Desmond closed his eyes and shook his head. On Sunday night, Klepper had sat across from him, polishing off one donut after another. That morning, when he tracked Klepper down in his brownstone apartment, the man was lying inside, dead.
“What can you tell us about Thomas Klepper?” asked Iorio.
“All we really talked about was Gary. He… I don’t think he cared that my sister died, but he cared about Gary.” Desmond had recovered from his shock enough to speak. He hadn’t liked Tom Klepper. The bullfrog face, the croaky voice, the soft hands, the sense of entitlement had all conspired to make him feel Klepper was a creep. But the shady attorney was the closest thing to a professional ally he had in New York; at least the man understood that Dominique’s and Gary’s deaths were by design, not an accident.
“My sister and her boyfriend were murdered,” Desmond said slowly. “Now, suddenly Gary’s best friend is dead. It’s obvious there’s a connection.”
“Or someone wants us to think there’s a connection,” Reich said. “I don’t believe in coincidences.”
Iorio shot him a tight-lipped look.
“Nor do I,” Desmond answered. He caught the look, and he understood the significance of it.
Soon, very soon, you will be ashes or a skeleton, and either a name or not even a name; but name is sound and echo. But Marcus Aurelius was no help to him now. Stoics were supposed to make themselves comfortable with their impending death, since getting riled about it was nothing but a waste of a mind. But Desmond couldn’t accept Tom Klepper’s passing with the same equanimity. It severed the last link to Max.
“Who found him?” Desmond asked.
“His superintendent. He was concerned because there was a man lurking around Thomas Klepper’s apartment.”
“A black man about six foot three, between the ages of thirty-five and forty-two,” Reich added.
“The superintendent called Klepper’s office to let him know and found out Klepper hadn’t gone in. So he let himself in and found the body.” Iorio’s voice was soft, almost as if she were talking to herself. “It’s really sad. He’s got a couple of kids by his first wife. They’re teenagers.”
“The man the superintendent saw was me. I went over there today,” Desmond explained. “I wanted to find out why he was ducking me.”
“Did you go to his place last night, maybe on your way back from Roosevelt Island?” Reich asked.
“No.” The Lighthouse Park setup might have been nothing but a cheap ruse. Had Max wanted Klepper out of his apartment so he could break in and wait for him to come home? He wondered if Klepper had actually intended to go to the cops, after he’d come down from his cocaine-induced high. He’d never know.
“Did anyone actually see you on Roosevelt Island?” Iorio’s voice was sly.
From the moment he realized something had happened to Klepper, Desmond saw that Iorio and Reich were measuring him up for the crime. What did he expect from two white cops?
“Yes,” he answered, without elaborating. “Here’s the key thing: Tom Klepper knew Max.” He tried to speak patiently. “He told me he’d bought drugs from him in the past. That was their connection.”
“What kind of drugs?”
“Weed, coke, pills. He said Max provided one-stop shopping.”
“So, this mystery man is a drug dealer,” Iorio said. “Any other clues about his identity?”
Desmond shook his head. He could feel suspicion slithering beneath her words. She didn’t believe a mystery man existed.
“How did Klepper meet this dealer?” Reich asked.
“No idea.”
“So we’ve still got nothing,” Reich said.
Desmond could picture Klepper’s puffy, almost boneless, hands reaching for donut after donut. “He told me he had a girlfriend.”
“What’s her name?”
“I don’t know.”
“So, Thomas Klepper had a mysterious girlfriend as well as a connection to mysterious Max,” Iorio said. “That’s a lot of mysterious, nonexistent people around him.”
Even though they hadn’t said the words outright, he knew they were accusing him, disputing his version of events, challenging his integrity. He rose to his feet.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Reich asked. It wasn’t a friendly question.
“Back to my hotel. You know where to find me. Oh, and if you want to check my alibi, find a woman who owns a chocolate lab that answers to the name of Hershey. I saw her at Lighthouse Park last night, and I know she saw me.”
He walked out of the room, half-expecting them to try restraining him. He didn’t look back. He could feel their eyes boring into the back of his skull.
Chapter 37
His hands were still shaking with rage when he walked into the Starbucks at the corner of Twenty-Third and Third. That scene at the precinct had been what his friends in the Army would call a Charlie Foxtrot. He missed the creative swearing in the service. Civilian life had never been a good fit for him.
The coffee shop was miniscule compared to the ones he knew in Illinois and Indiana. He looked around, wondering if he could sit down for a bit. What he wanted was a stiff drink, but he knew himself well enough to admit that would only lead to trouble. Instead, he’d opt for the safety of strong caffeine and faint jazz.
His best intentions didn’t last long. When he sat down on a barstool in front of the window, he noticed the young woman next to him had her laptop open to a news story. bizarre love triangle shouted the headline. Desmond tilted his head closer. Yes, that was indeed a story about his sister and Gary.
The woman noticed him hovering over her shoulder and half-turned in his direction.
“Sorry, I was just reading your screen,” Desmond said.
“Oh, sure.” Her voice was nonchalant. “It’s a really creepy one.”
Desmond tried to read it, but his brain balked at the task. Without another word, he headed outside. The wind was blowing hard, and he managed to walk two blocks north before pulling out his phone and typing his sister’s name in a search engine. Bizarre Love Triangle was the least
