Summer Cool - A Jack Paine Mystery (Jack Paine Mysteries) (5 page)

"I'll help you."

"All right," he said. "But I just wanted to tell you it might be painful—"

She shook her head, cutting off his argument against her helping.

Paine drank his coffee, trying to think of something to say to her. She sat holding her untouched coffee mug, letting the steam take the warmth out of it. He knew she was waiting
for him to say something to her, one way or the other, to tilt her life toward 100 percent.

"I take it no one's heard from him again," he said.

She shook her head no.

"I talked to Coleman yesterday afternoon, and then Hermano, the guy he was working on the drug bust case with. Coleman acted like an egg on a griddle. I think they're coming down on him from up top. He tried to get me to rejoin the force."

"Christ."

"Coleman always was an asshole. But now I think he realizes it for the first time. Hermano was just scared. I don't think this had anything to do with what Bobby was working on."

Her fingers working on the handle of her coffee mug, she waited.

"Terry" he said, "I'm as blank as you. I don't have any idea what this is all about. That's why I want to go through the house—"

"Then let's do it," she said angrily, getting up.

They started in the basement. Bobby had a workshop down there, one half of the cellar behind a sheetrock barrier that was all his own. There were two workbenches, one covered messily with tools, fuses, rolls of duct tape, tubes of glue
_;
the other immaculate, a fisherman's shrine, neat racks of lures above neatly labeled drawers of miniature tools and fly-tying equipment.

Paine went through everything, the drawers, the boxes, the discarded shopping bags with abandoned receipts inside. When he finished in the tool room he went through the other half of the cellar, the playroom, which contained only toys except, on one side under a low Tiffany-style fluorescent, a pool table, now piled high with boxes of military novels and sealed Christmas ornaments. Paine checked down the slipcovers of the two old chairs in the corners, moved the canned food shelves under the stairs.

"What's next?" Terry asked.

"Where does he keep the rest of his stuff?"

"Mostly in the bedroom. The garage, too."

"The garage, first."

They went to the garage. Paine checked under the seats in their Plymouth Voyager, slid his fingers up under the dashboard, lifted the ashtrays in the back seat to check the wells. There were open cartons of oil and bags containing power steering fluid, transmission fluid, an oil filter. He found nothing but receipts.

"Okay, Terry, let's look at the bedroom."

The bed was made; there was a quilt with pastel squares framing yellow and blue geese. The chest of drawers was tall, four long drawers and two half drawers at the top; it was mahogany, with Queen Anne legs; on top of it was a silver tray holding perfumes and a black glazed ceramic whale with the back scooped out for a change holder.

Paine went through the change holder; there was change and a couple of receipts from Sears, a pocket comb with a couple of tines missing, a Sears wallet photo of the two girls and Terry, all of them smiling, bunched together, Terry in back with her arms around them. Paine looked at it for a minute, and then put it back.

"Which drawers are his, Terry?"

She was standing behind him, arms folded. "Bottom two."

The room was hot. There was a small air conditioner set into one window, but it wasn't turned on. The room was dark, blinds down, thin slices of heated light thrown against the far wall. A dressing mirror slanted downward, reflecting floor and bed at an angle.

Paine pulled open the bottom drawer. Folded Izod shirts, no pockets; shorts, pockets empty. Two pairs of jeans. Behind, on the left side, a cluster of papers, insurance policy sheets, car registration forms, police benefit department information.

"He stored all the important papers there," Terry said behind him.

Paine put the papers back, slid his hand to the right along the back length of the drawer. An unused belt coiled like a snake, a package of unopened handkerchiefs. Two pairs of folded chinos, pockets empty. In the right far corner, a blue rectangular box. Paine pulled it out: a twelve-pack of Trojan condoms, two left.

Behind him, Terry said nothing. Paine put the box back.

The upper drawer was filled with boxer shorts, T-shirts, a folded pair of flannel pajamas that looked unused. White crew socks, black nylon stretch socks. A flat, wooden, hinged box in the right front with more change, another comb, more receipts and paper clips in it. Under it was a bill in a long brown envelope. He lifted it out, studied it: a doctor's charge with an outstanding balance that he realized the import of as Terry spoke.

"That was from the second miscarriage," she said. He turned on his haunches to look at her: her arms folded, seemingly cold in the hot room, hugging herself. "There was some question about insurance payment, so they told us to wait on the bill."

"I'm sorry Terry," Paine said.

Her reply was too quick. "Don't be."

Paine looked at her a moment, turned away, slipped the bill back into its place and closed the drawer.

He stood, stretched his back. "Let me look at the closet," he said.

There was one closet, long sliding doors. She owned two-thirds of the left side
_;
Bobby's clothes had the rest. Paine slid the door over, went through the two suits, the dress uniform. There were six white shirts, two blue, a couple of sports shirts with twin breast pockets. Another pair of chinos, hanging. There were three pairs of shoes, a pair of Adidas, the floor behind them was clean.

"He took nothing with him," Paine said, standing.

"No."

"Let's look at the laundry," Paine said.

She turned. Paine followed her out into the hallway. She stopped by the bathroom door. "Here." Just inside the bathroom door was a white wicker hamper, stuffed to overflowing.

"I haven't done wash in a few days," she said. She opened the hamper, began to pull clothes out. The top was filled with girl things that she tossed aside
_;
about halfway down were a couple of Bobby's shirts, which she handed to Paine. He went through the pockets, found nothing. There was another shirt at the bottom of the hamper, a long-sleeved sport shirt, wrinkled, that looked like it might have been there for a while. Again, nothing.

"What about the washing machine?"

Without speaking, she walked past him, down the hallway beyond the kitchen, opened a door into the laundry room.

Paine went in, snapped down the door of the dryer. It was empty. He pulled up the door on the washer, found a load of wash filled to the brim, blue liquid laundry detergent drying like a stain over the clothes on top.

"I was doing that when he decided to go out the other night," Terry said. "I never turned the water on."

Paine lifted the top clothes out
_;
two of Bobby's shirts. He got damp blue detergent, mildly sticky, on his hand. He went through the pockets on the first shirt. The second one had a folded piece of paper in the left breast pocket.

A leak of blue detergent had reached into the paper, dying it. Paine unfolded it, held it up toward the light.

In Bobby's hasty scrawl was written: AA Flt. #85.

Paine handed the note to Terry. "Recognize this?"

She looked at it; she didn't recognize it, but she knew what it was. She knew Bobby's handwriting well enough, was smart enough to know what it was, what it meant.

Paine gently took the paper from her
;
if she had been halfway back before, she was back to zero again. She clasped her hands together, not finding the solace she needed, and then she leaned into Paine, folding against him, her hands opening to clutch him, digging into him as if he was a human life raft. She began to weep again, and he felt her body shaking against him.

"Oh. . . Jack. . . I still thought. . . maybe he was just drunk. . . just on a bender, maybe he. . . was calling from a bar somewhere nearby. . . . I was stupid, but. . . I still hoped. . ."

Paine put his arm around her and held her, and let her cry. And with his other hand, he held the paper up and looked at it, and knew now that there was somewhere to go.

P
aine had picked up his phone to dial when Anapolos came into his office. He put the phone down.

"Sit down," Paine said.

"I'll stand, Mr. Paine," Anapolos said. He was a short man who always looked as if he were charging forward. His head was large, nearly bald. The top part of his body was barreled, on top of short legs. He was a Greek from Astoria, Queens, whose brother-in-law had sold him a building in Yonkers, telling him that it was a way to get rich and make his sister happy. Paine knew that the brother-in-law had been right.

"This. . .
letter
I get from you, Mr. Paine," Anapolos said, waving a folded sheet of paper. "I don't like it."

"You weren't supposed to like it," Paine said. "I had a lawyer look at it before I sent it to you. He said I was right on every count, and that, if I wanted, he'd help me bring you to court."

The top of Anapolos's head reddened. He leaned closer to Paine's desk, hammering the paper down on it and raising his hand into a fist. "You are not a good tenant, Mr. Paine."

"You're a shitty landlord, Mr. Anapolos. When I moved in here in February there was no heat. I've seen five different species of roaches. There is at least one family of rats on this floor
_;
I've seen others on outings in the lobby and in the storage area in the basement." Paine pointed to the piece of paper Anapolos had put on his desk. "I listed enough building code violations, especially blocked fire exits, in that paper to have you shut down and fined till it hurts. The lease I
signed with you promised air conditioning, and that microwave oven in the window hasn't worked since GE put it together in 1963. I don't like the way you run your building, Mr. Anapolos."

"And I don't like you, Mr. Paine. You're not a nice young man."

"I'm not so young, Mr. Anapolos."

Anapolos straightened slightly, put his hands on his hips. Paine was suddenly reminded of pictures he had seen of Mussolini. He almost laughed.

Anapolos raised one finger, and suddenly Paine did laugh. "This is not funny, Mr. Paine. I am going to have you
evicted." Anapolos pronounced the last word like a curse. Paine shook his head; he could not stop laughing.

"You will hear from me again, Mr. Paine!" Anapolos said. With a flourish he spun on his little shoes and walked to the door, leaving his paper behind on Paine's desk.

Anapolos opened the door, closed it loudly behind him.

"Jesus Christ," Paine said. He took the paper Anapolos had left, slipped it into a fresh envelope, addressed it to the landlord and put it in his out box.

This time he picked up the phone and punched in a number.

The 800 number rang twice and he was connected to a computer voice that asked him to wait until an operator was free. Phone music played. Paine angled the phone away from his ear until a voice came on the line
;
it was the computer voice, asking him to please be patient. The music came on again. Paine moved the phone away from his ear until a human voice said, "American Airlines, may I help you?"

"I hope you can," Paine said. He made himself sound chagrined. "I'm sorry to bother you about something stupid, but I think I'm in trouble with my boss. A couple of days ago I took flight eighty-five out of New York, and I lost my ticket receipt. I . . ." he paused, sounding embarrassed, "well, my boss isn't the kind of guy who believes what you tell him, and I was wondering if you could get me some sort
of copy of the receipt, a Xerox or anything, just to prove I took the flight. My name is Bob Petty."

The cheery girl's voice said, "I'm certain we can help you, sir. If you'll just wait a moment. . ."

Paine waited
_;
he could hear the soothing tap of computer keys, the pause while the information he wanted was pulled up onto a screen. There was another pause. More muted key tapping.

"That would be Robert Perry?" the soothing voice asked. Paine said yes. She confirmed Perry's address. "That was a one-way ticket to Dallas-Fort Worth?"

Paine said yes again.

"All right, sir. I can have a receipt mailed to you. You are aware that it will be marked duplicate?"