Chapter 22
“The list?” he said groggily.
“The phone list,” I repeated. “From last night. The one with the calls from Joe Silvio's cell phone.”
“Oh, right,” he said. “What time is it?”
“Nearly six,” I said.
He yawned loudly. “That's why I run a family newspaper. Woodward and Bernstein hours blow.”
I didn't touch the line. I was too distracted. I was pretty sure I was right. I just couldn't make the pieces fit.
“Robert, get the hell up and do your damn job. The job your daddy's trust fund pays you for.”
“No need to get personal,” he said.
“Oh, there's every need. Finding a killer and doling out payback to you, which is going to be a gift that keeps on giving.”
“I'm going,” he said. “The list is in my jacket, I think. Which is in the car.”
I heard shuffling sounds. A robe, slippers. Maybe he was shushing a lover.
God, what if he's no different than Stephen Hatfield, festooning his bed with boy toys like that receptionist in his lobby, giving them gifts, then discarding them when he's through? Why does that behavior seem somehow more acceptable in his world than in mine? Why do the young men who take his trinkets seem smart, canny, not used?
Then I thought,
Why can you think so clearly about his imaginary love life and not your own? Becauseâdrumroll, cue Stephen Hatfieldâit's just about the sex, as far as you know.
Then I thought,
You're being an idiot. How do you know any of what you just thought is true? For all you know, he may be in a long-term committed relationship.
“I'm going,” he said. “It's in the garage.”
“You leave your clothes in the garage?”
“When I get home late,” he said.
“Go out partying?”
“Huh? No. I was reviewing the files my PIs compiled for me. Hey, did you know Scott Ferguson got into a fight last night?”
“Where? Do you know why?”
“Some guy was being too attentive to a cocktail waitress at the Ghostly Booze Bar. Scott offered her a ride home. The guy was a biker with the Muscles for Anarchy motorcycle club. Bodybuilding bikers. Three of them surrounded him outside the park. One took the girl. The others trashed him. Wrong iron crosses to cross.”
Not if you have something to prove or feel like you should be punished for something, or both,
I thought.
“Catchy headline, don't you think?” he said self-admiringly.
“Where are you?” I asked.
“I'm going as fast as I can on two hours' sleep. What is this, anyway?”
“I'll let you know if I'm right.”
He went the rest of the way in silence. I heard room doors open and close. I heard a car alarm beep. I heard that door open. I heard more rustling.
“Okay,” he said. “You ready?”
I looked at the desk. “Ready.”
He read the number. I swore. It matched.
“So?” he asked.
I said, “Guess what? I'm right.”
“Sweet! Whose number is it?”
I replied, “I said I'd let you know if I was right. I was. Bye.”
“Dammit, Gwenâ”
I hung up. And felt very good about it, I did.
I was wired. “Priorities,” I said.
I decided to give Grant five more minutes of sleep. I went into the dining room. Stacie was back in her chair, huddled over her second cup of instant.
“Let me make some of the real stuff,” I said.
“This is okayâ”
“For me,” I said.
I worked with filters and a bag of McNulty's behind the counter. They were from a coffee bean store on Christopher Street in the West Village. I'd been buying beans there since my student days. I wasn't about to stop drinking Bavarian Chocolate Cherry just because I'd moved to another world.
“I have some news,” I said.
She looked up hopefully. I guess my tone of voice told her it wasn't bad news, for once.
“Scott was hurt because he tried to defend a server at that bar last night,” I said.
“He did?”
“Yes indeed. From the Muscles for Anarchy motorcycle club.”
“Bikers? He's hated them since high school!”
“Well, he got it out of his system last night,” I told her. “Maybe he was doing for himself what you did for yourself. Had to express something he'd been keeping inside.”
“God, the MFA,” she said.
The big machine was locked and loaded, and I switched it on. The blurping sound filled the room, followed by the incomparable smell of fresh-brewed. I went back to her table.
“Why don't you go see him?” I said. “Stay with him?”
“IâI can't. Work.”
“Does Sammi have anyone else she can call?”
“Sure, but I need the paycheck.”
“Not from there,” I said.
“Sorry?”
“Why don't you come to work here?” I asked, not quite sure I was doing the right thing. But I was taking my own advice: it was what was inside. I was just laying it out.
“Are you serious?”
“Pretty much all the time,” I said ruefully.
She jumped up and hugged me and ran her left hand up and down my spine and wept and probably would have stayed there if I hadn't put my hands on her arms and gently pushed her back.
“Why don't you call her and explain what happened?” I suggested. “I'm sure she'll understand. Then you can stop by later and give your two weeks' notice.”
She lunged at me again. “Thank you, sister. Thank you.”
“You're welcome,” I said.
She finished the Danish and drank more coffee, and thenâshowing promiseâtook the cup and dish back to the sink, which she found without having to ask.
“I'll call you,” she said as she took off the jacket and grabbed her damp sweatshirt. “I love you.”
“Talk to you later, Stace,” I said.
I wasn't quite at that same gushing level. Stacie to Stace was about the best I could do then.
I let her out, locked the door behind her, then went to the office. I called Grant on his cell. He answered groggily.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey,” I replied.
Shit, damnation, and Faust. That was lame buddy talk.
“How are you this morning?” he asked.
“Good.”
And more of the same.
“Guess what?” he said, without waiting for me to buddy-answer, “What?” “I called the chief at home last night. Told him about the Silvio cell phone list. McCoy's in for an internal affairs investigation after the funeral.”
“Now I've got news for you,” I said. “That cell phone number on Reid's list? It belongs to Lydia Knight.”
I could hear the intake of air. I recognized intake from outflow from sex. Our lovemaking was at the same level as our more interesting conversation.
“Does Robert know?”
“He knows that
I
know, but he doesn't know
what
I know.”
“Thank you,” Grant said. “Crap. I'm going to need that list in order to get a search warrant. We should have it this morning. How do you know it's Lydia's number?”
“She wrote it down for me.”
“You have it in her handwriting?”
“I do.”
“That may be enough to get the process rolling,” he said. “Can I come by?”
“I'm at the deli,” I said.
“See you in a few.”
Chapter 23
I flipped on the deep fryers to let them heat up, sliced fresh onions, brought in the bread when it was delivered from McCoy's. I had decided it would be wrong to change suppliers permanently, even though there was a wary chill from Pete, my regular delivery guy. Polite “How do?” and a formal “Sign please,” even though I knew the drill.
Grant knocked on the door a half hour after our talk. He was wearing the same clothes as the night before and looked a little wan.
“Been at it all night?” I asked as we went to the office.
“More or less,” he said. “Caught a couple hours of power nap at my desk.”
“It's scary when the habits of you and Robert Reid align.”
He didn't seem to hear. I had handed him the paper on which Lydia had written her number.
“This doesn't mean she did anything but get a call from him,” he pointed out.
I knew that monotone of his. He was actually talking to himself, working through this.
“His last call before letting you know he was going to be late,” he said.
I heard the door key turn the latch. I looked out, waved at Thomasina. She had seen Grant's car out front and went about finishing what I'd started in the kitchen. She hummed as she worked.
It must be nice to be happy,
I thought.
Or at least content.
“I'm wondering what connection they could possibly have,” I said. “It seems kind of random. I mean, she said she knew him from church, but that's no reason for an early morning phone call.”
“There's nothing else in the records,” he said. “Not even a photo of them together.”
I said, because that was the way everything seemed to be going, “Affair?”
“Of course it's possible,” he agreed, “though I'd be real surprised. We talked to folks at Silvio's church. He was deep into the congregation, Bible studies, fund-raising. I don't think it was for show. He seemed devout.”
“Even devout men have needs, and Brenda is kind of . . . I dunno. A tad formal? You're a man. What do you think?”
“I think I'd rather be with you,” he said.
That was supposed to be a compliment. He was too tired to see how it fizzled.
He took the number, kissed my cheekâanother strikeâand hurried off to see about getting a judge on the phone. I went over to Thomasina.
“Who was the guest?” she asked, looking up from the ketchup dispensers she was filling and nodding at the sink.
I filled her in. After all, she was like a surrogate mother to Stacie.
“Lawsy, the poor child,” she said.
“Poor, but soon to be among friends and family,” I said.
Thomasina looked at me as though she had X-ray vision and could see into my head. “You hired her?”
“I did.”
I have to admit, I wasn't sure how she'd react. Would she think I was dragging old wounds front and center, putting an explosive vest to our bosom, or was I dutifully, lovingly helping family?
The big woman nodded approvingly. “Good for you, Nash dear. God
bless
you, and good for you.”
That was a relief. I still couldn't be sure I'd made the right decision, but I was surer than I was ten seconds ago.
The rest of the staff trickled in, Luke and Dani arriving together. I felt like I was watching a science fiction TV show about a time slip. Every time I saw them, their dynamics had jumped to a new level. They walked to the counter, arms around each other's waist, oblivious to everyone else until we said good morning. Then they broke and went about their business but never seemed to lose eye contact.
As we neared the opening bell, there was a rap on the door. Thomasina was opening the cash register, and I was in the office. I heard the keys turn. I heard my manager talking. I couldn't hear who she was talking to. Probably an early customer. If we were ready, we usually let them in.
A minute later her big frame filled the door.
“Nash?”
“Yes?” I looked over from our Web site. I'd been thinking about revamping it, and actively working on that now stopped me from thinking about “my buddy” Grant.
“You have a visitor,” Thom said. “Lydia.”
Speak of the angel of maybe death,
I thought. “Coming,” I said.
Thom left, and I gathered myself.
What could she want? I wondered. To thank me for helping Stacie? Had her daughter called to tell her what I'd done? Had Lydia heard about Scott, about Stephen Hatfield? Or maybe she was headed to Joe Silvio's funeral. The good news was, wearing her usual wardrobe, she was already dressed for it.
She was standing by the cash register like a customer waiting to be seated. There was a leash attached to a parking meter outside and a wirehair fox terrier attached to the leash. It was sitting, panting, staring after its master.
Lydia seemed calm. I hoped she wouldn't try to kiss me. I made a point of stopping just outside of hugging range.
“Good morning,” I said.
“Hello, dear,” she said.
“What can I do for you?”
She smiled. It was the smile of a woman who seemed at peace. “I was walking the dog before work and decided to stop by.”
So much for mourning Joe Silvio,
I thought.
“Stacie came to the shoe store after work,” she said.
“She told me you'd taken her to lunch and had a lovely talk. That warmed me, Gwen. The fact that she spoke to me after being so cross was . . . What was the word your father used? A mitzvah.”
That made my flesh crawl.
“Stacie also told me I didn't have anything to worry about in that other matter.”
“No,” I said. “That's through.”
“I'm so glad,” she said.
There was something missing here, though. She seemed a little too calm, given what had happened since. It might not have been my place, but . . .
“Lydia, did you hear about Scott?”
Her expression clouded. “Scott? What about him?”
I said, “He had a run-in with some gang members. He's in the hospital.”
She put her hand to her mouth. “Poor boy! Is he badly hurt?”
“I think he'll recover,” I said. “I'm surprised Stacie didn't tell you.”
“Oh, well, I'm sure she was busy and . . . well, she couldn't have,” Lydia said.
“Why not?”
“You see, that's actually the reason I stopped by,” she said. “That cell phone number I gave you? You wouldn't have been able to reach me.”
“Why?”
“Lord, I hate those things. I guess I'm just old-fashioned.”
“Fine, but why would I not have been able to reach you?”
“I got it at a RadioShack to keep in my bag for emergencies, and touch wood, I haven't had one,” she said. “So I didn't even realize it's been missing, for only God knows how long.”