The Granite Moth (11 page)

“You're telling me, sweetheart, but what can we do? You tell me? We put the ‘Hiring' sign out, but everybody thinks they
can cut hair, that sweeping is beneath them. Yours is gorgeous, by the way. The color.”

I moved out of the way before the stylist could grab a strand and thanked him, holding out my hand between us. He clasped it briefly, his eyes flitting appreciatively over Dolly even if his hair was shorn off—not a potential client. To his credit, his eyes barely lingered on the forehead gauze that covered the worst of Dolly's burns.

“We're working for—”

Dolly cut me off. “Ernesto was a friend.”

The salon owner's eyes filled, and he hugged us both spontaneously. Between Dolly, Vondya, and the as yet unnamed stylist, I had been touched more in the past two hours than in the past two months. I wasn't sure that I would get used to it.

“You're not—no, I guess not. I'm Antonio by the way.” He released us and assessed Dolly again. “No, though there is a likeness.”

I'd noticed the resemblance between Dolly and Ernesto, as well, but thanked my lucky stars that my friend wasn't a Magrelli cousin.

Antonio gestured toward the last station, and we followed his rhinestoned jeans to that corner. Its contents were unsurprising, a blowdryer and a jar of that blue sanitizing liquid favored by hairdressers nationwide. No combs floated inside the jar, and Antonio explained that Ernesto had recently been promoted, but he'd never gotten to cut so much as a single bang. Dolly ran his finger along the photograph of Ernesto, his armed draped over a handsome man smiling broadly at the unseen photograph. They were dressed similarly in tight band T-shirts, and their hair was gelled into fauxhawks. Ernesto looked nearly unrecognizable from the young, buttoned-up man I'd met at The Skyview. But who was I to throw stones?

“
Did you know him, too?” Antonio said, his eyes filling again, as he gestured toward Ernesto's boyfriend.

“I met him once,” Dolly lied. “I can't recall his name.”

“Bomber, that's what everyone called him anyway. Between you, me, and the blowdryer, I haven't seen Ernesto as much since they started dated.” Antonio's tears disappeared and were replaced with a hint of—what was it? Irritation? When he saw me look at him in surprise, he hurried to explain. “I mean, he missed work shifts. Three in the last few weeks alone. And this was
after
I told him about the imminent promotion. I'm not going to speak ill of the dead, but you know what, I wouldn't
not
say ungrateful.”

“Did he say why he's missed work?” It sounded too much like a cop question, so I added, “Has he been sick?”

Dolly played along beautifully, mentioning that Ernesto had looked tired the last time they'd been together.

“Oh, I'm sure he did. That boy spends more time at tongue than anyone I know. And I know some people.”

“At tongue?” I asked, confused.

“Tongue,” Dolly said, snapping his fingers. “Yeah, that's where I met Bomber. Quite a club.”

Antonio sniffed, putting his hands on his hips. It seemed to be a sign that we had outstayed our warm welcome, and I thanked him for letting us stop by. He busied himself with the appointment book as we stepped onto Seventh Avenue. My mind was having a hard time processing this new information, but at the very least, I knew that Salvatore Magrelli wasn't likely to be jealous of Eva's gay cousin. Scratch that motive off the list. I felt deflated then embarrassed by my reaction. What kind of P.I. thinks a murder case is going to be simple, a trail of cookie crumbs leading right to the witch's cottage.

As we walked back toward the train, Dolly didn't say much, letting me work over the existing evidence. Was it a coincidence
that three young, gay men had been killed in one week? Probably, right? Or could the Zeus Society be trying to update their status from wacko group to terrorist cell? It seemed like a long shot that slow-talking, velcro-wearing Leader Cronos could find his way into The Skyview, but I texted Meeza to compile a list of all attacks and murders in the last month, highlighting any that could even vaguely be classified as hate crimes. I glanced at my friend who was shuffling along, hands balled into fists at his sides. I was glad to see that they weren't wrapped any longer. Those burns would heal quickly.

“That was great,” I said, and Dolly shrugged. “Listen, you don't have to help me with this case. You don't have to help me with
either
case, if you don't want to.”

“I want to. You're helping me find the bastard who tried to kill me.”

“Yeah, and Big Mamma is paying me to do so.”

“You would do it anyway,” Dolly said, ending our discussion. Was that true? Sometimes it seemed like Dolly knew me better than I knew myself. I spent so much time pretending to be other people that I wasn't sure what Kathleen would do. I knew it mattered, whether I was the kind of person to help a friend or not, but I couldn't think about that right now. The Zeus Society, huh? Maybe they were looking for new recruits.

CHAPTER TWELVE

B
efore deciding on which of his dresses looked most homophobic, Dolly and I had one more Brooklyn stop to make. It was the stop I was dreading most, but Ernesto's parents could give us some personal details. Their brownstone was old—“established” Dolly called it—bricks flaking from the last paint attempt to hide the mold and general decay. The wires for a vinyl awning waved over the front door, but there was no awning, just a plastic grocery bag that had migrated from the street and mocked us with its happy face.

I pressed the buzzer for apartment 15, mentally rehearsing the speech I thought would let us up, but the door clicked open without so much as a required password. I'm pretty sure the word was “gloom” anyway, as in the day, the mood, the dimly lit stairwell that protested each of our steps with a loud groan. The whole building might shake given the right winds, and I wondered how it had fared during Hurricane Sandy. It was still standing, so that was something.

Apartment 15 was on the fifth floor, and we made our way up as quickly as possible before the tenants changed their
minds and kept their door locked to pesky private investigators. I'd only been one for three years, but let me tell you, very few people are delighted to see us. Even our clients would rather communicate via phone or, increasingly, email. That suited me fine. I'd yet to meet a people-person P.I. Not that I attended the annual Cheating Spouses Convention or anything.

The apartment beside the Belascos had the door cracked open, chain still latched for security. I thought about telling the elderly woman staring at me that a ten-year-old could break one of those, but we all need our illusions. The woman harrumphed, mumbling something about “damn kids and keeping it down.” So much for an ally.

Even before I met them, it was hard not to worry about Mr. and Mrs. Belasco, who had left their front door wide open for whoever had rung their bell. I knocked on the frame and waited for an invitation to enter. When none came, I poked my head around the door and helloed. Didn't these folks know that their in-laws were criminals? Or maybe that was the point. No one was going to mess with a drug dealer's Escalade, keys in the ignition or not.

The living room reeked of stale cigarettes, not necessarily smoked recently but absorbed into the wood-paneled walls and green carpet. The rose-printed couch was covered in plastic as was the matching recliner. There was something whimsical about the green carpet and red roses, as if the flowers were growing up from the floor in an abandoned Wonderland. When Mrs. Belasco hurried into the room, I expected something eccentric—at least colorful nails or a “Queen of the Kitchen” sweatshirt. Instead, she was in jeans and a collared shirt, hands with a tray of iced teas as if she'd been expecting us.

“
Pase, mis dulzuras
. Friends of Ernie's, yes,” she asked, switching to English after she looked me over.

“Yes, thank you for welcoming us into your home,
señora
. You must be tired of company. Have a lot of us been stopping by?”
Dolly asked, taking charge as if he'd dealt with plenty of grieving parents before. Maybe he had. We hadn't gotten to the talk-all-night sleepover phase of our friendship, yet.

Mrs. Belasco gestured for us to sit on the sofa, and as we did, it squeaked under us. I found myself sliding back on the plastic, unable to stop until my back hit the cushion. Dolly didn't crack a smile, and I must admit that I was impressed. With his professionalism, yes, but also with his choice to make us friends rather than hired hounds. Not that I would have barged in announcing that I was working for one of the suspects, but a reporter cover could have worked.

“So many,” said Mrs. Belasco in response to Dolly's question. “Most I recognize, but some like you, are new. It's nice, you know, that he was so loved.”

I glanced around the room. Posing as a reporter would have made it easier for me to ask questions, but Mrs. Belasco might not have answered them. Instead, I took in the framed photo of Ernesto with his mom. It was a high school graduation, and the new adult beamed, convinced that his dreams were in reach. He had looked similarly confident the night I met him. I doubted he worried that he was about to be killed, especially if he was as well-liked as his parents believed.

“Mostly
muchachos
,” Mrs. Belasco said, breaking my train of thought. “May I ask your name, miss?”

“Kathy Seasons,” I said, using my real-estate alter ego name if not occupation. “I actually met him at The Skyview. I'm a waitress there?”

At “Skyview,” the mother's eyes widened, and she reached out to take my hand. “Ah yes, of course. He met some people there, he said.”

“I actually don't know him that well,” I started, embarrassed by her sympathy. “I'm not even sure why I'm here, I just, you know, he was so nice? When Dolly said he wanted to pay his
condolences, I tried to—I tagged alone,” I finished, hoping that I sounded sheepish and sincere.

“Of course. When we decided not to have a funeral service, we knew there'd be visitors.”

No funeral service?
I nodded, but was thinking,
now that's odd
. Was I stereotyping too much when I assumed the Belascos from Venezuela were Catholic? I glanced at Dolly then back at Mrs. Belasco, letting a new, horrifying possibility sink in. Unless they didn't think a religious ceremony was appropriate for their gay son. I knew I was jumping to conclusions—leaping really—but I still felt something harden inside me. I took a sip of tea to see if the knot would loosen. It didn't.

Mr. Belasco hurried in, his hair still wet from the shower. He was more reserved than his wife, but still didn't make us feel as if we were imposing. I guess they really were used to receiving visitors.

“We went by the salon today, too. I didn't know he'd been promoted. You must have been proud,” I said.

“Yes,” Mrs. Belasco responded, so softly I almost missed the word. “He was always talented,” she continued.
At hair
, I wondered.
Or cards
. You'd have to be pretty slick to cheat a roomful of high rollers. Maybe someone hadn't liked being taken in by a kid from Bed-Stuy.

“I met Bomber recently, too,” I said, and Dolly nudged my knee. Yes, I was going too far, but I wasn't sure if I'd have another chance to rustle up any useful information. “Do you know where I could find him? I'd like for him to know—I'd like to tell him—something.”

The awkward routine seemed to be fairly convincing, but the parents still glanced at each other before answering. It was why witnesses were always questioned separately; never let them get their stories straight, pardon the pun.

“He's
not been around,” Mr. Belasco said and shrugged. “Maybe his friends know.” He gestured toward Dolly. I started making motions to leave, not wanting to be found out if they asked Dolly anything too personal about their son. We offered our condolences and headed back out into the gray afternoon. It had started to sprinkle during our visit, and I pulled an umbrella from my bag. I'm not fastidious about my appearance, but the wrath of Vondya is enough to make me keep my wigs dry at the very least. Dolly stood thoughtfully staring up at the Belascos' window.

“Were your parents supportive?” I asked. A small grin appeared on his face, the first real one that I could remember seeing since the explosion. It creased the tape running around his gauze, which probably stung. I'd had my fair share of injuries, and there's not much more painful than burns.

“Mom threw me a coming out party, complete with a Dolly Parton cake and soundtrack. I was sixteen, popular, and everyone came. Don't go feeling sorry for me, kitty cat.” He reached out and touched my forehead. “At least not about that.”

The gesture was intimate enough to make me uncomfortable. I glanced up and down the avenue for something to do. That was when I spotted the unmarked cruiser, and no one I recognized taking our photograph.