Castro Directive (28 page)

He dressed and called Gibby, who picked him up in his customized van and drove him downtown. When he presented the receipt for his car to the attendant in charge of the police garage, he was told to sit down. He waited two hours in a dingy room that smelled like stale smoke before he was finally told it was ready. He signed the release papers, then waited another five minutes until the attendant showed him to the car. He patted the Saab affectionately on the fender. "Hope they weren't too rough with you, Swedie."

Inside, he looked around. Everything looked the same. No ripped upholstery, no missing door panels, nothing destroyed. Even the manila envelope with the copies of articles that Tina had given him were still on the passenger seat. No doubt they'd been copied and examined, but at least they'd been returned. He flipped through the package and realized that he still hadn't read one of Redington's articles. Later, he thought.

Pierce's first stop was his office, to see if there were any messages. To his surprise, his answering machine was turned off and there were no calls on the tape. He thought back, trying to remember the last time he'd left the office. Ever since his secretary had quit, he'd been careful to remember to turn on the machine.

He spent the afternoon on the street, looking up everyone he knew who'd known Fuego, but nobody had talked to him on his last day. He also asked about Bellinger, but didn't get anywhere. It was obvious from the reactions to him that some of them knew Pierce himself was a suspect. Even if they had seen Fuego or knew anything about Bellinger, they might not be willing to talk to him about it.

It was just after five when he stopped at the Jack of Clubs. He ordered a beer and two hard-boiled eggs. His only lead was the dark blue Mercedes, and he didn't even have a single digit of its license number.

"There you go, Nick," Leni said as she slid the beer and eggs across the bar. "How was your day?"

He looked up at her. If she knew about his arrest, she gave no indication. "Sore feet and no answers."

"So what's the question?"

"Who killed Fuego?"

She shook her head. "It's a goddamn shame. I couldn't believe it when I saw it on the tube. I mean, I'd just served him a beer a few hours before."

"You saw him that day?"

Leni glanced in the mirror, checking out the half-dozen customers behind her. She turned back to him and leaned forward, her voice hushed. "He was here just before noon. He didn't stay too long."

Pierce took a swallow of beer, trying to contain his excitement. "Who was he with?"

She wiped the bar with a rag. "Nobody."

"What did he say to you?"

She shrugged. "Not much."

"What kind of mood was he in?"

Leni pushed back a strand of her straw-like hair, skewed her pale blue eyes, thinking about it. "He wasn't happy. I mean Fuego was never the ha-ha happy type. He was intense. You know, his cheek twitched, his eyes looked around. That's how he was." She swiped at the bar with her rag. "Of course, he was always sort of that way."

Pierce nodded as he peeled his eggs. "Remember anything else?"

"He made a call."

He glanced over at the pay phone, which was about five feet from the bar, imagined Fuego standing there. "Did you hear what he said?"

"It was too noisy, and I wasn't listening. But now that you mention it, I think he called you."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because when he came back to the bar he complained that you were never in your office, and he had to talk to your machine."

The problem with that, Pierce thought, was that his recorder had been off. "You sure he was talking about me?"

"Pretty sure."

He picked up an egg, cracked it on the bar. He remembered the phone ringing as he left for Redington's office that day. Maybe Fuego had called him at home, too. "What else did he have to say?"

"Nothing much. . . . Well, there was one other thing, now that I think about it. I asked him if he wanted a second beer after he got off the phone, and he said—"

"Hey, Leni."

She glanced to her right as one of the customers—the old guy Pierce had seen here before—rapped his bottle on the bar and called her name again. "All right, Jimmy. I'm coming."

She turned to Pierce. "Be right back. The baby'll have a fit if I ignore him."

Mother-bartender, Pierce thought as he watched her tend to the old man. He mechanically finished peeling his eggs and waited patiently. Maybe what Fuego had said to her would be meaningless, but maybe it was just what he needed. He'd devoured one of the eggs by the time Leni moved back toward him along the bar.

"I swear that old man thinks I'm his old lady."

"So what did he say?"

"Him? He just wanted me to listen to his usual bullshit."

"No. I mean Fuego. You were telling me he said something to you."

"When?"

Pierce hesitated before he spoke. The Jack of Clubs wasn't a place where you drilled people for facts or exact quotes, but he had to get whatever he could. "You remember, after you asked if he wanted another beer."

"Oh, yeah. He says to me no, he's gotta go check out a book."

It didn't make sense. Fuego wasn't a reader.

"You sure it was a book, not a bookie?"

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure he said a book. Check out a book. Least, I think so. Maybe it was bookie."

When he pulled into Elise's driveway, she opened the door and waved. She was dressed casually in a cotton T-shirt and the same white drawstring pants she'd worn the first time he'd met her. He didn't know what was going to happen this evening, but he sensed it would be a turning point. Before he left, he would make up his mind about her.

"I asked Bill to join us for dinner," she said as he stepped inside. "I hope you don't mind. He won't be here for a few minutes yet."

"No problem. Hope he's in a good mood."

Elise grinned and wrinkled her nose. "He's always a little grumpy, but that's just his way. Don't be put off by it. He likes you."

He wondered how Redington acted if he didn't like you. "That's good to know."

"I already ordered. You want a glass of wine or iced tea?"

"Iced tea's fine."

He watched her as she hurried off to the kitchen. She seemed nervous, too anxious to please, to be a good hostess, he thought as he sat down on the couch. When she returned to the room and handed him his drink, she asked if he'd talked to Andrews since he'd gotten out of jail.

"I don't know if that's any of your business, Elise." It came out more sharply than Pierce intended. Take it easy, he told himself. "But, no, I haven't had a chance."

"Good," she said, sitting down across from him. Seemingly unperturbed by his brusqueness, she added: "Let's hope he still thinks you're licking your wounds from your stint in jail."

He smiled, sat back in his chair. "You think I'm in that much danger from him?"

"I think it's unwise ever to underestimate Andrews. Besides, anything could happen in the next couple of days."

"Why do you say that?"

"The Harmonic Convergence. We talked about it. I'm sure part of it involves the reunion – the convergence – of the twin skulls."

"That so."

Elise shook her head, perplexed. "Don't you understand the significance?"

Pierce had something else on his mind. He set his drink down on a coffee table. He hadn't taken a sip. "Look, you did take twenty-five grand out of the bank."

She was caught off guard. She looked startled. Then her shoulders slumped and her features shifted: happy to glum. Her hands moved over her arms in quick, urgent motions, as if to warm them. She averted her eyes, gazing at the floor, and finally muttered, "You said a money market; it came from a C.D."

"Big deal."

"I felt like a fool. That's why I didn't tell you about it."

"Why a fool?"

"Because I gave it to Steve."

"What?"

"He told me he'd lost a lot of money in bad investments in the stock market and needed help. I'm just a sucker for his sob stories."

When he didn't respond, she continued: "Besides, you're not the only one who's had some difficulties the last couple of days. Lieutenant Carver tried to get me to confess to this big conspiracy. He even tried to drag Steve into it. Maybe Carver is the cop Paul Loften hired."

She made it sound as if her difficulties with Carver explained her lie about the loan. But he let it go for the moment. "His partner, Bellinger, makes a pretty good candidate, too. I'm sure that whoever that bad cop is, he killed Fuego, or he knows who did it."

Elise nodded and when she spoke, her voice was gentle and sympathetic. "Nick, I want to tell you again how bad I feel about Fuego. It's terrible, and I'm partly responsible. I dragged you into all of this."

"You didn't drag me into anything. I was hired by Andrews."

"But I could have warned you to drop the case. Instead, I got you to play along, and look what's happened."

He watched her closely as she spoke. He thought he'd be able to tell right away if she was involved in Fuego's murder. Something in her expression would give her away. But he couldn't see anything clearly, and she seemed sincere. Maybe her lies really were a result of her feelings of shame about her continuing relationship with her divorced husband. If anyone could understand those sentiments, he could.

"You think Steve really needed the money?"

"I believed him."

There was a loud knock at the door and Pierce looked up, startled. "That's either dinner or Bill."

She moved over to the door and let Redington into the house. They greeted each other, and Redington glanced at his watch. "Hope I'm not too late."

"Dinner's not even here yet," she assured him. "You want your usual cranberry spritzer?"

"That'll be fine."

She seemed relieved to have something to do, and hurried off toward the kitchen. Pierce stood and greeted Redington and then, as both men sat down, considered commenting that he was glad to see that he drank something besides hot water. But he thought better of that. Instead, he asked if his wife minded his leaving her at home. He was trying to be friendly and conversational, but Redington seemed to take affront.

"I didn't leave her at home," he snapped. "She's staying with her sister for a few days."

"Oh, I see." He fidgeted in his chair and tried to think of something else to say.

Redington, meanwhile, peered at him over the rim of his half-moon glasses. "I hope you've thought more about what I said the other day when you asked about myths and possession."

He nodded, trying to remember what he'd said, then realized he was referring to Elise. Protective old goat.

When Elise appeared with Redington's drink, she glanced between the two men, sensing their unease. She grabbed hold of the faltering conversation and steered it toward Pierce's jail experience. Was it awful? How did they treat him? She couldn't imagine what it must have been like.

"Actually, the worst part was taking the jail elevator. I don't ride them."

Elise laughed. "Why's that?"

"Claustrophobia or something. I start feeling like I'm suffocating."

"So what do you do?" she asked. "Take the stairs all the time?"

"Yeah."

"How long has this been a problem for you?" Redington asked.

He shouldn't have mentioned it with a shrink in the room. "It's a problem only when I get in an elevator. I got stuck in one in college. In fact, if you can believe it, I was with Raymond Andrews."

"Really?" Elise said, then shook her head and frowned. "But that was years ago. You shouldn't be affected by those feelings now."

"Doesn't matter."

"What do you remember about being stuck in the elevator with Andrews?" Redington's voice shifted to the professional shrink tone he'd used with him in his office the other day.

"Hardly anything. I remember realizing we were stuck. But nothing after that. I never could remember."

"What did Ray say about it later on?"

"Nothing. It was like it never happened. So I never asked him about it."

There was a knock at the door, and Elise leaped up. "That's got to be dinner."

"Let me give you some money," Pierce said.

"Nope. It's my treat."

To Pierce's relief, the topic of elevators wasn't mentioned throughout dinner and he hoped they'd both forgotten about it. He found talking about it somewhat embarrassing. But Elise brought it up again once she'd broken out the Frangelico.

"Hey, Bill, you think it would help Nick with this elevator phobia if you hypnotized him?"

"It's not a phobia," Pierce said.

"Your problem may not even be elevators," Redington said. "It could be that something traumatic occurred in that elevator between you and Andrews. You've blanked it out, but Andrews hasn't forgotten. It might even relate at some level to what's going on right now."

"Wow, that's hard to believe. Even if it were true, there's nothing I can do about it."