In for a Ruble (21 page)

“I spent the morning with Marianna. She’s in pretty bad shape.”

“Her husband’s an asshole.”

“Maybe. I think she needs help. She’s hitting the bottle hard.”

“Why are you telling me?”

“You’re her brother.”

He shook his Mohawk and looked at the ground. “Poor Marianna. I do feel sorry for her. But she shouldn’t have married him if she didn’t love him.”

“That’s what happened?”

“What do you think, smart guy?”

He was stepping around something there.

“She told me she lent you money once. Fifteen grand. You hit her again for twenty-five and she turned you down. She said you weren’t very nice about it.”

He raised his head and laughed out loud—braying long and high. Tan Coat turned to check us out.

“HAH! That’s rich. Did she tell you she was smashed, so blitzed that she practically knocked over a waiter with a tray of food? Three brandies while we were there. While
I
was there, who knows what she drank after I left. She was still mixing them with ginger ale then. Ugh.”

He looked around in a conspiratorial fashion and lowered his voice. “Did she tell you what she called me? This was before we even talked about money. When she ordered the second drink, I suggested maybe coffee would be good. She told me to mind my own fucking business. Her words, not mine. Then, when I said maybe she should think about help, she said, ‘At least I’m not queer.’”

He leaned back and raised his palms upward, as if to ask,
What am I supposed to do?
I now had two sides of another story. I didn’t care much where the truth lay this time, but the evidence of Marianna’s troubles—and her ability to pretend they didn’t exist—was mounting.

“When was the last time you saw her?”

“Christmas. Family rat-fuck. At Sebastian’s, of course. I try to avoid them as a rule, but holidays…” He shrugged. His voice had taken on a bitter edge.

“The whole family there?”

“Uh-huh, Sebastian, Jenny, the kids. Marianna and her children. Not Stern. Even Julia put in an appearance, mainly so she could tell everyone about all the oh-so-important bullshit she’s working on. And Walter was there. Hapless Walter. That’s Julia’s husband. First time we’d seen him in years. Sebastian sets great store by family acting like family, and Sebastian gets what he wants. Always has. You’re so smart, you’ve figured that out already.”

Something there, besides the outsized chip balanced on Thomas Leitz’s orange-clad shoulder, was interesting.

“Hapless Walter. Why do you say that?”

“Because he is. You meet him, you’ll see.”

“He doesn’t usually attend family functions?”

Thomas grinned, just a little. “So, something you don’t know.”

“Tell me about him.”

The grin went away. “Nothing to tell,” he said quickly. “Poor guy’s got loser written all over him—and he has to put up with her. We all dig our own graves.”

Maybe spending the holidays alone wasn’t so bad after all.

“Why doesn’t he attend family functions?” I pressed.

“
He just doesn’t!
” He looked around the playground, eyes sweeping past Tan Coat without comment. “I don’t have all day. You were asking about the lawyers.”

I let him change the subject, for the moment. “Did they ask you anything about your brother’s office? Location, layout, computers, stuff like that?”

He shook his head. “No. Wouldn’t have mattered if they had.”

“Why’s that?”

“I’ve never been there. No reason to go.”

He was telling the truth now, I was all but certain. “So they didn’t ask you to do anything?”

“No.”

“And they didn’t offer you money?”

“NO! I already told you, I have
friends
! This conversation is over. I don’t care what you say. Stay away from me. Stay away!” He jumped up from the bench.

“Not so fast, Thomas. We’re not finished. I’ve got more questions about Walter.”

He tried to look resolute, but it came across as petulant. “Why should I tell you anything about him—or anyone else?”

“So I don’t tell anyone about Walter and you.”

A long silence—before he sat back down. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you do. Walter’s the one who’s been paying your bills—for years. Every time you borrow too much, max out those credit cards, you call him, he comes through. What’ve you got on him? None of my business, I’m just curious. Must be pretty good, I figure he’s shelled out two hundred grand so far.”

“I DON’T HAVE TO TALK TO YOU!”

“Yes, you do, Thomas.” I put a hard edge on my voice. “This is called the squeeze. Get used to it. You have to talk any time I ask. What do you have on Walter?”

He sniffled—cold or tears, I couldn’t tell which. When he spoke, he was barely audible. “Nothing.”

“I don’t believe you.”

He looked away and looked back. His voice seemed to find some strength. “I don’t care what you believe. It’s true.”

It wasn’t true. I was certain of that. But as Victoria had pointed out, my evidence was circumstantial, based on timing. I couldn’t trace the cash from Coryell to Thomas. I couldn’t even connect Coryell to the cash. I backed off again, a little.

“Why doesn’t anyone want to talk about him? Not Marianna, not Julia, not you.”

“There’s nothing to talk about. Walter’s a nonentity. No personality. Nothing for anyone to have a relationship with—that’s the best way to put it. He’s never around, and when he is, he’s just there, but he isn’t. Like his body’s just a shell. I don’t know why Julia married him, except maybe opposites attract. Or he was the only one she could find who’d put up with her bullshit. Point is, you could ask anyone about Walter and you’d get the same answer.”

I wanted to ask again, if Walter was such a nonevent, what could Thomas have to blackmail him with.

“What about his business?”

“Julia says he’s a big-shot Internet entrepreneur. I wouldn’t know.”

“You wouldn’t? He’s getting the money somewhere?”

He turned away and crossed his arms.

“He didn’t go to Sebastian’s wedding. Why not?”

“You’ll have to ask him. Another rat-fuck.”

This was getting nowhere. I shifted gears again.

“What’s Andras like?”

It took a couple of beats for him to catch up. “Normal, I guess. Average rich kid. No need or want denied. Quieter than most. More … introverted.”

“That due to the death of his sister?”

“How…?! Oh never mind.” Another long pause. “I don’t know. He was always on the quiet side. More so after, maybe, I’m not sure.”

“He see the body?”

“Everyone saw the body. We were all there. Christmas. We all heard the shot.”

“But you got there first.”

“What’s that have to do with anything?” An edginess in his voice.

“That’s what I’m asking you.”

“I’m not going to talk about that, I don’t care what you do,” he said trying again to sound firm. “It’s … too horrible.”

“Okay. What about interests? Andras’s, I mean.”

“Oh, how about that? Finally something you don’t know.” He paused again, perhaps relishing the moment. “Computers.”

“What about them?”

“He’s nuts about them. Number-one thing. Spends all his time online. He’s got more gear than I have outfits.”

“What about Irina?”

“Who’s Irina?”

“Friend? Girlfriend?”

“Don’t know her. Sorry.”

He didn’t sound sorry.

“When was the last time you saw Andras?”

“Christmas, like I said.”

“Andras was there?”

“Of course. I told you—we all were.” Shrillness on the rise. “Very important to be present and have a good time.”

“How did he seem, Andras?”

“About the same as always. I didn’t pay much attention.” Another silence. “Wait! I do remember one thing.”

“Go ahead.”

His voice took on the conspiratorial tone. “Christmas lunch. There were some fireworks this year. Andras and Sebastian. I remember thinking, What set that off? Halfway through lunch, Julia got a call and announced she had to leave. Some big fucking deal, of course. She just took off, as she does. A few minutes later, Andras said something to Sebastian. I was at the other end of the table, I couldn’t hear what. Sebastian told him to forget it. Andras said no way. Sebastian started to lose his temper. You’ve seen that display, I’m sure. Andras wasn’t having any. He shouted something like, ‘I am not staying here with him,’ and left. That was it.”

“Who was he referring to?”

“Walter, of course.”

“Why of course?”

“No other candidates that I know of.”

“Why would he say that?”

Smug replaced shrill. “No idea.”

“Okay,” I said. “What happened then?”

“We went back to lunch, pretended nothing happened.”

“That normal?”

“For us, it is.”

“And Andras didn’t come back?”

“Nope.”

“And Walter didn’t say anything?”

“Walter never says anything. Julia does the talking for both of them.”

“Anybody else? Say anything?”

“As you may have found, since you’re so fucking smart, we Leitzes are very good at ignoring things, sweeping problems under the rug, where they can fester out of sight, out of mind, where no one has to acknowledge them.”

His assessment was colored, as everyone’s is, by his own resentments. That didn’t mean it was inaccurate.

“One more question.”

“Good.”

“Since you’re all so good at sweeping things under the rug, what have you got on Walter?”

He shook his head once, stood, and started off without looking back.

“THOMAS!”

He stopped about six feet away. He didn’t turn back.

I said, “Tell me this much—whatever it is, the tall man I mentioned, could he or anyone else be pulling the same levers?”

He didn’t hesitate. Another single shake of the head and he almost ran to the footbridge over the Drive.

I waited on the bench until the last speck of orange disappeared on the other side. The man in the tan overcoat didn’t budge. Two things were clear about Thomas. He had something—maybe several somethings—to hide, but whatever it was almost certainly had nothing to do with his brother’s computers.

CHAPTER
19

I took the rest of the afternoon off.

The dim sum place was a hit. We followed lunch with a movie in the Village, a romantic comedy Victoria chose. I didn’t find it particularly romantic or comedic, but my sense of humor is usually out of step with Hollywood’s these days. My mind was also on the Leitzes, who were providing a better story, although not much about them was romantic or comedic either.

The wind had died down, and we walked home, stopping at an old-school Village butcher for a couple of veal chops, which I ordered cut thick, and a liquor store for some red wine. The chops, stuffed with prosciutto and mozzarella and sautéed with a sage brown sauce, were as delicious as was the wine, a Pinot Noir from Oregon. Bud Powell played bop piano on the stereo, causing Victoria to wrinkle her too small nose in mock distaste whenever he launched into one of his more angular solos. I think it was mock, she didn’t complain out loud. The last of the wine led to holding hands on the sofa and that led to holding everything else in bed. I fell asleep thinking she’d been back a bare twenty-four hours and we were already settling into a routine that was fast becoming one more thing to hold on to.

*   *   *

I left her sleeping at 6:00
A.M.
, took my usual run through a cold, dark southern Manhattan and stopped at the office on the way back. At 6:55 on Sunday, the space was tomblike. Pig Pen was still asleep—contributing markedly to the silence.

I fired up the Basilisk and fed in Andras Leitz and Walter Coryell. The beast went to its cave.

Andras had called his uncle last night—three times. Uncle Walter hadn’t answered.

I sent the Basilisk back for the location of Andras’s cell phone.

Newburgh.

Okay, I asked, what’s the kid been up to?

It bucked and hissed.
Let me tell you.

Andras had hopped the 4:30 Delta shuttle to New York yesterday afternoon, while Victoria and I were in the movie house, taken a cab from LaGuardia to the Harlem–125th Street train station, paid with AmEx, where he’d purchased a roundtrip ticket to Beacon, across the Hudson from Newburgh, also with AmEx. The exact location of his calls to his uncle was vague, somewhere south of town.
Not my fault,
the beast said,
cell phone location can be spotty, depending on the service provider. Do your own legwork.

Nothing else new on Walter Coryell in the vast reaches of the Big Dick, which further supported the supposition of another identity.

I went back to the spending records of Andras and Irina. They were both regular patrons of Crestview Pizza and Mike’s Grocery, both on Main Street in Crestview, Massachusetts. Their purchases took place on nights and weekends. Irina bought her gas at Crestview Citgo, filling up every couple of weeks, at night. Except last night. She’d bought almost eleven gallons at 12:24
A.M.
at service station on the Massachusetts Turnpike, a mile from the intersection with I-84. Right on the most direct route from Newburgh to Gibbet.

I checked Facebook, looking for a picture of Andras. To my surprise, he didn’t have a page. Neither did Irina. Andras supposedly spent all his time online. One more thing that didn’t add up.

I walked the two blocks home, stopping for breakfast makings. Victoria was just stirring.

“Where’ve you been?”

“Run. Research. Breakfast in twenty minutes.”

She emerged as I finished frying sausage and whipped the eggs for an omelet. No sleep in her eyes.

“What kind of research, shug?”

“Whereabouts and whatabouts of certain Leitzes.”

“You couldn’t have done this yesterday?”

“Staying current.” But her point had a point.

“Bull. You didn’t want prying eyes.”

“We each have our own cases.”

“That just means you’re not sharing. How about some Tabasco in the omelet?”

I did as she asked, and we ate in partly contested, mostly contented, silence, especially when I relented and told her what I’d found and that I had no idea what it meant.