No Stone Unturned (41 page)

Now Roy was surprised; his smile faded. “What?”

“Jordan had a tattoo,” I said. “At least when she arrived at the Mohawk Motel.”

“Are American girls in the habit of getting tattooed?” he asked after giving it some thought. “I’ve never seen one in this country.”

Neither had I, at least not outside a carnival sideshow.

“Did the police find a tattoo on her body?” asked Roy.

“You know they didn’t. Someone cut it out of her skin with a large knife. Maybe something like a kirpan?”

Again the smile. “That’s an interesting theory, but difficult to prove.”

“Not so difficult.” I paused for effect. “Wasn’t there something in the paper about pictures shot through the window?”

“That was just your bluff,” he said, unnerved just the same.

“Do you think so? How else would I have known about the tattoo?”

I had him there. He had been forthcoming with a lot of information, as long as he thought I was holding nothing. Now his attitude changed. He couldn’t risk talking to me about the tattoo; only a select few could have seen or known about it, and he didn’t want to be on that list.

“If she had a tattoo, it’s news to me,” he said coolly. “I don’t like them anyway. You see them on villagers and
junglees
in India, but what respectable Western girl wears a tattoo?”

“Jordan Shaw,” I said. “At least for a couple of weeks.”

Roy screwed up his face. “What do you mean by that?”

“Her tattoo was temporary,” I said. “Just some henna. It would have faded away in a couple of weeks.”

Roy seemed genuinely surprised, impressed even, but he said nothing. This was dangerous territory for him.

“I wouldn’t know anything about that,” he mumbled.

“Jordan had some henna powder in her room in Boston. And an icing cone to apply it. She must have learned how when she went to that wedding in India. Still,” I said, “it would have looked awfully bad for Jerrold if that tattoo had been seen by the police. Henna or no, that tattoo had to go.”

I felt I had all the information he was willing to share. I stood to leave and noticed Roy’s troubled expression. He wanted to say something but couldn’t get it out.

“Maybe you have a question or two for me?” I asked.

“One thing has made me curious,” he said. “You’ve been very thorough in your questioning, but there’s one thing you haven’t asked me.”

“What’s that?”

“Who ransacked Nichols’s apartment?”

He was right. There seemed little utility in asking him that, since I was sure Hakim Mohammed had carried out that sloppy job. That’s where he got the letters and photographs of Jordan and Jerrold in India. Poor D. J. Nichols was obsessed with Jordan and must have followed her to Fatehpur Sikri and taken the photos of the lovers. Thinking back on Roy’s ordered searches of Jordan’s room at the Mohawk Motel and her apartment in Boston, I was pretty sure Hakim had also trashed my place and Jean Trent’s digs, probably looking for Julio’s film. But I wasn’t about to share this information with Prakash Singh.

“So?” I said, retaking my seat. “Did you break into his place?”

He shook his head and said he had assumed I was responsible for the burglary.

“Really? How exciting you make me sound.”

“I know that reporters sometimes get carried away,” he said. “I figured you were looking for something—pictures from last summer’s Indian tour, perhaps? Letters from Jordan?”

“Sorry, it wasn’t me,” I said.

Roy grinned one last smile at me. “I suppose if something of the sort turns up, I’ll know you were lying.”

We stared into each other’s eyes for a long moment. I had nothing more to ask him, and he had nothing more to tell me.

“Your ride will be here soon,” I said. “Good luck.”

“Luck is for the unprepared,” he said, taking my hand. “Good planning is the better strategy.”

“So, did he kill Jordan Shaw?” asked Frank.

“I don’t think so.”

“Bull!” said Frank Olney, slapping his hand down on the desk. “He’s lying. He killed Jordan Shaw and Virginia White, and that’s that. You never want to give up, do you? ‘The Case That Never Ended,’ by Eleonora Stone,” he proclaimed, framing headlines in the air. “Well, I’m satisfied he’s guilty; and the voters’ll just have to accept that we couldn’t hold him because of his immunity.”

“Why don’t you think Roy killed Jordan Shaw?” the DA asked me. “Just because he denied it?”

“That’s part of it,” I said. “He was pretty straight with me in there because he thought he had nothing to fear. Even so, he was careful; he’s not rash enough to brag about breaking the law. But what really convinces me he didn’t kill them is his car.”

“What about it?”

“Jean Trent saw three cars in the parking lot that night. The first belonged to Jerrold, Jordan’s lover, probably driving his wife’s cream-colored Bonneville. The second, I believe, was Roy’s. Finally, a third car of unknown ownership showed up. I think it was driven by a Pakistani from Tufts, Hakim Mohammed, but it’s a moot point since Jordan was already dead when Roy arrived.”

“So what about the car convinces you he didn’t kill her?” repeated the DA.

“No oil drippings,” I said, and Frank screwed on his most incredulous expression.

“What are you talking about, Ellie? Oil drippings? What’s next, a Ouija board and tea leaves?”

“The morning after you found Jordan Shaw’s body in the woods, I came across a distinctive pattern of oil drippings on the water-tower service road, not fifty yards from her grave. The next day, I found the same pattern on that little dirt road behind the Mohawk Motel. The person who drove the car that left those spots killed Jordan Shaw. The killer never parked in the lot. Jean Trent never saw his car.”

“So who do you think dripped the oil?” asked the Thin Man.

I shook my head. “I just don’t know. For the past ten days I’ve been bending over, looking for oil under every car that’s not moving. It’s just not there.”

“What about Julio?” asked Frank, hopefully. “Or that hood, Pukey Boyle?”

I shook my head. “Frank, when I said every car, I meant
every
car. I’m wearing out the knees in my stockings. The spots are gone.”

Thursday afternoon: barely twelve hours to go before I had to give Artie Short my answer. My head was pounding. I felt as if I had fought a grueling game, outplayed my opponent at every turn, but still lost, striking out with the bases full in the ninth. I shuddered at the idea of looking underneath one more car, of postulating one more theory of how the oil spots had come to be near the grave and behind the motel. I was tired, yearning for a long sleep with nothing more momentous to worry about than my fuzzy television reception. I lay down on the couch with a Scotch and tried to empty my head.

My thoughts drifted from the insipid to the banal, without ever truly freeing themselves from undercarriages, crankcases, and motor oil. Worse still, nightmares of Greg Hewert infected my dreams of cars and greasy pavement.

I remembered my dream of Jordan Shaw and felt I had let her down, along with my father and myself. That beautiful young girl was dead, and her killer had gone unpunished. All for want of a triangular oil spot. The clock was running out, and I was failing. I sensed I would be covering basketball games and VFW meetings very soon.

“Is it ready, Vinnie?” I asked as the mechanic scrubbed some of the day’s grime off his hands.

“Your Dodge is out back,” he said. “Good as new. How’d you like the loaner?”

“Greased lightning?” I said. “Good thing you’re at the bottom of a hill; I was tired of pushing that thing around.”

“Yeah, but I don’t hear you complaining about the price. Which reminds me: it’ll cost you thirty-six fifty for the miracle I performed on your car.”

“I’ll call her Lazarus,” I said, but Vinnie had forgotten his catechism.

I wrote a check, hoping the paper would reimburse me, hoping I’d still have a job tomorrow, and reclaimed my keys. I went around back to get the car, but it was the heap next to mine that caught my attention: a rusty, white Plymouth. I returned to the garage and corralled Vinnie Donati.

“Isn’t that Tommy Quint’s car over there?” I asked.

Vinnie looked out the window over his shoulder. “Yeah, that thing’s always breaking down.”

“Two times in ten days?” I asked.

“I wouldn’t talk if I were you,” said Vinnie with a grin.

“When did he bring it in this time?”

“This morning. We had to tow it from his old man’s driveway.”

“He’s not in Rochester?”

“He rode with me in the cab of Dom’s wrecker.”

I went back to the lot and stared at the Plymouth. Something about its presence bothered me. I bent over and examined the ground beneath it, though I was sure I’d find nothing. I found nothing. Two times in ten days. The last time the Plymouth had given out was the day after Jordan’s murder. Or was it?

“Vinnie?” I called, having circled around to the garage yet again. “What day did you say Tommy Quint brought that car in the first time?”

“I don’t remember,” he said. “A week ago, maybe two.”

“Can you look it up?”

Vinnie shrugged his shoulders and threw open the ledger lying on the counter. His permanently blackened fingers slid over the names and numbers. He turned a page, then another.

“Here it is,” he said, spinning the oversized book around so I could see. “Saturday, November 26th, one p.m. Why do you want to know?”

I shook my head. “Nothing. I thought maybe . . . Nothing.”

It was half past six, and Vinnie was closing up. I walked back to my car for the last time. I stared at the white Plymouth. Its headlights looked back at me, but I couldn’t read their secrets.

“What a bomb.” A voice behind me.

I turned to see Al Ornuti, Dom’s son, in coveralls. I nodded silently.

“Those Plymouths are okay, though this particular job’s in bad shape,” he continued, joining me in solemn contemplation of the car. “But that’s the owner’s fault.”

“Uh-huh.” I’d eaten cars for the previous ten days, and I wasn’t eager to pass the time talking about them with a grease monkey.

“This one’s a perfect example of poor maintenance,” he said, motioning to Tommy’s Plymouth. “The kid that owns her called in a couple of weeks ago to ask for a tow. Dom’s wrecker was getting a paint job, so I told him we couldn’t hook him up until it dried. He calls again the next morning, Saturday, mind you, and wants to know if the tow truck’s ready. I tell him not before Monday. So guess what he does.”

“I have no idea,” I said, ready to nod off.

“He gets his old man to push it down here with the family car. And the killer is, he forgets to release the emergency brake! That poor car. It’s a wonder she still runs at all.”

The image of Tommy Quint’s father nudging the white Plymouth along flushed all the tedium and frustration from my mind. Something new to concentrate on. My headache vanished; I knew. I knew!