Authors: Delia Rosen

A Killer in the Rye (16 page)

BOOK: A Killer in the Rye

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“I tried,” he said. “But we're dealing with cover-your-butt bureaucrats. Officer McCoy has convinced the chief that he should be there with his sister to make sure that she doesn't get treated badly, just because you and she had words.”

“We had
business
words,” I said. “Those aren't words. Those are negotiations.”

“Gwen, you're not in New York anymore. You say anything cross about any family member, and you've got Fort Sumter on your hands.”

I guessed I should have realized that by now. Especially after Scott's book report on the Hatfields and the McCoys.

“They're also afraid because the
National
is running its own operation,” Grant said.

“What does that mean?” I had a feeling, and I didn't like it.

“The publisher, Robert Reid, wants to crack this one. According to some of my street sources, he's got his staff crime reporter working with about a half dozen private investigators.”

I didn't like the sound of that at all. “Any of them women?” I asked.

“Yeah, two. Why?”

“Just curious,” I said. Because someone had watched me get my mani-pedi. Maybe it wasn't Stacie after all. I wished I could wipe my left cheek. That prick Robert was going to get his, even if it cost me the Best in Nashville Award I deserved. “Why is he doing all this?”

“My guess is ego. When his father ran the paper, it had a reputation for the three Cs: Courage, Clarity, and Crime Busting. Since he took over, it's become known for soft news.”

“Well, yeah. Family friendly, right?” I was praying hard in my head. I hoped it wasn't showing.

“Family friendly, gay sensibility, I don't know.”

I almost gagged on my saliva. “Wait. Gay? Who's gay? Robert Reid?”

“Yeah. You didn't know?”

“No.” Oh, he was so going to die badly.

“Well, so much for New York savvy. I thought you would have picked that up in the time it took you to slam and reslam your back door.”

“No, I didn't,” I sputtered. “I guess I'm still getting used to the difference between what is gentlemanly charm down here and what is gay.”

Grant chuckled. “Didn't you see
Gone with the Wind
?”

“I did,” I said.

“Rhett Butler?”

“Yeah, but I always thought Ashley Wilkes was kinda gay.”

He seemed pained.

My mouth was saying kind and witty words, but my brain was boiling. That son of a bitch Robert had used me. He'd lied to my face, to my left cheek, to my chewing mouth so he could get close to me and find a way to use me for information. Or at least to make sure no one else got close for an exclusive. Yeah, he would've invited me back to his placeâto interview me about what it was like when I found the body.
The scumbag.

Grant was suddenly very quiet. He flicked the wipers on and off to clear away the misty film. “So can your other business wait?” he asked.

“To tell you the truth, it can and probably should,” I said. “My head's not quite in that game right now.”

He looked at me with a kind of intensity I'd never seen in him. It had been a long time since I'd had car sex, and then only once. We illegally, lustfully pulled over in Central Park during a snowstorm, on a date with an orthopedic surgeon. He was about twenty years olderâI guess I was looking for a replacement for my sage, gray-haired NYU profâand just as we were wrapping it up, he jerked funny and hurt his lower back. It was in the early days of cell phoning, and he had only a pager. I had to walk to Central Park West to call for an ambulance.

Grant said, “So will you come with me to talk to Brenda?”

It took me a moment to come back from snowy New York. “Sorry? Tell me why again?”

Grant grew impatient. “Listen, Gwen. Reid with all his gumshoes and me with all my officers have come up with nothing so far. I need to know more about Joe, and the only ones who can tell me are his widow and his brother-in-law.”

“Are they suspects?”

“Not even unofficially,” Grant said. “Is this between us?”

“No, I'm going to tell Reid.” I added as his expression darkened, “Kidding.”

“Joe had a term life insurance policy that didn't pay much, and the bakery was hers before they were married and is again, so there doesn't appear to be any motive.”

“Did you know that a guy named Stephen Hatfield wants to buy it?”

“Rotten guy,” said Grant.

“Well, they're suing him for a variety of legal reasons.”

Grant seemed impressed. “You've been doing some homework.”

“I get around,” I said.

“We know about that lawsuit, but Brenda and Joe were both on the same page there. No conflict. But what we just discussed is pretty much all we know about the two McCoys. The Internet is great for Lions Club archives, newspaper morgues, and finding old relatives and classmates, but it doesn't tell you much about low-profile people with a privately held company.”

“You're thinking that with me there, it'll be easier to open her up?”

“Right. Jason McCoy's been itching to talk to you. Why not let him? He won't be able to watch after his sister
and
give you the third degree.”

“Divide and conquer. Okay. But isn't it a little tacky, right before the funeral and all?”

“No reason you can't come to the house to pay your respects.”

“Except that Officer McCoy thinks I killed his brother-in-law.”

“He's an idiot,” Grant said. “He's not even a good cop. He was grandfathered inâliterallyâbecause his uncle and grandfather were cops. His uncle's former partner is his guardian angel.”

“Is his family still on the force?”

Grant shook his head. “His uncle started a private security firm about five, six years ago. More money in that. His grandfather is eighty-one and retired. Still does some PI work on the side.”

The way he said that made me say, “Don't tell me.”

“Yep. He's working for Reid. That's how we got tipped off. He's still sharp, but he tends to talk too much.”

Grant tapped a Tic Tac from a container. He slipped the container back into his shirt pocket. I saw his gun in his shoulder holster. For some reason that turned me on. A man who cared about his breath and was equipped to protect me. I knew there was something primal that had appealed to me about this man.

“The good news is, Jason will behave because of his sister and because mourners will be arriving about an hour after we do,” Grant said. “Hey, he never specified where and when he wants to talk to you. I'm just giving him what he wants.”

A pawn in a game,
I thought. The idea of being used by another Southern gentleman brought me down a little from my high. But he was right. I forced myself to focus on the game plan. “Shouldn't we arrive separately?”

“Frankly, it helps me if we don't,” he said. “I can honestly tell the chief I thought the whole thing over and decided, yeah, my brother in blue deserves his shot.”

I couldn't help myself. “So I'm your little get-out-ofa-fix-free card, eh?”

“Call it penance for dog saliva,” he replied.

Okay . . . I deserve that,
I thought. But it struck me as a perfect description of my life so far. I wasn't the dog, I wasn't the killer, and I wasn't the dead man. Yet somehow, the bill still ended up on my plate. That wasn't self-pity talking: I was a scrapper, not a wallower. It was a fact. Other people's messes always seemed to find meâPhil's mother issues, Dad's wanderlust, my staff's romances and spats, people dying while I'm trying to work, the guy I was hot for being gay. Maybe that was a way to bond with Stacie. Commiserating over people who left their trash on our psychological stoops.

Grant was still holding my hand and gave it a little thank-you squeeze. It was worth whatever egg in the face this little undertaking would leave me with. It brought me back to the moment. For that moment, I felt content.

He pulled from the curb, and less than two minutes later we were on 65, headed north.

Chapter 16

I'd always been fond of numbers. Maybe that was because so much of my life had never added up. Parents, dating, even friends growing up. I always picked the kids who were new on the block or were shunned by the cliques. The black girl, the girl with a Jewish mother and a Muslim fatherâtalk about issues!âthe deaf boy who liked rock concerts because he could feel the music through the floor. In math, I had control. There was only one right answer.

In retrospect, thinking about how I tried to help those kids fit, remembering the single-minded zeal with which I tried to solve the Hopewell murder after he plopped into my gravy, I realized it was all to make the numbers work. There was a solution. I just had to find it.

Like now. Only this one had more variables than the last, and none of them seemed to have much to do with the dead man. Sexual hookups among the dramatis personae? Had those in Stacie and Stephen, my dad and Lydia, Robert and not me. Motive? So far, nobody that hated Joe, but there were plenty of people who might've wanted to frame me, from the neo-Nazis who once targeted my uncle Murray to the owner of the Blue Elephant, who I knew was hurting and could certainly use the Best award. I didn't know Singh very well. Scott had said he was dating his mother, but for all I knew, he also had eight kids and a mother-in-law. Murder could be both a mercantile tactic and an emotional release. My brain even reached so far as to wonder if Scott would kill to bring Lydia out of the woodwork and get me and Stacie together. Or Robert. Would he generate a gruesome homicide to show he had the chops to cover one?

That's what I mean about variables and
The L Word
chart and numbers not seeming to tote up.

Grant must have been considering a lot of the same things as we drove. Except for the occasional crackle of the police radio and the smooth mechanical voice of the GPS, we drove in complete silence. It wasn't awkward, though. He was on duty. His brain was working. I was accustomed to that.

We approached a quiet suburban street named Webster Drive.

“There it is,” he said. “The one with the gated yard.”

The house was the last one on a cul-de-sac. Nothing too fancy, nothing very expensive. It was a pretty brick house with flowers on the windowsill and a three-foot iron gate. There were small round solar lights lining the slate walkway.

Grant pulled into the driveway and killed the ignition.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Surprisingly, yes.”

“I won't let him manhandle you.”

“I won't let him, either,” I said, my can-do feminist self-reliance meeting his cool macho head-on, like two stags on the plain.

“Let's do it,” he said, opening the door.

We walked up, Grant in the lead. He punched the bell with a knuckle.

Of course I heard a dog barking. Then another. Grant and I exchanged knowing looks, though he couldn't have come across as many dogs as I had since this thing started.

I heard the clack of approaching heels on hardwood floors and a woman shout, “Hitch, lay down! Macguffin, no!”

The door opened a few feet, and the strong smell of cinnamon wafted out. A woman of about forty-five with long light brown hair, full bangs, big eyes, a round face, and a cute figure stood before us. She was about five-foot-two. Without the black stilettos she would barely top five feet. She was dressed in a black button-down blouse and a skirt.

A cigarette hung from her lower lip. That would account for the rough voice I remembered.

“Mrs. Silvio?” Grant asked.

She nodded.

“Detective Grant Daniels,” he said. “This is Gwen Katz.”

The woman's eyes moved toward me like little machines. The rest of her face was immobile. Even the curling cigarette smoke seemed to stand still. Strangely, her eyes were not bloodshot. Either she'd cried it all out the first day or I needed to find out which brand of liquid tears she was using.

Or maybe she's one of those delayed-reaction mourners,
I thought.
People who don't lose it until all their public responsibilities of grief and receiving comfort have ended.

“Come in,” she said, turning on a cloud of smoke like the Lone Ranger.

Tonto was not far off. Jason McCoy lurked behind her, by a big gold-framed hall mirror. He was not what I had imagined. He was not a big man, only about five-five, with the same big eyes and round face, but bald. He was wearing a black suit and a confused look.

We followed Brenda into her large dining room. Jason hung back to bring up the rear. The room smelled like apple pie. Brenda motioned for us to sit at the large oak table covered with pies, plates of cookies, chips and dips, and cans of soda near an ice bucket. A spread for mourners. The table leg nearest the hall was chewed up. I saw the culprits lying around it like two large fur wraps, a pair of smallish French bulldogs. I could see into the living room from where I stood. In front of the TV, on a large white sectional, sat a blond-haired gentlemanâa tall man, judging by his long legs. He was watching what must have been a recording of a college basketball game, since it was so early in the day.

Brenda noticed me staring.

“That's Dave,” she told us.

She said it loud enough so that Dave heard. He turned and looked at us and went back to watching the game.

“He was Joe's best friend since grade school.” She fixed her big robot eyes on me. “He's taking this very hard.”

“Understandably,” Grant said.

Brenda slid into a chair at the head of the table. Jason closed the pocket doors between the living and dining rooms so we'd have privacy, but not before the dogs slipped in. The officer then took up a position behind his sister. I couldn't decide if he looked more like a regent to the queen or a bailiff at an arraignment. Either way, it was a wall of McCoy. I flashed to one of those amber-tinged daguerreotypes from the nineteenth century, a historical photo from the era of the Hatfield-McCoy hostilities.

Our hostess gestured to two other chairs. Grant held mine out for me. He sat beside me at the near end of the table. The dogs were between us. Every breath seemed like a little growl. I sneezed. Brenda took a final drag on her cigarette and ground it out hard. She glared at me through the smoke like a Disney villainess.

“Officer McCoy,” Grant said, “Ms. Katz and I figured it was time you met. Got to ask your questions, clear the air.”

I looked at Brenda. “Mrs. Silvio, I just want to tell
you
how sorry I am for your lossâ”

“Words,” she said, cutting me off.

I swallowed the oath that would naturally have come flying forth.

“Mrs. Silvio, Gwen is here to try and clear the air and answer any questions you both have about what happened,” Grant said. “She came willingly with no preconditions.”

“We appreciate that,” Jason said. “We
do
have some questions.”

Grant put a hand on my knee out of view of our hosts. I guess that was my signal when to speak and when to shut up. I'd defer to him on that. Following my instincts would result only in corn chips being flung.

Jason stepped from behind his sister and leaned on the table like a little, hairless Perry Mason.

“You say you didn't know my brother-in-law, even though you've been doing business with the bakery for over a decade.”

“I've been down here less than a year,” I said. “During that time, someone else was doing my ordering.”

“Joe sometimes drove the delivery truck,” Jason said.

“I almost never got in before seven,” I replied. “Thomasina Jackson, my manager, is the early riser on the crew.”

“You have time cards to prove that?” Jason asked.

“No.”

Grant was working my knee with his hand like an ape at the controls of a space capsule. Up, down, up, down. I jerked my leg, and he stopped. I sneezed.

“So you can't prove that,” Jason said.

“And you picked a fight with me,” Brenda added hotly. “Why?”

“That had nothing to do with your late husband,” I said. “He was trying to make good on what I admitted was our screwup. As you may recall, I appreciated it.”

Jason was regarding me like I imagined he would look at a target on a shooting range. No, scratch that. Like a living, fleeing felon he felt he had a right to shoot.

“You're a single lady,” he said.

“I am.”

“In a strange town.”

“An unfamiliar town,” I said. “The Emerald City would be a strange town.”

His brow scrunched for a moment. Then he gave up trying to figure that out. “We only have your word that you did not know, and were not interested in, Joe Silvio.”

“That's right,” I said. “And may I add, you have only your tawdry suspicions to think that I was interested in the married Mr. Silvio.”

“Who happened to be co-owner of a bread factory,” Jason said. “And you happen to use a
lot
of bread, almost as much as our biggest customer, the Fried Sandwich Shack. How do we know you weren't looking to woo your way into a discount?”

“Hold on,” Grant said. “That'sâ”

“A motive!” Brenda said, cutting in.

“Ridiculous,” Grant said.

“Not to someone who is worried about the bottom line!” Brenda replied.

“
Someone?
” Grant said. “What exactly do you mean, Mrs. Silvio?”

I sat there silently as Grant made ready not only to defend my honor but also to stave off what was starting to smell like an attack on my people. God, I was tired of that stereotype. What was more disappointing, though, was that by trotting it out, the wall of McCoys was adding bricks to the stereotype of Southerners as ignorant, provincial racistsâwhich I knew was not true.

Brenda muttered something about New Yorkers, Jason ran some statistic up the flagpole about homicide and spurned lovers, and even the dogs barked. I reached out, grabbed a white-chocolate-covered pretzel, and chewed it up in a few bites. I took another and did the same. Between this and Robert's meringue and the cigarette I craved, this homicide was not going to do my health any good.

“People,” I said as I chewed a third pretzel, “this is getting us nowhere.”

Grant and Jason had both leaned forward like leashed tigers. Grant sat back, and Jason stood. The dogs had lifted their heads like dogs, and when order was restored, they lay back on their paws.

Grant ended the brief time-out.

“You've laid out a lot of assumptions, Officer McCoy, but no evidence,” he said. “If you have anything, anything at all, a scrap of fact to present, let's have it.”

Jason's spine straightened, and his head went back. His expression said, “Evidence? Who needs evidence?” His mouth said, “I don't have proof, Detective Daniels. I only know what I suspect.”

“Great,” Grant replied. “That and a buck will get you coffee.”

Jason sneered. “Not at Starbucks.” He looked at me. “We know where you been getting your cuppa.”

“You're wrong,” I said. “Cops drink free at Murray's.”

The sneer deepened. It must've been the emphasis I put on
cops.
Or the idea that a Jew would treat anyone to anything.

Grant reached into his pocket. “Mrs. Silvio, I want you to look at something.”

He got up and handed her a folded stack of papers. She set it down before her and lit another cigarette from a pack beside the ashtray.

“My phone bill,” she said.

“Your home landline,” Grant said. “You see the numbers marked with a yellow line?”

“You can't really miss them, can you?”

“It's a business phone,” Grant said. “York's Sports Memorabilia on Fourth Avenue N.”

“That's right.”

“It was called fifty-six times last month, nearly twice a day, and fifty-three times the month before that.” He looked around the room. “I don't see any autographed balls or game-used jerseys on the walls. Perhaps in the living room?”

Brenda blew smoke. “Those things are costly. We do not have that kind of disposable income.”

“Then, what? Did either of you know the owner, a Tolliver York?”

Brenda grinned. “We did. Very well. He's sitting in the next room.”

Grant seemed puzzled.

“Uses his middle name,” I said. “Who wouldn't with a first name like Tolliver?”

Grant was just a half step behind me. “David, your husband's best friend.”

Brenda smiled sweetly. “They talked, as you suggested, sometimes two or three times a day.”

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