“Jesus, I wish my daughter and I understood each other like that.”
“Every relationship has its own difficulties.”
“Nevertheless.” Paull glanced after Alli. “What’s the secret?”
“There is no secret.”
“Sure. It’s personal. I get it.” Paull nodded absently and took a swallow of single malt from a glass that sat by his right elbow. “Do you know why the Warren boy was murdered?”
“I now know that Dardan gave the order.”
“Why?”
“Billy Warren had something going with Arjeta Kraja, even though Arjeta belonged to Dardan. That’s more than enough cause for a man like him.”
“So Dardan had him whacked.”
“Wouldn’t that tie everything up in a nice, neat package.”
Paull stared at him. “You think not?”
“You bet I think not. Dardan had Billy Warren tortured. Why? To teach him a lesson before he died? I doubt it. No, Billy was tortured for the usual reason: information. Either he had discovered something about Dardan or he was in possession of something Dardan wanted. I think Arjeta knew it, too, because Billy told her the night he was murdered. Remember that Alli got a panicky call from Billy, but when she went to Twilight, she saw them disappearing together into the shadows.”
Paull flexed his shoulders. “So what’s the information?”
“That,” Jack said, “is the ten-billion-dollar question.”
NAOMI AND McKinsey stayed late at the office, fact-checking the backgrounds of the three Fortress employees, plus pulling together a timeline of the murders from whatever other notes and intel they had gathered so far.
“There’s nothing from the forensic report on Alli’s room at Fearington,” McKinsey said.
Naomi picked up a plastic evidence bag. “Except this damn vial the roofies were in.”
“With her fingerprints on it.”
“And no one else’s.” Naomi shook the bag and hard light glinted off the yellowish plastic. “Jack thought that was odd and so do I.”
“Setup?”
Naomi nodded. “But who? And why?”
McKinsey looked at the whiteboard, where various possible motives were written out, and shook his head.
“How’s your look-see into our friends, the bogus O’Banion and Willowicz, coming?” she asked.
“It isn’t. The Metro police who interviewed us today took me off that. They say since the real Willowicz and O’Banion are on leave it’s an internal matter.”
“Do you believe them?”
“Metro police does not harbor spooks, Naomi.” He shrugged. “They’re two men without names.”
She glanced up. “Meaning?”
He shrugged. “For all intents and purposes they don’t exist.”
She looked vexed. “They must exist, just not under the names Willowicz and O’Banion.”
“Not our job now,” he said.
“It pisses me off,” she said, “those two running around, doing whatever the hell they please.”
“Leave it, Naomi. We have bigger rats to run down.”
Neither of them said anything for a while. The air system rattled and hummed, a cleaning cart rumbled down a hallway outside their office. A tuneless whistle approached, then was gone. The place stank of hamburgers, stale sweat, and anxiety. Silently, they got back to work. The hands of the wall clock ground slowly forward.
Around midnight, McKinsey said, “We’re never going to find Arjeta Kraja.” He threw a cup of cold coffee in the trash. “You know that, don’t you?”
She sighed, suspecting that he was right. “She’s probably buried deep.”
“More likely chopped into pieces.”
Naomi sat back, surveying the mess of papers, reports, and crime-scene photos, which now seemed to whirl before her eyes like a pinwheel at a carnival. “One person killed Billy Warren and both the guys at Twilight. The MO Jack found proves that, and yet we have not one solid lead.”
“We don’t have even a ghost of one. We don’t even have a motive. I mean why were these people murdered? What did they know? Carson’s going to be asking us questions and we’re not going to have any answers.”
“Fuck him.”
“You say that now.” McKinsey stretched. “Fuck this, I gotta get outta here.”
Naomi realized that she was fried, too. Besides, she had another agenda to tend to. “I’m starved. Let’s go get something to eat.”
“Really? You want to hang out?”
“I want to eat.” She rose, grabbing her coat. “You coming or not?”
He got to his feet. “Sure thing. I wouldn’t miss a date with you for all the porn on the Internet.”
She smiled inwardly. She couldn’t wait to get him hammered.
They went to Marco’s, a red-sauce Italian joint straight out of
The kitchen could have used a lesson or two from Pete Clemenza, Naomi thought sourly as they took their seats around a table with a red-and-white-checked cloth. She was something of a foodie, a frustrating trait for someone on her salary. How many restaurants had she been forced to pass by because she knew she couldn’t afford even a Caesar salad or a crudo appetizer?
They started out with whiskey shots. Then, typical of him, McKinsey opted for a cheap wine, which Naomi immediately countermanded, choosing a bottle of Chianti, which at least would not take off the roof of her mouth. When it came, McKinsey attacked it like a roast turkey, downing a third of the bottle before she had finished her second glass. They discussed the case, the fact that all three Fortress employees seemed to check out. Naomi asked him what he thought of the information in the dossiers and he shrugged, as if to say, You’ve seen one dossier, you’ve seen them all.
“I must say you’re taking this case very personally,” he said.
“And that surprises you?”
He shrugged again. “A bit. On the Ranch, you’re known as the Ice Doll.” The Ranch was the Secret Service “clubhouse,” a male-chosen name that set her teeth on edge. It only proved her male compatriots’ arrested adolescence.
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
“Let’s face it, Naomi, you don’t get involved—in anything.”
“Shit, Pete, I know code words when I hear them. What your young boys’ club means is that I won’t go down on any of them.”
He stared at her for a moment, then burst into laughter. “You know, you’re probably right. They ride me about that all the time, which I guess is a compliment.”
“A shit-handed compliment if I ever heard one.”
He shook his head. “I can’t figure out why you ignore the fact that you’re beautiful—and smokin’ hot.”
“That’s because you’re not a woman,” she said tartly. “You go through life thinking you’re hot, and that’s exactly how men treat you. Boobs, butt, legs, beyond that they won’t see an inch. Do you have any idea how hard I have to work to get men to take me seriously?”
“Not really,” he said dryly. “All I see when I look at you are boobs, butt, and legs.”
“Bastard,” she said, and they both laughed.
New glasses and a second bottle of wine appeared, a Lambrusco this time. The waiter poured a little into her glass to taste. She swirled it around, smelled it, then took a sip. It was fine, and she nodded her approval.
