Alberta’s office.”
“He was right, Lewis.”
“He was right.”
“What’s the word? Hubris. That’s it, right?” she asked.
“Walked into a ring of fire,” I said. “Brought Ames with me. We got burned.”
“And you want me to buy you asbestos suits or did you just feel the need to tell your tale to someone who’d listen to you and pat you on the cheek and say, ‘Poor boy’?”
“I’ll settle for you coming up with Ames’s bail.”
“Good,” she said, standing up. “I’ll get Catherine dressed and we’ll go down and get the Lone Ranger out of the jail. One condition.”
“What’s that?”
“Stop feeling sorry. for yourself and nail the bitch. Deal?”
“Deal,” I said.
When we got to the lockup on Ringling Boulevard, Viviase met us and ran the maze to get Ames out. He also told me that there was a restraining order against Ames and me. We couldn’t get within sight of Alberta Pastor.
Ames needed a shave. Catherine was awake and made it clear she wanted to be fed. I wanted someone to tell me to pack up and get out of town.
“Fonesca,” Viviase said, his face pink, his red tie loose. “You are in serious need of a shrink.”
“I’ve got one,” I said.
“Double your sessions,” he said. “You were an investigator for the Cook County states attorney. You had to know what could happen when you went into Pastor’s office. What’d you think? She’d just break down, confess, say she was sorry, take a plea with the district attorney?”
He was right.
“She killed her husband’s mother,” said Ames.
“And she’s going to pay for it, right?” said Viviase with a sigh. “You have any idea of how many murderers are driving around the city drinking coffee at Starbucks, deciding if their next car is going to be a Lexus or a… the hell with it. You two.”
He pointed at Ames and me.
“You two come with me and you, Mrs. Zink, the baby’s hungry,” Viviase said.
“I’ll get her home,” Flo said.
“You do that,” he said.
“I’ll call you later, Flo,” I said. “Thanks.”
“Let’s go,” Viviase said when Flo went through the door.
“Where?”
“To talk to a witness who might be able to save your very pathetic carcass,” he said, leading the way through a thick steel door. “But don’t count on it.”
“Who?” asked Ames.
“Georgia Cubbins,” he said.
We turned a corner, walked down a narrow corridor of polished white concrete. Viviase stopped at a door, reached for it.
“McKinney, you wait here,” he said.
“Who’s Georgia Cubbins?” I asked.
“Alberta Pastor’s mother,” he said. “Gigi.”
“But she-” I started as he opened the door.
“I told you not to count on it,” he said.
We were in a small dark room without furniture. In front of us was a glass partition, a two-way mirror. Beyond the window seated at a table was the old woman I had last seen at the Pastor house concentrating on newspaper ads and coupons in a state that could be called out-of-it. A very thin young woman in her early thirties wearing a white blouse and dark skirt sat across from Gigi Cubbins, who was drinking from a white porcelain mug. She held the mug in both hands and nodded, smiling at something the young woman, who had a pad of yellow, lined legal paper in front of her and a pen in her hand, said.
“Alberta Pastor’s lawyer is out looking for a judge, the chief of police, the governor or the president of the United States to get her mother out of here,” Viviase said. “If we’re lucky, we’ve got about half an hour.”
He pushed a button on the wall and we could hear what was being said inside the room beyond.
The young woman held up two fingers and said, “Mrs. Cubbins, how many fingers am I holding up?”
The old woman’s eyes widened and she said, “You mean you don’t know how many fingers you’re holding up?”
“Yes, I know.”
“So do I,” Georgia Cubbins said.
“How many?” asked the young woman patiently.
“Two.”
“Good.”
“What is?”
The young woman reached over and patted Gigi’s wrinkled hand.
“Do you know your husband’s name?”
“He’s dead,” Gigi said.
“Yes, but do you know what his name is?”
“Was,” Gigi said, putting down her cup and looking puzzled. “Is it still his name if he’s dead?”
“Yes,” the young woman said.
“Good.”
“What was his name?”
“Samuel.”
“Good and-”
“Walter.”
“Was it Samuel or Walter?” the young woman asked.
“Samuel Walter Cubbins,” Gigi said with a smile.
“And your son-in-law?”
“Dead too. Almost everyone is.”
“His name?”
“My…?”
“Your daughter’s husband.”
“David.”
“Your daughter’s name?”
“Turnkey.”
“Her name is Turnkey?”
“It’s what I call her. Her name is Albert, no, Alberta.”
“Good.”
“It’s good that her name is Alberta? Wasn’t my idea. My husband’s mother was named Alberta. I never liked the name.”
“Okay,” the young woman said.
“Did I pass?” asked Gigi.
“Yes. Do you mind if a policeman asks you a few questions?”
“Not silly ones like ‘What’s your name?’”
“I don’t think so.”
The young woman got up and said, “It was nice to meet you, Mrs. Cubbins.”
Viviase opened the door to the room beyond the two-way mirror and the woman stepped out.
“What do you think?” he asked.
She looked at me, pursed her lips and shrugged.
