The Granite Moth (16 page)

I had testified anonymously against the three cartel leaders, Frank and Salvatore Magrelli plus one associate. But it wouldn't have been too difficult to guess that the nosy woman from next door who disappeared right after the bust was an undercover cop. The night of the shakedown had been mayhem, and I'd been handcuffed along with a dozen others. But once released,
I would have returned for my belongings, right? If no one else cared, Señora Costa at the very least would have noticed my absence. I didn't want her paring knife anywhere near me.

I took a closer look at the bored parent to make sure that he didn't look like a hired gun. He popped his gum and jabbed at his screen.

It wasn't three o'clock yet, so I settled down on a different bench. I'd bought a prop copy of
The New Yorker
at a nearby kiosk. It was the annual food issue, and the cover featured a lively restaurant scene with a family of four walking by the window with takeout. For a moment I considered why the artist had put the girl and boy in costumes, but decided it was realistic. I'd passed plenty of kids refusing to give up on Halloween, and why shouldn't a five-year-old dress like a ninja if he wanted? I flipped to an article by Rebecca Mead and tried to lose myself in the nuances of Greek yogurt. By the time the bell rang, I was hungry and ready to get on with this unscheduled chat.

A herd of teenagers stampeded into the dismal fall day, tossing papers at each other and shrieking with delight at their newfound freedom. I scanned them quickly, hoping that Martin's face wouldn't be obscured. And then my young suspect appeared, shuffling off to the side, head down, nails in his mouth. I paused before calling out to him, noting his obvious depression versus Bomber's ebullience.
Depression or guilt
, a sharp inner voice sang out.
Pay attention.

“Martin,” I called, and he looked up at me languidly. He didn't seem shaken up in the least to see me and ambled over, dropping his backpack beside me.

“Can I get a ride,” he asked.

“I walked.”

He laughed, a hollow sound that made goosebumps on my arms. The kid wasn't doing well, that much was clear. His hair
was greasy, and there were flakes of dandruff on his blazer shoulders. He smelled of sweat, pot, and something acrid and unidentifiable. Just filth maybe. Where were his parents? When I asked, he was noncommittal, and that turned out to be our conversation's theme.

“Would you like to sit down? I want to ask you a few more questions about Bobbie.”

“Roberto,” Martin said.

“Roberto,” I agreed.

I didn't want to be any closer to Martin, but I didn't want our conversation to look unusual either. There were a few more adults milling around now, teachers and administrators, I assumed. A few paused to examine me, but probably thought I was a social worker or a relative. Or they were too tired at the end of the day to make a fuss. I gestured to the empty spot beside me, and Martin slid into it, slumping down. He crossed his arms in front of him momentarily, then unfolded himself so that he could attack his thumb nail. The sight of his bloody cuticles made me feel sick.

“Was there anyone who would have wanted to hurt Bobbie? I mean Roberto.”

Martin shrugged and rested his head on the back of the bench. He stared up at the clouds, and I stared at his dilated pupils. It didn't seem likely given the school's notoriously strict disciplinary code, but Martin King was high. Really high.

“Had he complained about anyone?”

Martin shrugged again, and I had a sudden urge to shake him.

“I'm trying to help,” I said instead.

Martin mumbled his response, but it was something along the lines of “It's not help if you get paid for it.”

Was that true? I wasn't sure, but I was also losing patience.

“You know you're a suspect, right?
And at seventeen, you'd be tried as an adult.”

“How am I a suspect?” Martin rolled his eyes until they were more or less focused on mine.

“Jealous lover? It's a pretty old story. You've maybe even read
Othello
in this upstanding establishment.” I gestured toward the stone walls of the school entrance.

“
Othello, MacBeth, Richard III, Julius Caesar, Romeo and Juliet
, all the Henrys. If someone dies, we've read it.” I raised my eyebrows at him. Was this sociopath curriculum or college prep? I waited for my young scholar to continue. “Jealous of Carlton Casborough? Carlty? Carl the Anteater? Bobbie was pity-fucking him. He was a good guy like that.”

Martin teared up, and I glanced around to see who might be watching us. A couple of kids were arguing on a bench, but the courtyard had mostly cleared out. The bored father must have found his progeny and skedaddled.

“So you weren't jealous of Carlton? Not even a little bit?”

“Leave me alone, okay.”

Martin didn't go anywhere, and I sat with him in silence. I wasn't sure about much, but I knew this kid had lost someone he loved. And I knew how that felt.

Lars Dekker had chosen what he called a low-key establishment. It's true there were no chandeliers, but the pinot noir I was nursing cost twenty dollars a glass, and there was a jazz trio in the corner. I tugged down the cuffs of my suit jacket and avoided my reflection behind the bar. The mirror gave me a clear view of the entire restaurant, and I surveyed the couples and friends gossiping over lobster rolls and oysters. There was a school of bronze tuna suspended over their heads, and I paused
for a second to hope it didn't crash into the dining room. Then I went back to fidgeting with my clothes.

I had remained calm and collected for the first fifteen minutes of my wait, mulling over the likelihood that Martin was responsible for the parade explosion. My instincts said that he was innocent, a kid mourning his first love. And despite what he had told me in the Roosevelt emergency waiting room, he had clearly been in love with Bobbie.
Roberto
, Martin would have corrected, implying he liked the prestige that went along with dating an older man, even one only a year out of high school himself.

Eventually my sympathy for Martin turned to embarrassment for myself as I realized that I might have been stood up for real this time. After thirty minutes that “might” turned to “definitely,” and I slid money onto the bar to pay for my drink. As I was thanking the bartender, a Dekker walked in, but it wasn't the one that I had been expecting.

Ellis's frantic appearance made a few people turn to gape at him. He wasn't wearing a jacket despite the bite in the November air, and he was sweating through his blue, collared shirt. When he caught my eye in the mirror, he didn't need to wave to get my attention. He might as well have been holding a placard: Bad News. My ears were ringing, and I shook my head to keep from fainting as I headed across the room. The walk seemed longer than the thirty or so steps it must have taken. It was as if I had entered a funhouse—walls closing in, pathways rocking. When I got to Ellis, the hostess was asking if he wanted a table, but I grabbed his arm and pulled him onto the street.

He didn't say anything, and handed me his phone where a voicemail message was already playing. No one was speaking, but loud popping noises could be heard over what sounded like gusts of wind.

“Gunfire?”

Ellis cleared his throat. “I got this message from Lars's phone, and he won't return my calls.”

My ears started ringing again, and I concentrated to ask a simple question.

“Why are you here?”

“Where else would I go?”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

F
or a moment, I wasn't sure where I was, though the room looked familiar. Then my eyes focused on the framed
Casablanca
poster on the wall, and I sat up quickly and glanced at the digital clock: 7:00
A.M.
Ellis was the one person I knew personally in Manhattan who had a guest bedroom. I'd slept off plenty of hangovers under this very duvet, but that was years ago when I was a different person. That girl would have bounced into her friend's bedroom and woken him up by hitting him with pillows, demanding coffee and breakfast. This woman was hoping that she could write a note and sneak out unseen. No such luck.

Ellis was showered, dressed, and caffeinated by the time I made my bed and walked into the kitchen. He handed me a cup of coffee and pushed a plate of toast toward me. Resigned for an awkward morning, I sat down across from him at the little cafe-style table. We had stayed up late the night before, bouncing around theories and tring to decide on the best plan of action. Ellis had filed a missing person report, but his brother wasn't a minor or mentally impaired. No search had been started.

Ellis was writing in a beat-up notebook, and I didn't interrupt him as I slathered blackberry jelly on my bread. I tried to read the expression on his tired face. By the end of the day, Ellis would look like a cop—tough and intimidating. Those traits grew at the same rate as his stubble. That morning, he was freshly shaven and looked more like the undergrad I used to know, convinced he could save the city one solved case after another like a string of sausages.

“Any word?” I asked.

Ellis shook his head, but put down his pen to look at me. For a moment, his eyes softened, worried, and I looked down at my cup. If I pretended to scrape some food from the side, I wouldn't have to look back up.

“You heard from him yesterday?” Ellis asked, even though we'd gone over this already. There must have been something bothering him about the timeline.

“Yes, he left a voicemail and texted. Both around noon,” I repeated, curious about why that might be significant.

Ellis held out his hand, and for one baffled moment, I thought he wanted to hold mine. Then I dug my cell phone out, dropped it into his palm, and told him the passcode. He flipped the screen open, raising an eyebrow at my cheap choice, then accessed my messages. As he listened to his brother's voice, he closed his eyes, and I couldn't even guess at his emotions. I wasn't sure how far the bond of brotherly love went. After the recording played, he kept his eyes closed for a minute, and I shifted in my chair, trying to peek at his notes.

“It sounds more like a date than a meeting.” His tone was matter-of-fact rather than accusatory, and I knew that he was switching into investigator mode. “Were you romantically involved?”

“Ellis—” My old friend raised his hand to cut me off.

“It's okay, Kathleen. I just want to find my brother.”

I
marveled at Ellis's ability to compartmentalize. “It was a meeting. As far as I know,” I added.

“I asked you to leave The Skyview to me, but I know you haven't. What progress? Any ideas who killed the kid?”

“You think there's a link?” I did too, of course, but wanted verification. I didn't know Lars very well, and he could have been involved in any number of shady businesses. Would the Dekkers be receiving a call for ransom? Until we had confirmation, Ellis and I both refused to admit that the gunshots might mean Lars was dead.

“From what I could tell, he was rolling pretty deep. Thousands of dollars every night. He could be in debt.”

I chuckled at the thought of a Dekker being in debt, then checked myself at Ellis's expression. “Ellis, seriously, there's no way he went through millions of inheritance dollars playing cards with friends.”

“Partial inheritance. We don't get everything until our parents are both dearly departed.”

I shrugged. They still had plenty, though only the size and location of Ellis's apartment hinted at his wealth. Dishes were rinsed but piled in the sink. The one piece of personalization was a signed Hank Aaron baseball in an acrylic container. And even that was on top of the refrigerator, collecting dust.

“He didn't seem like an addict is all I'm saying. We only played one hand, but he was good-natured about losing. Mr. Manners, whatsit, Glenn Dalton, was peeved. He could have known that Ernesto was staking the deck, but my gut says he didn't like being shown up by a newcomer. And a woman to boot.”

I paused for a moment to thank my lucky stars that The Skyview had honored my chips—not the ones I had won since that hand was deemed inadmissible, but my original ten grand. It was now safely earning .01% interest in a savings account.

“
Something doesn't sit right,” Ellis said. “If the dealer was cheating for players, maybe he was cheating on my brother's behalf. Lars could have asked Ernesto to let you in on the deal.”

It wasn't that far of a stretch except why would Ernesto put his neck out for Lars rather than be grateful to his cousin Eva for the job? And why would both Ernesto and Lars cheat for me? I idly flipped through
The New York Times
, barely registering the election coverage and prediction that Bill de Blasio would become our new mayor. Voting was one of the few occasions when I'd unearth my real I.D. from my mattress.