Inherit the Dead (11 page)

“So you do know her?”

The light in Hook’s eyes dimmed, and he shifted uncomfortably. “Depends on what you mean by knowing.”

“Well, she was here at the Memory?”

Hook paused, as if he didn’t know how to phrase what he was going to say next. Perry’s ears pricked up, but Hook didn’t break the silence.

“She was here, then?” Perry asked. “For how long?”

“Couple of weeks, on and off. Mostly off,” Hook said, his voice dropping to nearly nothing.

“Sounds like she made an impression on you.”

“You seen her?” Hook upped his volume. “Photos don’t do that girl justice. She has . . . not sure how to describe it exactly, but she has
something
. So many celebrity big shots come and go around here, and so I know how to spot it.”

“Star quality, you mean?”

“Sure,” said Hook, “if that’s how you want to put it. That girl, she had it. She could walk into a room, stay for thirty seconds, tops, and everyone would remember. I saw it happen in the bar a couple of nights. Guys and gals alike, they all wanted to know who she was and she wasn’t talking to any of ’em.” Hook’s face scrunched up like he was trying to stave off a bad memory.

“So she didn’t talk to you, then,” said Perry. His voice had softened, too, not by design, but because the situation seemed to call for
it. Something about Hook didn’t quite sit right, and as the other man launched into an embellishment of what was clearly an incidental encounter—beautiful woman, clearly unavailable and unattainable, only speaks when she needs to check in, check out, or call up for room service—Perry realized what it was: Hook had the appearance, and the first initial presentation, of a man who’d done violence, but he didn’t have the physical bearing, that weird pheromone all hyped-up types give off, of a true offender. It was as if he pretended to a rap sheet of felonies when he was lucky to have third-degree misdemeanors, at best. Perry figured Hook had been dealing with this disconnect his whole life.

“I see,” Perry said, fighting off a creeping discomfort. “When did she leave?”

Hook did a double take. “Oh, right. Really early in the morning. Like she was just waiting for the sun to come up to get out of town. Which was weird. She was more the type to show up in the bar at the tail end of last call.”

“When everyone would look at her but she wouldn’t give them the time of day,” said Perry.

“Something like that.”

“How did she seem when she left? In a hurry? Scared? Happy?”

“Definitely in a hurry,” Hook said. “Scared? Nah, I wouldn’t say that, but she wasn’t calm, either. Maybe she was on something. I don’t know, and I don’t check. But that early, hers was the only car zooming off onto the highway. Hell of a motor on it, too.”

“That’s the Memory Motel policy: to keep clear but watch everybody?”

Hook laughed without any trace of humor. “Is that it?” The question offered a single response. Perry went for it because there was no other choice.

“For now, but I may be in touch.” Perry fished out a business card
and put it on the desk. Hook didn’t take it, his arms folded, as they were when they first started talking. “Thank you for your time.”

But to Perry’s surprise, the other man hesitated, his face growing sheepish. Perry waited a beat. “Don’t tell anyone what I told you, okay?” Hook muttered.

“Why’s that?”

Now Hook was blushing full-on. “I, ah, might have let on something else to the guys. You know, after she left. When it was late, in the bar.”

Perry did everything in his power not to burst into a grin. “I won’t tell a soul,” he said.

Hook wasn’t done. “I mean it. It took a hell of a lot of work for me to build my reputation back up in this part of town. Everyone thought I was some kind of pussy. It never mattered what I did.” He held out his arms, showing off the elaborate art on it as he rotated his forearms. “It never mattered what I inked. My old man gave me the business, but if he’d found any other way, he would have. There’s nobody else to run this motel. Just me. And now that things are starting to fall apart, who’s going to take my place?”

Then the man shifted again, like he was snapping out of a trance. His eyes zeroed in on Perry’s, and the PI knew an exit line when he saw it approach like a ninety-mile-an-hour fastball.

Perry mumbled good-bye and left Hook to his fantasies of manhood and thwarted romance. Sometimes that’s all a man ever gets.

But as he got back into his car and found his way back to the Montauk Highway, Perry wondered if he had played the scene right. By his reckoning, Elisha Hook was the last guy to see Angel. He’d corroborated Randy’s story of the on-and-off timetable, but no one else saw Angel leave. For good measure Cristo had peeked into the adjacent bar, to see if he might question one of the bartenders, but it wasn’t set to open for another hour.

The rain was
still pissing down and the temperature had dropped another five degrees at least while Perry was talking to Hook, and he reached down to crank up the car’s heater to the max. As he did he caught a glimpse of headlights in his rearview mirror. His spine tingled again, but he had no place to stop the car. Perry drove another mile down the highway before he was sure there was a car behind him, keeping pace several lengths back, but conspicuous enough to indicate this was more of an announcement, not a stealth job.

Why follow him?

Perry peered into the mirror to see if he could make out anything about his new friend. The car was way too far away and the rain coming down too hard for him to discern any numbers on the plates, but the car was clearly boxy and black.

At the next turnoff, for East Hampton, Perry veered a hard left and then another sharp right around Aboff’s paint store. He did so again. The car kept pace, though it dropped back a few more feet. But before then Perry saw it was, indeed, a black car. Midsize, a Toyota like one he rented for a job a few years back. There was mud on the plate, too. Intentional? Had to be. What the fuck? He’d only started looking for Angel this morning and already someone was on him. Well, whoever it was, Perry would have the last laugh. His car-evasion skills were legend, dating all the way back to his academy days.

Here we go,
he thought.

Left, right, turns at the very last minute, rolling stops. Perry had to give the Toyota’s driver credit for keeping up, especially in the pouring rain, but he couldn’t be experienced at it—and definitely wouldn’t relish the expensive bill that would come due when the suspension blew out. Perry sighed. He could give another ten minutes to this crap—that was it.

On 27, the other driver got cocky, narrowing the distance between
his car and Perry’s. When Perry sped up, now close to eighty, hoping his Datsun could handle it, the other driver did, too. Perry wasn’t worried, but he didn’t feel like getting into some bullshit mano a mano thing with an unknown driver.

At the next turnoff, Perry slowed down and took it more normally. Another three lefts and a couple of rights to the precinct, but he decided to reverse it and come back to see if he could trap the other driver. For the first part, the car did as Perry wanted. But when he doubled back and wound up in front of the precinct sooner than he thought, there was no black car.
Just as well,
Perry thought.

Later on, when things were knee-deep in hell, he’d wonder if that was another move he hadn’t exactly played right.

“You got a
room?” Perry asked.

Elisha Hook was surprised to see him again. And Perry was surprised to be back at the Memory Motel. But Arthur Gawain had been called away. It was cheaper to spring for a night in the Hamptons, see Gawain in the morning, and leave for Manhattan afterward instead of driving back and forth and wasting gas. The rain was supposed to clear out in the morning, too.

“Guess you didn’t want to leave town without staying in our famous digs?” Hook’s face crinkled into something approximating a grin. “You’re in luck. Mick’s old room is free.”

“Sure, sure,” Perry said. He doubted the motel manager had any idea where Mick Jagger had ever slept.

Hook slid a key across the counter, and Perry filled out the guest card.

“Can I get something to eat in there?” He angled his thumb toward the bar.

“Sure. It just opened up a few minutes ago. We usually got live music, too, but not tonight. A shame.”

Perry said nothing. Live music was not what he needed right now.

Inside the bar, he took a seat at the farthest left, away from the handful of locals who acted like the place was their living room. The bartender, with his weathered face and taciturn expression, looked a little old for the job, hovering around fifty, if Perry was any judge. The PI ordered a Driftwood Ale and a turkey sandwich, then slid Angel’s photo across the mahogany surface.

The bartender studied the photo. “She was here, couple of weeks ago, with a real bruiser. At least he wanted to think so.”

“Why? He start trouble?”

The bartender shook his head. “I just didn’t like him. Thought he was God’s gift to everyone, especially women. The girl, though”—he tapped Angel’s photo—“she didn’t mind.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Just that he had his hands all over her, and she seemed to like it fine.”

“You see them often?” Perry wanted to know.

“They came in for drinks and snacks a couple of nights. I didn’t spend much time with them. The place gets crowded.” The bartender shrugged. “But she was a real looker, hard to miss.” Something at the other side of the bar caught the man’s eye. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said, leaving Perry to his beer and food.

Three swigs later, a man of about forty, in black jeans and a hooded sweatshirt over a green sports shirt, took the barstool beside Perry’s. “Nasty night,” he said, signaling for a drink.

Perry scooped up the photo of Angel but not before the other guy got a good glimpse. “Pretty,” he said.

“Uh-huh.” Perry said, downing the rest of his beer. The bartender returned with two more Driftwoods.
What the hell,
Perry thought. Since the guy was clearly interested in Angel’s photo, it was worth asking a few questions.

“You’re staying here?”

The other man shook his head. “Nah, just passing through. I thought the Led Zeppelin cover band was playing tonight, but I got the dates mixed up. They’re supposed to be really something else.” His eyes brightened. “You know this place was voted the best bar in the Hamptons a few years back? That’s why I had to stop by. I didn’t want to miss it. I’ve already missed too many things.”

Perry wondered what the hell that was supposed to mean but said nothing. The guy continued. “My mother always says I’m too dramatic . . . ” He trailed off into a half chuckle. “So what’s your deal? You staying here?”

“Just for the night. Had a meeting that got pushed back a day,” Perry said. “Plus, I’m looking for information about the girl. Know anything?”

“Never seen her,” the man said, running a hand through his hair. “But I know my mother would have a lot to say about someone that pretty.”

Perry let the comment slide. Some guys, they dress like adults but stay children forever, their best girls always their mothers.

He felt a rustle to his right, turned to find a blowsy blonde smiling up at him. “Well hello, sailor.” She was eager, buxom, and Botoxed.

Perry wanted to roll his eyes, the urge he always had with women trying too hard. “Hey,” he said.

“What are you drinking?”

“I’m good.”

She laughed. “Your bottle is empty.” She signaled the bartender for another round. “What brings you to the Memory?” she cooed.

Perry slid over Angel’s photo. “Her.”

The woman frowned. “What about her?” she asked, her voice sharp as glass.

“She was here a while ago. Now she’s gone. Know anything?”

The drinks arrived, but the woman pretended not to notice. “Why would I know anything? Am I supposed to know something about every person who ever walks into this dumb joint?”

“Well, I’m not sure—” Perry started, feeling off-balance. Was this woman bipolar? First she was hitting on him; now she was insulted.

“Oh, forget it,” she said, grabbing her bottle and sliding off the barstool. “You’re a real stinker.”