An osprey soared above the river on wings that would stretch across my living room. For years they'd been absent, pushed out by urban and suburban sprawl, poisoned; now they were back, fishing upriver from the coast. Not a lot of them, but when you start from zero, every one is something. I watched the bird from my car, drifting high and higher, until it had soared out of sight, and then I put my attention back on the mirrors, which I had positioned to watch the apartment building halfway down the block to the rear. I was snugged in behind an old VW van that looked as if it had been boosted off a street corner in Haight-Ashbury and beamed here in a time tunnel. A bumper sticker on the rear declared I MISS JERRY.
I hadn't received a callback from Carly Ouellette, so I tried her again, and the woman I'd spoken to earlier assured me that she had given Ms. Ouellette my card. “I'm sure she'll get back to you, Mr. Rasmussen. She always does. She just tends to be rushing around with a million things. We kid her it's why she needs that little gold sports car she drives. To keep up with all she's got going on.”
I'd mentioned her to Fred Meecham. “Carly Ouellette,” he said, nodding recognition.
“It's a nice name,” Courtney said. “Musical.”
“Don't be fooled,” Meecham said. “There're men bleeding up and down the halls of superior court.”
“For love?” I said.
“For getting on her wrong side. She's armor-clad, with machine guns for eyes.”
Her address was in the phone book. “Careful, Alex,” Courtney said with a warning smile.
A knock on my window startled me. I rolled it down. A lean man in a sweat-soaked Olympic Gym T-shirt and cotton shorts, and still sporting a boot camp haircut at forty, eyed me suspiciously. “Can I help you?” he asked gruffly.
I gathered he didn't belong with the VW van. “Who are you, homeland security?”
“You were here when I went out to run. You're still here.”
“And it's still a public street, last I checked. But if you must know, I'm waiting for a friend.”
He frowned but seemed to buy it and marched off to fight other battles. I saw occasional cars whisk past on Tenth: red Toyota, gray Ford, Market Basket van. I watched a squirrel salting away winter provisions and thought I should be doing the same. The dashboard clock showed 4:23 P.M. I'd been there since three, when I'd been told Carly Ouellette's job ended for the day. Earlier, I'd knocked at her unit in a small apartment complex and got no answer. A gold Mazda with a black vinyl bra stretched over the front end rolled up and parked, and I grew alert. In my side mirror I watched a woman get out. She had a bush of hair the color of her car and was wearing a striped beige knee-length suit, with a little flare to the jacket over her chunky hips. She moved along on swift feet in squat heels, heading toward her building.
I got out and started after her. I sent a quick glance into the Mazda, which had one of those studded rubber steering wheel covers that looked like it came from someplace called Auto Erotica. I crossed the street. “Ms. Ouellette.”
I had to call twice before she turned. Beneath the froth of hair, her round face crinkled skeptically as I explained who I was and showed her ID. “Yeah, what is it?” she snapped.
“Can I ask you a few questions about Flora Nuñez?”
“Like I know who that is. I don't have time for this.” She spun away.
“You may want to make time. Flora Nuñez is a woman you once helped fill out a request for a restraining order. If you read the paper, you know she was murdered.”
She turned; her frown deepened to a scowl. “Who the hell are you?”
“You weren't even listening.” I told her again. “I left a card at your office.”
“How long have you been spying on me?”
That was a surprise, but I used it. “It could be for days. I like that steering wheel cover you have.” It was just what had come to mind.
Her eyes narrowed to those little slits that German soldiers used to fire Mausers out of. “I could have someone come and fix your nose,” she hissed.
“Thanks, but it's too late for that. Besides, you can't say for sure I don't have everything I need already, tucked someplace safe and ready to roll. Or a tape recording I made just now of what even a Quaker would construe as a threat.” I patted my chest.
“You son of a fuâ” She dropped it quick.
“Look, I don't have a tape and I haven't been spying. I just want to talk. How about a cup of coffee?”
But she was a seasoned civil servant, dodgy to the last. She raised a fist and, quick as popping a switchblade, snapped up a middle finger. She about-faced on the squat heels and stomped to her building, looking as if she wanted to go kick the teeth out of a spider.
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Downtown I parked near the cabstand behind my building and was heading for the back entrance when someone called me. No “hawkshaw” this time, or “shamus”; he had my name. I turned to see a young man coming my way. If he was from Carly Ouellette, she had cast against type. In his jeans and tan bush jacket, a haymow of sandy hair piled on his head, he looked like a model from Abercrombie & Fitch. “My name's Jed Piazza, Mr. Rasmussen. From the
Herald
.”
“I already subscribe.”
“Well, no ⦠I write for the paper.”
“Reporter?”
“A stringer, actually. Correspondent.” He had a steno pad at the ready, his close-set blue eyes hopeful. “I'd like to ask you a few questions about your client, and what you think about the stir his case is causing.”
“I'm not the one to talk to. The police and his attorney are better bets.”
“Got them covered. And the DA, too,” he said proudly. “Mr. Deemys was glad to talk. You're the last link in the chain.”
It occurred to me that he was probably the reporter Pop Sonders had shaken loose the morning after the killing. Evidently he hadn't given up. Was this an assignment, or was he just trolling? I didn't ask. It didn't matter. “I'm sure they've given you anything I could, Jed, and more. I'm not the person to talk to.”
“Well, according to my sources, you are.”
“What sources?”
His expression got foxy. “I can't reveal that.”
“Fair enough. We'll both keep quiet.”
Under the epaulettes of his bush coat, his shoulders squared. “Are you using the old âI've got a responsibility to my client' dodge? Because I've heard that one.”
“Nope, I just don't have anything to tell you.”
“And truthfully, that's largely a myth, right? I doubt there's any such thing as client privilege for private investigators. I think Dashiell Hammett invented that.”
“The way Woodward and Bernstein invented you? Why is it when the court squeezes you guys to reveal a source, you act like you've sworn a pact with God himself? Can't I keep quiet, too? All I said is that I don't want to talk. There's enough information and rumor floating around without me adding my two centsâand believe me, that's all it'd be. But for the record, I'm working for an attorney, and his privilege extends to me.”
His ears reddened, but he kept his smile. It looked starched on his face. “Every former cop either opens a bar or goes private. Since a criminal record rules out owning a bar, I guess you chose door number two.”
“And every news writer has the great American novel tucked away in a sock drawer, just waiting.” His grin wobbled, and I knew I'd pitched a ringer. “How many have you got, Jed?”
He hunched his shoulders and let them drop. “One. About thirty pages along. And it's only taken me four years. I'll have it done before I'm seventy.”
I had to smile, too. He was likable in his way, like the puppy that's
almost
house-trained. “Maybe you'll do it,” I said. “It happens.” And maybe I'd walk out of this case like Sam Spade. It was good to stay hopeful. “All right, you get three questionsâbut one of them's got to be a Moon Pie, so I go out looking smart.”
After that session of Meet the Press, I walked up Bridge Street to the front of my building on Merrimack, intending to check the mail. A car went past, slowed, and a man in the passenger seat shouted at me. With sunlight glaring off the chrome, I couldn't see a face before the car gunned off, but I could hear just fine. The novel epithet was “Geek lover.”
I fumbled the mail and had to pluck envelopes off the stairs as I climbed. Louis Hackett was sitting in my waiting room. “Hiya, pal,” he said, both hands raised, palms out. He rose. “I came to apologize. Let's forget last time. Deal?” He swept a hand through the air. “Wiped out. Forget about it. Let's start fresh.”
I unlocked the inner office. “Why do we need to bother? As I remember it, you wanted quits.”
“True, but I didn't want it to be on a bad note.”
“Okay, you convinced me.”
He followed me inside. “Let's swap stories. I bet you've got a fascinating life story.”
I dropped the mail on the desk. “Compared to what?” I didn't want to encourage him, but it was obvious he had something on his mind. Reluctantly, I waved him into a seat.
“I dunno. Compared to I could tell you about the old days,” he said.
“Like my partner, Bud, for instance. Catch this. Killer Kowalskiâremember him? His shtick was this Claw Hold, he called it. Supposed to paralyze the opponent right there in the ring, then Killer would whomp him. Well, Bud had this bit
he'd
do where he'd lock his legs around the other guyâhad these tremendous strong legs on him, still doesâand he'd squeeze, yâknow? Squeeze the air out of a guy. Dramatic as hell, like a balloon goin' soft. He called it the Squisher. If he really put the press on, and the other guy wasn't trained proper, his guts would come out his
mouth like bad spaghetti. Actually happened to this one guy one time. Sonofabitch promoter had no business putting him in the ring with Squisherâand unfortunately it queered Squisher's career on account of the guy practically died. Check with HoganâHulk'll tell you, the Squisher was one rough customer.”
“I'll ask him the next time we sit down for a bucket of blood.”
“He was a name in his day, Squisher. He put the hold on me once, no kidding around. I had to walk around in a brace for months. But let me tell you about this one time whenâ”
“Look, maybe you can save it for the Biography Channel. I've got things toâ”
“Hold on.” He waved a hand again. “I think you owe it to yourself to hear me.”
I humored him and shut up.
“First job I had, I was a waiter at this restaurant in Red Hook, okay? Which was a legit business for some not so legit other stuff the owner was into. We don't gotta go there. But this restaurant, place called Santana's ⦠linen tablecloths, different glasses for different color wines, niceâonly, it seems someone was skimming the take. The manager's going bananas, doesn't know what the fuck. It's the goddamnedest thing. You earn the cash, but it don't end up in the drawer. Word is, he tells this to the owner, only the owner don't do anything. We never even see the owner. Time goes by, it's summer. The manager rents a boat, has a party for the staff, guys only, okay? I'm excited. Twenty-two years old, I'm thinking I'm a hotshot. We go out from the Battery with a locker full of booze, a hi-fi with some Tony Bennett, Vic Damone, a nice day, yâknow? We cruise the harbor, people gettin' pretty loose. Then we start up the East River and after a while this motorboat pulls alongside, three people come aboard. The manager introduces the owner. None of us never seen him before thatâhe comes aboard, no hello or nothin'âjust him and a couple of tree-swingers with him. First time I ever laid eyes on Squisher, too. He was still in wrestling then, but he did some strong-arm on the side.”
“This story's got a point, right?” I said. “I have a date this month.”
“Right off, the owner says he knows someone's been skakin' the till.
But it'll be hard to find out who, he goes on. Hell, maybe it's
all
of you, he says. But he must figure no one's gonna cop, so what's he do? He whispers something to one of the muscle guysâto Squisher, who's got these big long armsâand Squisher goes into the motorboat and hauls aboard this old junkyard john. Just sets it there on the deck, okay? A toilet. Then the owner picks one guy. âYou,' he says. Points to the guy wears the nicest clothesâItalian silk suit, two-tone shoes, yâknow? On the
boat
the guy's wearing this. Squisher and the other muscle guy grab him, strip him to his undershortsâhell, even his shorts are silkâand they put him onto the old toilet, okay? Tie him on with rope. By now the poor bastard practically
needs
a toilet. He's yelling how he didn't do anything wrong, he's been loyal ⦠Me, I'm so scared my heart's goin' like a Teletype. I keep thinking, just say you did it, man; take your chances. But no, guy kept on denying, begging now.
Crying
. The rest of us are cringing, okay? No place to go. We're all the way up by the Harlem River now, no other boats around.”