Funny Money

“Oh, Jesus,” Valentine whispered.

Valentine tried to think.

The smart move was to run. That was what crooks did in tight situations. Run. That was his best option. Only he'd left his fingerprints all over the house.

Going back upstairs, he laid his overcoat and scarf on the kitchen table, got a dishrag from the sink, and went around the house rubbing down anything he might have touched. Then he did the same in the basement. Climbing up the ramp, he turned out the light and left the door ajar.

Finding the cat's bowl, he filled it with dry cat food, then filled another bowl with water and put it on the floor. Tomorrow, he would make an anonymous phone call to the police and ask them to let the cat out.

He started to open the front door as mail came through the slot. He went to the living room window and saw the mailman walk down the path. A woman in curlers was standing on the sidewalk. They started to chat. He took a seat by the door.

Then he played back what had happened.

And got nowhere.

It didn't make sense. He'd known Sparky a long time. All he'd wanted was a straight answer.

He kicked Sparky's mail with his foot. It scattered across the floor. Bills, flyers, and something from the IRS. He picked up the IRS letter by its corners and peered through the plastic window. The words Final Notice popped out.

The letter struck him as odd. Sparky was broke. So why was the IRS breathing down his neck?

He boiled water on the kitchen stove and steamed the envelope open, then used a fork to remove the letter. His eyes ran down the page. Sparky had made two ten-thousand-dollar deposits into his account, which his bank had reported to the IRS, as it was required by law to do. The IRS was now holding the money, and demanding an explanation of its origin.

Valentine put the letter down. Where the hell had Sparky gotten twenty grand?

He found a pair of rubber gloves beneath the sink, put them on, and searched the house. Sparky's bedroom was behind the kitchen, and he checked all the places the paralyzed cop could reach. On the bottom of the dirty clothes hamper he hit pay dirt and removed a shoe box wrapped in rubber bands.

The box was heavy. Opening the lid, he stared at the stacks of brand new hundred-dollar bills. He dumped them onto the bed. He used to be good at counting money at a glance and guessed the box contained thirty grand. He counted it just to be sure.

Thirty grand on the nose.

He sat down on the bed, his head spinning. Had Sparky made the money selling hot guns? It was the only logical answer he could think of. The phone on the night table rang and he nearly jumped out of his skin. On the fourth ring the answering machine picked up.

“I'm not here,” Sparky's recorded voice said gruffly. “Friends can leave a message. Everyone else, go to hell.”

“Sarge,” a woman's voice rang out. “You there? Pick up. I need to talk to you.”

The woman hung up. Valentine stared at the phone. Who the hell was Sarge?

He searched the other drawers in Sparky's dresser, and in the bottom one found a framed photograph taken during Desert Storm. Sparky stood in the back row with his regiment, looking sharp in his army uniform. Valentine stared at the other faces; half were men, the others women. There was too much sunlight to make anyone out. He took the photograph out of its frame and stared at the back, hoping to find the regiment's name or call numbers. It was blank.

He went to the front of the house and looked out the living room window. The mailman and next door neighbor were gone.

He got out of the house as fast as he could.

18

Honey

Sitting behind the wheel of the Mercedes, he peeled off the rubber gloves. Then he backed out of the alley next to Sparky's house. There were times when being in a flashy car wasn't good, and this was certainly one of them.

He drove for several miles, then parked next to a Wendy's and sat in the parking lot for several minutes, trying to gather his thoughts. Sparky's dying words were already starting to haunt him. You know . . . Doyle . . .

He stuck his hand in his pocket and took out Sparky's trusted .38. He'd told Sparky he needed another gun, and now he had one.

He stuck the gun back in his pocket. Then he tried to make sense of what had happened. Fifty grand was a lot of dough. Selling hot guns couldn't be that lucrative. Even if it was, it didn't explain why Sparky had thrown the bottle at him. Nor the fear in Sparky's eyes. That was bothering him the most.

Going inside the restaurant, he bought coffee, then sat in his car and drank it. Soon his head was buzzing like a cheap TV. During his last checkup, his doctor had ordered him to cut out caffeine after 4 P.M. He'd said sure and gone right on drinking coffee and diet Cokes, caffeine the one addiction he planned to take with him to his grave.

Doyle had been a caffeine junkie as well. And an ex-smoker. They'd been alike in a lot of ways. So much so that Valentine had known his partner inside out. And if Doyle had one flaw, it was his inability to keep a secret. If Sparky was talking to Doyle, and had told Doyle anything worth repeating, Doyle would have told someone. It was simply his nature.

He fished Doyle's cell phone out of his pocket. Powering it up, he retrieved Honey's number. He needed to talk to this woman, just to see what she knew.

He hit the Send button. On the third ring, a woman's sleepy voice answered.

“Is this Honey?”

The woman let out a gasp.

“Look, you don't know me, but my name is Tony Valentine, and I—”

“Tony?” the woman said.

“Yes?”

“Oh my God, is that you?”

Liddy Flanagan met him at the front door of her house. She'd been lying in bed when he'd called—“No reason to get up,” she'd explained—and had thrown on jeans and a threadbare sweater and brushed out her hair. She looked like a ghost, her skin creamy white and translucent, showing every hidden vein. They went into the kitchen and she poured herself a cup of that morning's coffee and stuck it in the microwave.

“Honey was Doyle's nickname for me,” she said, sitting in the nook. “It came from his favorite song, Van Morrison's ‘Tupelo Honey.' When you called the other day and used that name, I cried for hours.”

“I'm sorry.”

“It's not your fault.”

He watched her drink the steaming brew. Even the smell of coffee put his brain in high gear, and he reached across the nook and touched her arm. “Liddy, why did you lie to me the other day?”

The question jolted her out of her lethargy.

“I didn't lie to you.”

He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Yes, you did. You said you found Doyle's notebook hidden under the bed. That wasn't true, was it?”

Liddy did not reply.

“You found it in the safe,” he went on, “where Doyle kept all his important documents, like his life insurance and his savings bonds.”

“Who told you about the safe?”

“I helped him install it, for Christ's sake.”

“Oh, God, how stupid of me.” Liddy ran her hands through her hair. A number of expressions battled for a place on her face. A smile won out. “I never should have thought I could pull a fast one on you.”