And the Marco Island police wanted to talk to All Hands about Hilda Frieslander. A judge had waived the rule requiring next of kin to approve an autopsy. The medical examiner had raised questions about the deceased’s physical ability to do what she was supposed to have done. Plus, there were bruises on her hands.
Yes, a very bad patch. But as Rivera neared the Donegal entrance, he still felt confident. Suicides could overcome handicaps, and blood thinners made people susceptible to bruising. But Arnold Kleinman was right: you had to adapt. You hoped for the best and prepared for the worst.
He turned at the entrance and approached the gatehouse. The guard waved and raised the barrier. As he drove in, Rivera thought of the picture. His picture. It was behind him in the van’s cargo space. He knew where Sweeney lived from Friday, plus he now had Sweeney’s keys. And the redhead from Friday, she too had left a message:
“Hello, James, it’s Brenda Contay. Do you remember Patrick Sweeney? He rode with us from the airport. He lives across the fourteenth fairway from the Ivy house. He was out on the course last night. The gatehouse log says you came to the club just before eleven. You went to the Ivy house. Did you see anyone out on the course? Please call me at this number.”
◆◆◆◆◆
At Sweeney’s he got out, opened the tailgate and lifted out the lithograph. Anyone watching would see a man making a delivery. Rivera stepped to the front door and knocked. He waited, looked in both directions. Seeing no signs of life, no one walking a dog, he now tried the door. Unlocked. He let himself in, closed the door and quickly opened the one to the garage. Sweeney’s car was a red Mazda. Having Sweeney’s keys meant Rivera now had a plan B. It was a small car, leaving plenty of room for his van.
He snapped on the garage light. A pool vacuum and gardening tools hung from the wall. Bulging plastic trash bags were stacked in front of the Mazda. He got out his phone and tapped Ray’s number. “It’s James. Got a pen?”
“Yeah, I got a pen,” Ray said. “You got a girlfriend?”
“Why?”
“The woman you drive from the airport. The one bring me back on Saturday. She called.”
“What about?”
“She coming out here. She want to talk to you about someone named Sweeney.”
“Call her back, Ray. Tell her I don’t know anything.”
“Yeah, I give her your number. You should talk to her, she’s a reporter. She could maybe do us some good. When you going to Marco?”
“Later. I have a problem with Ivy’s son. I need you to give him a message.”
“He come down here to get his father?”
“He came down, Ray, that’s enough. He thinks I stole something. I’m meeting with him to show him he’s wrong about me.”
Ray was silent. Then he said, “This is something off the books, right?”
“Just call him. It’s because of his wife. She promised me something, but Ivy found out she’s cheating on him. So now he’s angry and decides the Mexican must be stealing. Just tell him I’m on my way, and that I have his picture here at Donegal.”
“You was doing better without the women,” Ray said.
Rivera pocketed his phone and stepped to the red Mazda. He opened the driver’s door, reached in and unclipped the garage-door remote. Quickly he went back into the dark house. A bedroom stood open. He carried his picture to the dining room and leaned it against the table. On the wall hung a painting of a sunset. He lifted it down and hung the lithograph in its place. He returned with Sweeney’s own picture to the open bedroom. Stuffed animals and dolls lay staring up on twin beds—a children’s room. He set the sunset behind the door, then let himself out.
◆◆◆◆◆
Chimes echoed inside. Rivera now heard Ivy coming through the house, talking.
It was something he remembered from their few meetings: George Ivy was always on the phone. Always shouting and walking, never really where he was. Still talking, he had now stopped on the other side of the door. Rivera prepared himself. The door swung open.
“—Rache? Hey Rache…Sweetie? Will you shut up for one second? If that’s true—” Turning away, Ivy cuffed for Rivera to follow “—Yes, he told me, but here’s the deal—” He marched toward the great room “—If that’s true, it isn’t going to make any fucking difference.” Rivera closed the door and followed. “No, and would you like to know why? Because if the recordings aren’t admissible in a court of law, I will make copies and send them to the court of public opinion. That’s right, Rache, to everyone you know. And every newspaper within a hundred miles of Westchester County. And Naples, Florida, and Snowmass, Colorado—”
When Rivera reached the big room, he looked to the wall. The bird painting was still there. The 5 picture is mine, he thought. Who has more right to it? Not some shouting fool who can’t control his trophy second wife.
“Rache? Rache?” Ivy was shaking his head as he listened. “Rache, I don’t give a shit,” he said. “Because everyone knows already. How am I going to be a bigger schmuck than I am already? See what I mean? But you… Rache?”
Facing the wall of pictures, Ivy dropped the hand holding the phone. “Take it down,” he said. “You put it up, you take it down. Put it back where you found it.”
Rivera took off his boat shoes. “I checked it out,” Ivy said as Rivera climbed onto the console. “I suppose you planned to roll up with a moving van and haul everything away. ‘They’re yours, Jimmy, all of it. All the furniture in his room. There’s an oriental rug in there I think might be worth something, the Hummels.’” Ivy was using his wife’s raspy smoker’s voice. “But that’s not the good stuff,” he said in his own
