JM02 - Death's Little Helpers aka No Way Home (34 page)

I took a deep breath and let it out and nodded. “I don’t know if I could take that office again anyway,” I said.

Neary smiled a little. He looked beyond me, out the car window. “Here she comes,” he said. He slipped the photos into the envelope and passed it to me.

I climbed out of the Volvo. “Call me when you’ve talked to Czerka. And thanks for sitting out here.”

“It’ll be on your bill,” he said. “You sure you don’t want a shadow home?” I shook my head and closed the door and the car pulled away. Jane was watching. She hitched her big black bag higher on her shoulder. There were tight lines around her mouth.

“Was that your friend Neary?” she asked. I nodded. “What was he doing?”

“Waiting for me to get here.”

Jane pursed her lips. “What’s going on?” she said. We started toward 16th Street and I told her. We walked slowly and Jane listened, and when I was done she didn’t speak for several minutes. When she did, her voice was soft and flat.

“The boys were okay?” she asked.

“Probably a little confused, but okay.”

“That’s good,” Jane said.

She was quiet for another half a block.

“And you think this thing is a warning to you— about Danes?” I nodded. “From whoever hired— what’s-his-name— Czerka?” I nodded again. “I guess they don’t know that you were fired.”

“I guess not.”

She went silent again, and as we reached the corner of Fifth Avenue and 17th Street, she stopped. “What’s the warning?” she asked. “I mean specifically, what message is he sending with those pictures?”

I looked at her and she met my gaze and waited. “I suppose it’s a message that he knows what’s important to me and that he can … get at those things if he wants to. I suppose it’s a message about what’s at stake if I keep pushing.”

“And is he right about what’s important to you? I know your nephews are, so he’s right about that much.” Her face was blank, and her dark eyes were empty.

“I didn’t want this, Jane. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

“Something already happened to me.”

I took a deep breath. “I know.”

Jane started walking again. “Why didn’t you tell me someone was following you— maybe following both of us?” she said.

“I didn’t think they were a threat— until recently I wasn’t even sure they were there. And I never thought they were interested in you. You had a lot on your mind, and I didn’t want to upset you.”

Jane stopped again. She almost spoke, but she bit back the words. She looked at the manila envelope in my hand. “Let me see them.”

I shook my head. “You don’t—”

“Just give them to me, goddamn it.” Her voice was icy. We moved into the doorway of a small office building and I handed her the envelope.

Jane slipped the pictures out and looked at each one. Her face was still and ashen; only her dark eyes moved. She leafed through the stack three times and leaned against the building and was quiet for a while. When she did speak, it was almost to herself.

“They were so close … I had no idea.”

“Neither did I.”

She handed me the envelope. “But now you know,” she said. “You have no case and you have no client, but now you know about this. So what will you do?” Her voice was even and without emotion.

“I need to find out who sent this, Jane.”

She nodded, unsurprised. “Why?”

I studied her unreadable face and thought about all the answers I could give— that the best way to keep her and my nephews safe was to find whoever made this threat and send a message of my own, that I didn’t like being pushed around, that I needed to know what the hell was going on, that I needed to keep working. All of them were true and none of them seemed adequate and finally I said nothing.

After a while we walked again. Jane slowed as we came to 16th Street and looked down the block. I followed her eyes as they scanned the people and parked cars, and I saw a grimace cross her face and a shudder go through her shoulders.

“Let’s get something to eat,” she said, without looking at me.

We kept going south, to a coffee shop off Union Square, and had a silent meal amid a chattering crowd. We went back to 16th Street afterwards, and Jane’s steps were quick and resolute down the block and into the lobby of our building. I rang for the elevator and she dug in her bag and pulled out her house keys. We got in and I pressed four. Jane pressed five. She watched the numbers light as we rose. The doors opened on four and I got out.

“I don’t want these things in my life,” Jane said. I started to speak, but the doors began to close, and as they did something shifted in Jane’s face. Her mouth got smaller and the fine creases around it curved downward. And something happened in her eyes like a shutter opening. They grew darker and larger and brimmed for an instant with anger and disappointment. And then the doors shut and the car rose again.

I heard Jane moving around upstairs and I heard music come on: Chrissie Hynde, turned up loud. I checked my messages. There were three from Lauren and I didn’t bother to listen.

I poured myself a large glass of water and drank it while I paced the room and let my anger steep. I thought about Marty Czerka’s mystery client and what he might want with Gregory Danes. I thought about the small handful of people I’d found in Danes’s life and wondered which of them might care enough to hire a guy like Czerka.

I thought about Neary, too, and wondered how his conversation was going. I wasn’t optimistic. It wasn’t that I doubted Neary’s skill at the back-and-forth; I didn’t. I’ve seen him play the good guy, the tough guy, the burned-out-doesn’t-give-a-shit guy, and the fucking-crazy guy, and he’s better at it than most. But Czerka had no doubt played those parts himself, and while Neary might surprise him, I didn’t think he’d get him talking.

No, Stevie was definitely the weak link in that shop; he was the guy I’d go at first. But Stevie might need a little encouragement, and that’s where Neary would draw the line.

I stopped my pacing and thought about Stevie’s broken nose, and about his bruises and stitches and splinted fingers, and I remembered what Richard Gilpin had told me, back in Fort Lee. The office isn’t open to the public, and management gets real nervous about visitors. From what I heard, the last guy who came sniffing around here was lucky to get out with all his fingers attached.

The phone rang and I jumped. It was Neary. He was calling from a car and he sounded exhausted.

“I took a run at Marty,” he said, “and got nowhere.” Neary waited for me to say something, but I didn’t. He went on. “He was surprised, no question about it, but you saw— he dances pretty good for a fat man and he wouldn’t admit to anything. In fact, he seems to know less now than when we saw him this afternoon.”

“What about Stevie?”

“There was no sign of him in the office. I had Juan check out the neighborhood watering holes, but he had no luck. I sent Eddie out to his place in Queens. We’ll keep an eye out there and at the office until he turns up.” Neary yawned deeply. “I’m sorry about this, John.”

“You should get some sleep.”

“We’ll find him, if not tonight, then tomorrow or the day after.”

“Sure,” I said.

Sure, unless Uncle Marty finds him first and tells him to shut the hell up and runs him out of town for a while. I thought some more about Stevie and his broken fingers and about what Gromyko had said, the last time I had seen him.

It is possible that I could be of assistance to you, Mr. March, but I do not operate a charitable organization. My advisory services are valuable, and for them I expect payment in kind.

I sat at the table and thought about how long it might take to locate Stevie and how much coaching he might get by then. I rubbed my eyes and thought about Goran and Gromyko and deals with the devil and payment in kind. I thought about the manila envelope and about the pictures inside. I punched the number for Morgan & Lynch in Fort Lee, and a woman answered. She sounded like the tattooed girl.

“This is March,” I said. “I want to talk to Gromyko.” I gave her my number and she hung up. I sat and waited for a call back and listened to the music coming through the ceiling. It was louder now, and punctuated by the angry staccato of Jane working combinations on the heavy bag.

24

I slept badly that night and met Gromyko the next morning in the Conservatory Garden in Central Park. I took a long and elaborate route to ensure that I got there unescorted, and I arrived early, at just after eight. I entered at 105th Street, and the sound of morning traffic on Fifth Avenue faded behind me as I passed through the Vanderbilt Gate and into the Italian-style section of the garden. It was a warm morning, with a breeze and some fat clouds in a Wedgwood sky, but it was just past opening time and the garden was nearly empty. There was a well-dressed elderly couple making their slow way south, toward the English garden, and a willowy woman with long blond hair and a flowing flimsy skirt standing near the wrought-iron pergola. I headed north, past a row of blossoming crab apple trees and into the French-style garden. The tulips were still in bloom, and their bright heavy heads bobbed a little in the little wind.

Gromyko was early too, and he was standing by the fountain. He wore loafers and loose white trousers and a band-collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He was looking at the bronzes— three dancing maidens— and at the water that rose and fell between their elegant arms, and his blond hair shone in the sunlight. The Ukrainian Jay Gatsby. He walked toward me and his movements were precise but also graceful and relaxed. His canted gray eyes were as cold as ever.

“You are more than prompt, Mr. March,” he said.

“It’s a nice morning.”

Gromyko nodded. “And the gardens are particularly nice in this season.” We walked slowly down the path, flanked by vast beds of tulips, and a little of yesterday’s heat seemed to come up at us from the soil. “I walk here every morning, but spring mornings are the best.” Gromyko saw my surprise and a smile disturbed his pale features. “It is not a long walk, Mr. March, I live just over there.” He pointed south and east.

“Not in Jersey?”

Gromyko snorted a little. “No, not in New Jersey,” he said. He came to a stop by a stone bench and put a foot on its edge and folded his arms across his chest. “And now business. You said last night that you wished to consult me.” I nodded. “And you recall that I operate on a quid pro quo basis, yes?”

“I recall.”

“And when the time comes that I require payment?” Gromyko fixed his gray eyes on me, and despite the sunlight a chill spread through my limbs.

“I pull my weight,” I said. “Within reason.”

Gromyko smiled a little. “Always within reason, Mr. March.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves here. I haven’t asked you anything and you haven’t answered. So it remains to be seen how much help you can be.”

Gromyko smiled again, patiently this time, as if at a quarrelsome child. “I am at your disposal,” he said quietly.

“That day in the garage, you weren’t surprised when I told you I was working a missing persons case. And you didn’t press me about it. You didn’t ask who was missing, or much of anything else.”

The little smile stayed on Gromyko’s face. “No, I did not.”

“I think that was because you already knew who I was looking for.”

A nod. “I did.”

“Because I wasn’t the first person to come looking for this guy and wanting to talk to Gilpin. Someone else had been there before me.”

Gromyko’s smile widened slightly. “Someone much less … civilized, Mr. March.”

“Stevie,” I said.

Gromyko shrugged. “I do not recall his name. He was a bodybuilder, impolite and stupid— an unfortunate combination.”

“But he worked for Marty Czerka?” A look of disdain came and went across Gromyko’s face, and he nodded. “How did you meet?” I asked.

“He accosted Gilpin outside the office, but failed to notice that two of my men were with him at the time. They sent Gilpin upstairs and called me.”

“And you questioned him— somewhat vigorously.” Gromyko said nothing. “And he told you … what?”

“Everything he knew. Which was very little.”

“But he told you he was working a missing persons case.”

Gromyko nodded again. “Yes. He was looking for Gilpin’s half brother, Gregory Danes,” he said.

“And he also told you who his client was?” I held my breath waiting for the answer.

“Yes, he told me that too,” Gromyko said.

“And?”

“And now we agree that I have been helpful to you, yes, Mr. March?” His eyes narrowed again and caught mine. The breeze picked up and blew around a heavy scent of topsoil.

“We agree.”

“Just so we are not ahead of ourselves,” Gromyko said, and he smiled icily. “Jeremy Pflug. His client is named Jeremy Pflug.” Gromyko spelled it for me.

“Who is he?”

He shook his head. “Google him, Mr. March; you will find out all you need to know.”

“You don’t know anything more about him than that?”

Gromyko sighed. “I satisfied myself that Stevie was telling me what he believed was true. And Gilpin assured me that he has nothing to do with his brother, and that he knows nothing of this Pflug. And Gilpin knows better than to lie to me. So I satisfied myself that this matter did not concern me.

“My business is growing rapidly, Mr. March, and it is demanding of my time. Where no clear need or benefit exists, I do not meddle in the affairs of others— a practice you would be wise to consider.” Gromyko straightened and checked his watch. “If there is nothing else … ?”

“When did you have this talk with Stevie?”

“Some time ago— ten days, perhaps, before your visit.”

“Any more signs of a tail since your man saw that blue van?”

“No,” he said, and looked at his watch again. “And now I must go.” His pale face was expressionless.

“Thank you,” I said.

He nodded slowly. “Indeed,” he said, and he turned and went south, into the Italian garden. I watched him walk past the line of crab apple trees and pause near the Vanderbilt Gate. The willowy blond woman unfolded herself from a bench and drifted across the garden to join him. She was just his height, and she leaned into him and took his hand and whispered something in his ear. Gromyko nodded at whatever she said, and the blond woman clutched his arm and kissed him. A swatch of laughter, high and girlish, fluttered across the garden like a leaf. And then they were through the gate and out of sight.