Angie smiled at me from her desk. Behind her, an old black-and-white TV on the file cabinet broadcast a game show. A lot of people clapped and a few jumped up and down, but it had no effect on us. The volume on the thing had kicked the bucket years ago, but somehow we both find it comforting to leave it on when we’re up in the belfry.
“We’re making no money on this case,” she said.
“Nope.”
“You just destroyed a car you’ve waited your whole life to touch.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And then gave away tickets to the biggest football game of the year.”
“That’s about the size of it.” I nodded.
“You going to cry soon?”
“Trying hard not to.”
“Because real men don’t cry?”
I shook my head. “I’m afraid if I start, I might not be able to stop.”
We had lunch as Angie printed up her case overview thus far, and the silent TV behind her aired a soap opera in which everyone dressed really well and seemed to shout a lot. Angie has always had a narrative talent I’ve never possessed, probably because she reads in her off-time while I just watch old movies and play a lot of video golf.
She’d charted the case from my notes regarding my first meeting with Karen Nichols, through Scott Pearse’s charade as Wesley Dawe, the maiming of Miles Lovell, the disappearance of Diane Bourne, the baby switch fourteen years ago that had given the Dawes a child who would fall through ice and ultimately bring Pearse into their lives, all the way up to the beginnings of our current frontal assault on Scott Pearse’s life, shaded, of course, in vague terminology such as “commenced exploitation of subject’s weaknesses as we perceived them.”
“Here’s my problem.” Angie handed me the last page.
Under the heading Prognosis, she’d written: “Subject seems to have no viable options left to pursue the Dawes or their money. Subject’s leverage was lost when C. Dawe realized his false identity as T. McGoldrick. Exploitation of subject’s weaknesses, while emotionally gratifying, seems to yield no finite result.”
“Finite,” I said.
“You like that?”
“And Bubba accuses me of showing off my college.”
“Seriously,” she said, placing her turkey sub down on the wax paper beside her desk blotter, “what possible reason could he have for pursuing the Dawes anymore? We blew him out of the water.” She looked at the clock behind her head. “By now, he’s been suspended or fired for losing both his truck and a lot of mail. His car’s fucked. His apartment’s blown to shit. He’s got nothing.”
“He’s got a trump card,” I said.
“Which is?”
“I don’t know. But he’s former military. He loves games. He’d have a fallback position, an ace in the hole. I know it.”
“I disagree. I think he blew his wad.”
“Nice mouth.”
She shrugged, took a bite from her sandwich.
“So you want to shut this case down?”
She nodded, swallowed her piece of sandwich and took a sip of Coke. “He’s done. I think we’ve punished him. We didn’t bring Karen Nichols back, but we rocked his world a bit. He had a few million within his reach and we snatched it from him. Stick a fork in him. It’s over.”
I considered it. There wasn’t much I could argue with. The Dawes were fully prepared to face exposure on the baby-switching they’d done. Carrie Dawe was no longer vulnerable to the charms of McGoldrick/Pearse. It wasn’t like Pearse could hit them over the head and take their money. And, I was reasonably sure, he hadn’t been prepared for us and just how hard we can hit back if you make us mad.
I’d been hoping to anger him to the point where he’d do something stupid. But what? Come after me or Angie or Bubba? There was no percentage in it. Angry or not, he’d see that. Kill Angie, and he’d sign his own death warrant. Kill me, and he’d have Bubba and my case notes to deal with. And as for Bubba, Pearse would have to know that it would be like launching an assault on an armored car with a squirt gun. He might pull it off, but he’d suffer a lot of damage, and again, to what end?
So, I had to agree in principle with Angie. Scott Pearse didn’t seem to pose much of a threat to anyone anymore.
Which is what worried me. It’s the exact moment that you perceive an opponent as defenseless that you, not he, are most vulnerable.
“Twenty-four more hours,” I said. “Can you give me that?”
She rolled her eyes. “Oh, okay, Banacek, but not a second more.”
I bowed in appreciation and the phone rang.
“Hello.”
“Tu-na!” Devin crowed. “Tu-na! Fucking Pah-cells,” he said in his best Revere accent, “I think he’s, like, God, but smahta.”
“Rub it in,” I said. “Wound’s still good and fresh.”
“Timothy McGoldrick,” Devin said. “There’s a bunch of them. But one stands out-born in 1965, died in 1967. Applied for a driver’s license in 1994.”
“He’s dead, but he drives.”
“Neat trick, huh? Lives at One-one-one-six Congress Street.”
I shook my head at the sheer size of Pearse’s balls. He kept a loft on 25 Sleeper Street and another place on Congress. It might seem like a short walk, but it got even shorter when you realized that his building on Sleeper Street also fronted Congress and both addresses were under the same roof.
“You still there?” Devin asked.
“Yeah.”
“No record on this guy. He’s clean.”
“Except that he’s dead.”
“That might interest the Census Bureau, sure.”
He hung up and I dialed the Dawes.
“Hello?” Carrie Dawe said.
“It’s Patrick Kenzie,” I said. “Is your husband home?”
“No.”
“Good. When you met McGoldrick, where did you meet?”
“Why?”
“Please.”
She sighed. “He sublet a place on Congress Street.”
“Corner of Congress and Sleeper?”
“Yes. How did you-”
“Never mind. You thought anymore about that gun in New Hampshire?”
“I’m thinking about it now.”
“He’s ruined,” I said. “He can’t hurt you.”
“He already did, Mr. Kenzie. And he hurt my daughter. What am I supposed to do with that-forgive?”
She hung up, and I looked over at Angie. “I’m not too keen on Carrie Dawe’s emotional state at the moment.”
“You think she still might go gunning for Pearse?”
“Possibly.”
“What do you want to do?”
“Pull Nelson off Pearse, put him on the Dawes for a while.”
“What’s Nelson charging you?”
