it and the boyfriend helps, one way or the other. We got the
wrong guy, Stan. We have to talk to the daughter again and find out if she has a boyfriend.'
'No.'
'What?'
'We're not bothering that kid again.' Kovich shoved the report at him, and Brinkley knew he was in trouble.
'Why not?'
'Because she's a kid, Mick.'
'So what? We question lots of kids. This kid's not from the projects, so we don't question her?'
'Don't go there, Mick. You know me too well for that.' Kovich raised his voice a notch. The girl lost her mother and now her father. You wanna find out if she has a boyfriend, find another way.'
Brinkley thought about it. 'Okay, let's go. Turn around.'
Kovich leaned over and released the emergency brake. 'Fine,' he said, and Brinkley heard the winter wind in Kovich's voice.
It was never fine when Kovich said it was fine.
Brinkley scanned the lobby of Colonial Towers. Black marble, cushy tan chairs, and a classy security desk with a young white kid sitting behind it. His hat had slid back on his forehead and his neck sprouted like a stem out of his collar. Brinkley introduced himself and Kovich to the kid, who sat up straight when he saw the badges. 'Homicide detectives? Sure, sure. How can I help you?'
'I wanna ask you a few questions about one of your tenants here. Paige Newlin.' The guard's face changed immediately from fear to familiarity.
'You know who I mean.'
'Sure, the model.' The guard frowned. 'I read her dad killed her mom. That's heinous.'
Brinkley didn't comment. 'We're investigating that murder, and I need background information about her comings and goings.'
'She comes and goes, nothing regular, for her job. But
you notice her, you know.' The guard smiled shyly. 'She's totally hot.'
'You ever see her with guys? You know, like boyfriends.'
'Uhm, yes. She sees some guy, a prep, since she moved here.' Bingo. 'She's dating him?'
'Looks that way.'
'He stay over?'
'I'm the night shift, not the morning. But I think so.'
'What's he look like?'
'We call him Abercrombie Boy. He's like, right out of the catalog, you know.'
Brinkley had no idea. 'No, I don't.'
Tall, a jock. Good-looking. A rich boy.'
'He got an earring?'
'I don't know. Mostly I look at her.'
'You got a sign-in log?'
'Yeah, sure.' The guard went behind the desk, pulled out a large black notebook, and opened it up.
Turn back to the page for Monday,' Brinkley asked, and the kid found the page and turned the book toward the detectives. It was a standard ledges, with signatures in a list and the time they signed in. Brinkley ran his finger down the page, stopped at the name of Paige Newlin, then jumped to the signature next to hers. Trent Reznor. Trent Reznor, that's his name,' Brinkley said, satisfied.
'Huh? That can't be his name.' The guard came around and peered at the logbook. Trent Reznor's with Nine Inch Nails.'
'What?' Brinkley read over the guard's shoulder, then thumbed back in time and checked every name written next to Paige Newlin's. 'Ben Folds, Thurston Moore, Gavin Rosdale,' he read aloud, and the guard took off his hat.
'Wait a minute. Ben Folds is with Ben Folds Five, Thurston Moore is with Sonic Youth. They're all bands. None of those are real names.'
Brinkley went further backward in time, reading the log
entries. 'Dave Matthews, Eddie Vedder. Also rock stars, aren't they?'
'Yeah, older ones.'
Brinkley tore through the book, checking each time he saw Paige Newlin's name on a line. The entries went back to December of last year and each name next to hers was different, as was each line of handwriting. Some slanted forward and some back, but he never wrote in the same hand twice. Shit! 'Don't you read what these people write down?' Brinkley demanded.
'Uh, no.' The kid colored. 'I mean, not usually, I guess. We just ask them to write it.'
'What's the point then? Why have them sign it if you're not going to check? What're you doin' the goddamn job for?' Brinkley raised his voice, and Kovich grabbed his arm.
'Excuse us,' he said tensely. 'Me and my partner are leaving now. Thanks for your help.'
'Uh, sure,' the guard answered, shaken, as Kovich steered Brinkley to the entrance door and out onto the sidewalk. The sun was bright but the wind gusted in currents in front of the tall building. Traffic whizzed by, moving smoothly at this hour, and two well-dressed older women approached. Kovich squeezed Brinkley's arm.
'You gotta calm down, Mick. You were screaming at the kid.'
'He's a fuckup!' Brinkley heard himself shout, which he never did.
'He's ten years old, for Christ's sake!' Kovich yelled back as they squared off on the sidewalk. The two women picked up their pace past the detectives.
'Then he shouldn't be working the job! Security is supposed to mean something.' Brinkley gestured at the women, who looked back, startled. These people, they're payin' for security!'
'What do you care? You don't live here. You're losin' it on this case, don't you see!'
It only made Brinkley angrier. It was like nobody but him could see the truth. The kid, the boyfriend, he's hiding something, don't you see?'
'No, no, you know what I see?' Kovich was shouting now, full bore. 'The boyfriend is a wise-ass. A kid playin' games. Thumbin' his nose at authority. Who hasn't signed a fake name for a laugh?'
'Me!'
'Well I did, plenty of times, when I was young.'
'What the fuck for?'
'For fun, Mick! For goddamn fun!'
'That's not fun!'
'You wouldn't know fun if it bit you in the ass, Mick. You don't know how to laugh anymore! You've been an asshole ever since Sheree walked out on you!'
Brinkley was about to yell back but he stopped short, his chest heaving, as soon as it registered.
Kovich blinked behind his big aviator glasses. 'Aw, shit,' he said quietly. His soft shoulders slumped.
Brinkley suddenly found it hard to swallow. Or even speak. He pivoted on his heel and walked away, ignoring the stares of passersby, so blind in anger and pain that he didn't notice the man in the car parked at the curb, photographing the scene on the sidewalk.
29
Davis knew who Marc Videon was the moment he entered the divorce lawyer's office at Tribe amp; Wright. Marc Videon was The Necessary Evil. Corporate law firms didn't want their CEO clients to go to elsewhere to off- load their wives, because there was a chance they wouldn't come back, so the firms were forced to employ a Necessary Evil. Davis had encountered one in every white-shoe Philly firm, and the suspect profile was so blatant it should have been unconstitutional: The Necessary Evil was always an outsider in a bad suit, nominally a partner and compensated on a salaried basis, and invite only to those firm social functions that the messengers went to, democratic events like the Christmas Party. Meeting Videon, Davis saw that he fit the bill, with his too-wide
