelfth ward do, though.”
“Hiss,” I said. “Meow.”
She gave me a rueful smile as she lit another cigarette. “Cat’s got to have claws to make it a fight. What I hear, all she’s got is a nice briefcase, great hair, and tits she’s still making monthly payments on.” Her smile widened and she crinkled her face at me. “Okay, pooky?”
“How’s Someone?” I said.
Her smile faded and she reached into her bag. “Let’s get back to David Wetterau and Karen-”
“I hear his name’s Trey,” I said. “You’re dating a guy named Trey, Ange.”
“How’d you-”
“We’re detectives, remember? Same way you knew I was dating Vanessa.”
“Vanessa,” she said as if her mouth were filled with onions.
“Trey,” I said.
“Shut up.” She fumbled with her bag.
I drank some Beck’s. “You’re questioning my street cred and you’re sleeping with a guy named Trey.”
“I don’t sleep with him anymore.”
“Well, I don’t sleep with her anymore.”
“Congratulations.”
“Back at you.”
There was dead silence between us for a minute as Angie pulled several sheets of thermal fax paper from her bag and smoothed them on the bar. I drank some more Beck’s, fingered the cardboard coaster, felt a grin fighting to break across my face. I glanced at Angie. The corners of her mouth twitched, too.
“Don’t look at me,” she said.
“Why not?”
“I’m telling you-” She lost the battle and closed her eyes as the smile broke across her cheeks.
Mine followed about a half second later.
“I don’t know why I’m smiling,” Angie said.
“Me, either.”
“Prick.”
“Bitch.”
She laughed and turned on her chair, drink in hand. “Miss me?”
Like you can’t imagine.
“Not a bit,” I said.
We moved to a long table in the back, ordered some club sandwiches from the kitchen, and ate them as I brought her up to speed, told her in detail about my first meeting with Karen Nichols, my two run-ins with Cody Falk, my conversations with Joella Thomas, Karen’s parents, Siobhan, and Holly and Warren Martens.
“Motive,” Angie said. “We keep coming back to motive.”
“I know.”
“Who really vandalized her car, and why?”
“Yup.”
“Who wrote the letters to Cody Falk, and why?”
“Why,” I said, “did someone feel the need to fuck with this woman’s life so completely she jumped off a building rather than take any more of it?”
“And did they go so far as to arrange David Wetterau’s accident?”
“Access is an issue, too,” I said.
She chewed her sandwich, dabbed the corner of her mouth with a napkin. “How so?”
“Who sent Karen the photos of David and the other woman? Hell, who took the photos?”
“They look professional to me.”
“Me, too.” I popped a cold french fry in my mouth. “And who gave Karen her own psychiatrist’s notes? That’s a big one.”
Angie nodded. “And why?” she said. “Why, why, why?”
