JM02 - Death's Little Helpers aka No Way Home (49 page)

We stayed that way for a while and then Ines raised her head and pushed back from the desk and away from me. She took the gun from her lap and held it in both her hands and turned the muzzle inward. My heart began to pound.

“I was scared when Nina hired you— terrified. But a part of me was relieved that someone had come … to take all this from me. And now you have, and I thank you for that, detective.”

I took a deep, shaky breath. “We have a lot to do, Ines— a lot to do for Billy. And the first thing is to have you talk to a friend of mine. He’s a lawyer— the best one I know— and he can help us with this.” I was too far away. I took a half step forward and tried not to look at the gun.

Ines smiled grimly. “A lawyer cannot help me, detective. A lawyer cannot make this right with Guillermo or let me look at him again. A lawyer cannot make this … stop.” She ran a forefinger along the top of the gun barrel. My skin prickled, and sweat rolled down my back. My throat was closing and I had to fight to get words out.

“He can help you to survive it, Ines, and that’s what Billy needs. He needs for you to survive this.”

She shook her head. “I cannot. I have destroyed his life, detective, and I am too much of a coward to see the aftermath.” She stared at the gun some more and I took another half step. I was still too far.

“Billy will need a lot of help— it’s true— but he’ll need even more without you.”

“Nina is there,” she said, but there was more hope than certainty in her soft voice.

“We both know that Nina’s not so good at help, Ines. Billy needs you.”

She closed her eyes. “He is the closest I will have to a child, detective,” she said softly. She slid her thumbs along the trigger guard and put her right thumb on the trigger. I edged closer. My heart was hammering at my ribs and blood was roaring in my head. I flexed my fingers. My joints felt welded shut. I was too far.

“And you’re the closest he has to a parent, Ines. You’re all he has of home. Don’t take that from him.”

Ines brought the gun up and stared into the barrel. Her chest was heaving and her eyes were black and shattered and fixed on something far from the empty room. She squeezed them shut and grimaced, and my body clenched for impact.

“Please, Ines,” I whispered. “He’s lost too much already.”

Her knuckles were white over the pistol grips and her arms were shaking. And then she opened her eyes, and they were filled with tears. Color came back into her fingers, and she lowered the gun and put it on the desk. I put my hand over it and let out an ancient breath.

38

My head rested on the seat back and I watched the traffic crawl southbound on Park Avenue. The taxi hadn’t moved in ten minutes and I thought about getting out and walking and instead I closed my eyes. It was Thursday afternoon, and I was on my way home. Ines Icasa was on her way to Lee, Massachusetts, to give a statement regarding the death of Gregory Danes and to be taken into custody. She was accompanied on her journey by Michael Metz, the best lawyer I knew, and by the best lawyer that he knew who was a member of the Massachusetts bar. They had negotiated Ines’s surrender over the course of several long and tense conference calls in which I had participated, along with Louis Barrento, a man named Graham from the attorney general’s office, and a few dozen other people whose names I never got. The first of those calls had taken place on Wednesday evening, and the last one had ended an hour ago. No one knew how it would turn out for Ines, but her lawyers were cautiously optimistic. Ines herself had moved for the moment beyond hope or worry into realms of deep exhaustion.

I’d seen her last in a well-appointed conference room in midtown. The drapes had been pulled and she had been asleep on the sofa when I’d come in. She was disoriented when she woke, and scared, and she sat up quickly. Her dark eyes were darting and huge in her face.

“I didn’t mean to disturb you,” I said.

Her eyes settled on me. She ran her hands over her face and through her hair. “No, I must get up. Nina is coming. She is bringing my clothes.” Her voice was hoarse and low and she cleared her throat. “She wanted to bring Guillermo, but I told her no, not now. The lawyers say that in a few days I will probably be able to return home, and when I do, then we will talk.” She yawned deeply. “I am told there is a shower here. I need a shower.” She looked at me. “You have come to say good-bye?”

“Only for a day. I’ll be in Lee tomorrow, for statements.”

“I will be glad to see you,” she said. She perched at the edge of the sofa and stretched her arms in front of her and rubbed her hands on her thighs. She was pale and drained and unprepared for what would come, and I suddenly wished I had a blanket to put around her. But I didn’t.

“I’ll be glad to see you too,” I said.

Ines smiled absently and rubbed her eyes. She pointed to the drapes on the big windows. “Could I trouble you to open those, detective?” I did, and a brilliant spring day rushed in at us. The sky and the river were impossible shades of blue, and the office towers were shining and sharper than etchings. The thin clouds were like spun-sugar ribbons in the sky. Ines drew a breath and blinked against the light. After a minute she came to the window and stood near me and looked out. When she spoke, her voice was very soft.

“This is a beautiful city, detective,” she said, and I had agreed.

I’d run into Nina Sachs downstairs. She wore black and carried an overnight bag, and her auburn hair was bound in a tight queue. The skin on her cheeks was veined and blotchy, and her arms and legs were rigid with anger. She moved quickly across the lobby and stopped in her tracks when she saw me coming.

“You proud of yourself?” she said when I came up to her. Her voice was a hiss. “You happy with what you’ve done to me?”

“I don’t think anyone is happy with this,” I said. “Ines and Billy and Gregory least of all.”

“Don’t!” she shouted, and people looked at us. “Don’t you fucking talk to me about them— don’t even say their names. Jesus Christ, if I had a time machine, I’d take it back to the day I met you and throw your ass out the door.”

“How about using it to stop Ines from going to Lenox?”

“You think this is a joke, you prick?”

My shoulder was sore and my head ached, and it had been a day since I’d slept or changed my clothes. My eyes were full of grit and my stomach was full of too much coffee, and I was full to bursting with Nina Sachs. I almost told her so, but I didn’t. “I think this is the least funny thing I’ve ever heard of,” I said quietly.

“You got that right, asshole,” she said.

“How is Billy?”

The red patches on Nina’s face grew darker. “How the fuck do you think he is? He’s a disaster, thanks to you.”

I took a deep breath. “Tell him if he’d like to talk—”

“To you? Why, you want to make sure his head is completely screwed up? Well, rest easy. That one’s covered.”

“He’s going to need help to get through this, Nina. He—”

“My God, you’ve got nerve!” Heads again turned in the lobby, and the security guards eyed us anxiously. “You ignore my orders, betray my confidences, open up my life to the police and the fucking press, and then— while I’m standing in the wreckage— you have the gall to lecture me about how to handle my kid.

“Well, how I handle him is none of your goddamn business, March. You’ve done enough to me and my family— more than enough. Just stay the hell away from him. Stay away from all of us.” Her heels had been like gunshots as she walked away. Another satisfied customer.

*

It was nearly four when I got home. There were no news crews, but there was a shiny black Porsche Carrera parked in front of my building. Valentin Gromyko climbed out to meet me. He was immaculate in gray.

“You looked better on television,” he said. There was some irony in his voice but no trace of it in his frosty eyes.

“I get that all the time,” I said. I yawned and massaged my shoulder.

Gromyko looked at the cuts on my face. “A miscalculation?” he asked.

“That and distraction.”

“A dangerous mix, especially for someone who minds so much of other people’s business. I hope it is not a habit, or I may never receive my payment.”

“Thanks for the concern. But if you’re here to collect, I should tell you that the Commonwealth of Massachusetts has my dance card booked for the next few days.”

Gromyko shook his head. “I am not here to ask anything, but simply to remind you of the premium that I place on discretion. It is something you should keep in mind if you find yourself talking to the press or to the authorities. You should make no mention of Gilpin … or of me.”

I laughed. “My brother gave me similar advice.”

“A sensible man.”

“Terminally. But don’t worry. I have nothing to say to the press and no reason to mention Gilpin or you to the police.”

Gromyko nodded. “Then I will leave you to your rest,” he said. He turned toward his car and turned back when I spoke.

“How is Gilpin doing?” I asked.

Gromyko gave me a long speculative look. “Sad,” he said finally. “And angry. And guilty— though I doubt he knows it, or knows why. He is drinking heavily, and it will be some time before he is of any use.” He looked at me some more and shrugged. “Families are complex,” he said, and he got into his shiny car and drove away.

I went upstairs and opened my windows wide and let the day in. I drank from a carton of orange juice and turned the pages of one of Jane’s travel magazines while I listened to my messages. There were four of them. The first three were from Marcus Hauck, and each was more urgent than the one before.

“Mr. March, please call. I’d like to discuss your recent trip to the Berkshires and what you discovered there. I will of course compensate you for your time and expertise.

“Mr. March, please call as soon as possible. I wish to engage your services on an immediate basis, and I will wire a retainer to whatever account you name by close of business today. Please call me.

“March, it is imperative that I speak to you regarding Gregory, and what, if anything, you might have seen among his personal effects. Call me. I assure you, I will make it worth your while.”

I shook my head. The stakes were very high for Hauck, and I wondered how desperate he was, and how stupid and reckless he would get. He was already desperate enough to call me and stupid enough to leave messages. But would he be reckless enough to send Pflug on a hunting expedition up north— a mission, perhaps, to creep the evidence lockup at the Lee barracks? I certainly hoped so. Because after our conversations last night, Louis Barrento would be waiting, and the red accordion file was already on its way to the Feds. I saved all three messages.

The last call was from Jane. There was a lot of noise in the background, and her voice was tired and sometimes lost in the din, but I got the message.

“The buyer’s board met this morning and approved the deal, and we signed everything before noon. So I’m done. And I’m done with these guys for good; they decided not to make an offer to keep me around. Apparently some of their board members saw me on TV yesterday— that clip of us driving from the farm— and had second thoughts. Talk about a silver lining.” There was a pause, and for a long minute I heard nothing but distorted announcements and Jane’s breathing.

“I can’t do this, John. I thought I could, but I was wrong. I tried to keep things at arm’s length— tell myself you were like Nick Charles or something, and your work was clever and glamorous, and somehow separate from you. But that’s bullshit, and I can’t pretend otherwise.

“There’s nothing amusing about being followed. There’s nothing witty about beatings and guns and emergency rooms. There’s nothing funny about getting shot. I don’t know why you want that in your life, John, but I know I don’t.

“Maybe it would be different, easier, if I knew what you were looking for from this— from us. Or maybe there’s no mystery to it. Maybe you’re not looking for anything at all. Maybe your life is already just the way you want it, and I—” A garbled announcement went off somewhere near Jane, followed by a storm of static. When her voice returned it was clear and sad and full of conclusion.

“They’re calling my flight again. I’m sorry.”

I drank my orange juice and looked at my watch and played the message through twice more. It was hours since she’d left it, hours since her plane had pulled back from the gate and sped down the tarmac and climbed into the air, hours since it had wheeled above Jamaica Bay and found its heading and dwindled over some horizon. I looked out the window and up at the sky. I don’t know what I expected to see, so many hours later, besides impossible blue and spun-sugar clouds and no sign at all of her passage.

A NOTE ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Peter Spiegelman is a veteran of more than twenty years in the financial services and software industries, and has worked with leading financial institutions in major markets around the globe. Mr. Spiegelman is the author of Black Maps, which won the 2004 Shamus Award for Best First Novel. He lives Connecticut.

ALSO BY PETER SPIEGELMAN

Black Maps

THIS IS A BORZOI BOOK

PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF

Copyright Å 2005 by Peter Spiegelman

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and simultaneously in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto. Distributed by Random House, Inc., New York.

www.aaknopf.com

Knopf, Borzoi Books, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Spiegelman, Peter.

Death’s little helpers
by Peter Spiegelman.p>

p. cm.

eISBN 1-4000-4493-6

1. Private investigators— New York (State)— New York— Fiction.

2. Television personalities— Fiction. 3. Investment advisors—

Fiction. 4. New York (N.Y.)— Fiction. 5. Missing persons— Fiction.

I. Title.

PS3619.P543D43 2005

813’.6— dc22 2004061541