Hardware (23 page)

Roz, computer bound, gamely plunked keys with one finger, as if she were seated at a piano, never having taken lessons.

“Find anything?” I asked.

“Phone wake you?”

“Guy who died with Marvin's been ID'd. Tentatively. A phone-in tip.”

“Friend of Marvin's?” she asked.

“I figure the second corpse for the perp. Marvin surprised him. A bomb went off early, a match got lit too soon.”

“Perp's idea to blow G and W? Or somebody else's?”

“Gloria may have fired this guy a few months back.”

“Grudge?”

It was a rote response. Anyone would think that.

I shrugged. “Is there more peanut butter?”

“Help yourself.”

In the kitchen, I rummaged for a clean spoon. Roz uses her finger. A utensil makes me feel more civilized.

One spoonful of peanut butter made me realize I was ravenous. I found a loaf of bread, blue with mold, and dumped it in the trash. The Ritz crackers were merely stale. I smeared some with cream cheese, some with peanut butter. I brought a carton of orange juice into the living room, swigged it from the container, watching Roz.

“What have you got?” I asked her.

“We're not exactly legal here. This setup, I mean.”

“No kidding.”

“‘Frank' doesn't want your hard-earned bucks going to the phone company or the National Credit Information Network. I bet he wants you to give me a raise instead.”

“Roz.”

She blew out a breath that shot her bangs, her longest remaining tuft of variegated hair, into the air. They stayed aloft, a triumph of mousse over gravity.

“From what I can tell, he set you up as a phony business, an employment agency based in the Cayman Islands. Where the fuck are they?”

“Caribbean Sea. The exotic world of thatched huts and tax havens,” I said. “Check a map.”

Employment agencies are routinely granted access to credit bureau information. Just have to pay the fee. A hefty fee.

“What's the name of my company and who owns it?” I asked.

“Siren Hiring. Say it fast, it rhymes: Siren Hirin'.”

“Love it,” I said flatly. “Owned by?”

“Getaway Ventures of Singapore. A holding company. It's gonna take me a while to get the names of the board of directors. And this phone—”

“Is registered to Elvis.”

“One better. Doesn't exist. I do the phone company ring-back on it, it's got no number at all. NYNEX is gonna turn blue figuring out who to bill.”

“Good.”

“So I thought, why not take advantage?”

“And how have you done that?”

“Grab some printout and you'll see. I'm chasing a goddamn shadow.”

She'd tried everything I'd asked and more, I'll say that for her. Public-records search: no judgments, no tax liens, no bankruptcy, no linkage with any corporations, no real property, no limited partnerships, no workers comp claims, no criminal record.

Of course, all we had to go on was a phony Social Security number, a phony name.

Roz said, “Don't get me wrong, this is loads of fun, kinda like a video game from hell, but it's strictly dead-end unless we can find out who he really is.”

“Sam knows,” I said.

“He's in fair condition,” Roz said. “Whatever that means.”

“It means we search his place,” I said.

“Key?”

I nodded.

“I like doing things legal. Speaking of which,” she said, “I want that cash out of my bedroom.”

“Roz, I am up to my ears—”

“Yeah, well, you may have noticed that one of my regular dates, you know, the shrink man, he sorta dropped out of the race.”

“Roz,” I said, “honest, I meant to talk to you about that.”

“What's to talk about?” she said.

“No, really, I want to apologize.”

She seemed amused. “Why?”

“I don't do things like that,” I said. “I don't see myself as somebody who snatches another woman's guy. It just happened.”

“Lighten up,” she said. “We weren't exactly married. Keith's too young for me anyway, kind of naive, you know? But there's this guy at the club. Very cute. I'd like to bring him by for a visit. Your money's hurting my social life.”

“I'll take care of it,” I promised.

“Soon,” she said.

Too young, too naive. Ouch! I thought.

“Roz,” I said, “before we go, why don't you change your clothes?”

She stared down at hot-pink leggings and a well-filled turquoise tee, which would have been an eye stopper even without its illustration of a hunky surfer. The saying
IF IT SWELLS
,
RIDE IT
printed below the graphic in Day-Glo orange was the coup de grâce.

“Why?” she asked.

“We ought to aim for unmemorable.”

“Oh. Yeah, I can do that.”

I refrained from comment, finished the orange juice while I listened to her feet marching upstairs.

The doorbell stopped at two rings. For me, not Roz.

Keith Donovan clutched the morning paper. His face looked pale above his neatly knotted tie.

“I called,” he said.

“Roz didn't tell me.”

“Anything I can do?” he asked.

“A hug would be welcome, I think,” I said.

It started out fine, but I kept imagining he was Sam.

“Trouble?” he said.

“Lots. Do you remember Gloria?”

“The, um, enormous woman I met here at dinner?”

“She prefers ‘fat.' You do crisis intervention?”

He licked his lips. “Sometimes.”

“You affiliated with MGH?”

“Yes.”

“I'll pay if her insurance won't.”

He ignored the money angle. “What's the crisis?”

I explained. Hurriedly. In the foyer with the flats of my hands pressed against his shirt, my fingertips barely brushing his collarbone. His arms loosely circled my waist. At some point in the tale I reached behind, opened his hands, stepped back and away. I felt like I was suffocating. “She'll blame herself for his death. She blamed herself when he got beaten up, and that was bad enough. I don't know how she's gonna come out of this. Will you help her? Will you try?”

“Pro bono,” he said.

“I thought that was lawyers.”

“Lovers,” he said. He stared directly into my eyes. No smile.

“I'm not sure,” I said.

“About being lovers?”

“About owing you.”

“We can talk about it,” he said.

Roz cleared her throat before descending the stairs. An unprecedented tact attack.

“When we have time,” I said.

TWENTY-NINE

Roz wore black tights teamed with an oversize white shirt and Doc Martens. Her broad-brimmed hat was black, with floppy roses on the crown. Conspicuous, yes, but compared to her surfer shirt, a positive camouflage job.

I circled the block three times, which, since Sam lives in the Charles River Park apartments, meant about a mile per revolution. We checked for marked and unmarked police units, found none. Either they'd already finished or they hadn't arrived yet. There were no parking spaces, legal or illegal.

I shouldn't have stopped for sleep. Caffeine and adrenaline have seen me through before. I tooted at a slow Ford Escort; passed its trembling silver-haired driver on the right.

A battered blue Volvo abruptly vacated a prime spot. I braked, swerved, and fronted in. The van behind me honked. Roz shot the finger, saving me the trouble.

Sam has the penthouse in the southernmost structure. Health club, pool, sauna, concierge. Access by private elevator key. I twisted my copy into the keyhole above the elevator buttons.

We rode upward in rosewood-paneled elegance. Roz chattered about the computer. She'd found several fascinating bulletin boards. Her favorite was “alt.sex.bondage.”

She let out a low whistle when the elevator doors parted. Sam's entryway's impressive, but I've been there so often that the artwork doesn't jump out at me anymore. I already know that the mobile is an original Miró, a minor classic.

At the end of the hall, his bedroom. Our bedroom. Suddenly I wished I'd come alone.

“We'll split it like I said.”

“I get the boring stuff,” Roz muttered as I passed her a pair of latex gloves, the kind docs use for surgery.

I couldn't get my mind off doctors and hospitals. Surgery on Sam's left leg today. Condition holding at fair. Second-degree burns, right leg only. Both legs badly broken. Shattered ankle. Surgery for eight hours today. Eight hours.

“You do the kitchen, the living room, and the guest room,” I said firmly. “Take special care in the guest room. If Frank ever stayed there, I want to know it.”

“I'll bring you one of his pubic hairs. We can get it DNA-typed.”

“The answering machine's in the living room. Make a copy of all incoming calls. Leave everything exactly as you find it. The cops may come and I don't want to tamper.”

“You don't want to get nailed tampering,” Roz corrected.

“Whatever.”

She followed me down the hallway, stood in the doorway a little too long, eyeing the king-size water bed.

“Start with the phone calls,” I said.

As soon as her footsteps receded, I sat on the bed. Ripples fanned out beneath the quilt. I lay back and stared at the familiar ceiling. Maybe I should let Roz work solo. It felt wrong, being in Sam's bedroom without him. Too much like searching the victim's place after death.

I'd done enough of that as a cop.

I reached under the quilt on Sam's side of the bed, ran a hand over his pillow, hugged it to my face, breathing in the familiar smell of aftershave.

I sat and stared at the bookshelves. Belongings turn into so much junk once the caretaker's gone. Who would someday own Sam's collection of autographed baseballs? Why did he keep old birthday cards in the bedside table alongside a box of Trojans?

I swallowed. Did Sam have a will?

I didn't.

With Paolina, I needed one. With Paolina's abrupt influx of wealth, I needed a creative one.

Just do it, I scolded myself. Do it by the book, the way Mooney taught you. The way the cops will, if you don't hurry.

I yanked on my gloves.

Bureau drawers. Closet shelves. Jacket pockets. Pants pockets. Nothing but loose change, movie stubs.

I felt between layers of sweaters, trying not to remember the last time I'd seen him wearing this shirt, that vest. Ran my fingertips over the undersides of drawers. Nothing behind the paintings. No wall safe.

“There are a hell of a lot of messages.” Roz stood in the doorway.

“Any from ‘Frank'?”

“Not so far, but I found an extra tape. I could substitute it. Just slip in the blank tape, take the used tape, and study it at home.”

“Write every message down word for word, Roz. I'll help when I'm done.”

“I'd rather look around. He's got some cool art stuff.”

“
Tell me if there are any messages from ‘Frank,' Roz.
”

“I just thought you might be finding this hard to do, you knowing the guy so well.”

“I'm going as fast as I can,” I lied.

“No hurry,” she lied back, retreating down the hall.

I needed a phone book, a Rolodex, a yearbook from whatever parochial school Sam had attended as a child. Did parochial grammar schools do yearbooks?

The bathroom off the master bedroom had dark green marbled walls. Big oval tub, separate shower. Once I'd written him passionate lipsticked messages on the steamy mirrored medicine chest. I checked the contents. Nothing stronger than Tylenol.

Why had I started with the bedroom instead of the study? That woman's voice in Washington. The tape.

“Roz,” I yelled. “When you play Sam's outgoing message, there's a Washington area code number. Make sure you get it.”

“Huh?”

I repeated myself.

What the hell was wrong with me? I should have switched jobs with Roz. Had I expected to find another woman's nightgown in Sam's closet? A stash of machine guns? A numbers runner's guide? Evidence that Sam was heavily Mob involved. That Oglesby and his task force were right.

Mob involved. Wasn't the Miró a gift from Papa? Wasn't his Ivy League education a gift from Papa, paid for with earnings from running prostitutes, demanding protection money?

I thought of the cash-stuffed tumbling mats at my place. What would Paolina think if—when—she knew where that money came from?

Do the work, dammit.

I moved into the study. Computer, laser printer, fax, copier. The sheer amount of hardware was daunting. So streamlined, automated. Clean. Unrevealing.

I ignored the machinery and started with the desk, a massive rosewood block with eight hefty drawers. Slips of paper, business cards, some with handwritten scribbled notes, were tucked into each corner of the blotter. I found them reassuringly human. I copied phone numbers, wrote down names. Any of them could belong to “Frank.”

No Rolodex entry for “Frank Tallifiero.” What a surprise.

Should I steal the whole damn Rolodex? I flipped through the cards, eliminating names I knew.

Sam didn't keep a diary. I grabbed his last two phone bills and an unopened bank statement. His business records must be on-line.

I studied the computer. Very much like mine, the new model “Frank” had donated. For the first time it occurred to me that Sam might have paid for the equipment, given me a gift he knew I'd never accept.

Hard disk. Sam would keep backup diskettes. He was methodical. I found two plastic packets of floppies, one still cellophaned shut. I stuck the opened pack in my purse.

The elevator hummed. No problem, I told myself. Other tenants used it routinely, people without the special penthouse passkey.

I kept rummaging through the desk, finding nothing. Returned to the bedroom. Photo albums would help. A nice clear shot of “Frank.”