THIRTY-THREE

I woke up late the next day, close to noon, with no brilliant insights or fresh ideas. I’d spent a frustrating evening with my computer and the ghost of Robert Tillman. Several more computer searches had netted zilch. I couldn’t even manage to find a picture of the guy, which, in this day and age, was really saying something. In fact, it was saying something, and rather loudly too. I just couldn’t decipher what was being said or what it meant, not yet.

After some coffee and yogurt, I tried Maya Watson’s number one more time. Nothing doing. If I wanted to talk to her again, it was going to mean a trip back out to Queens. I wasn’t up for that. Before I confronted her, I needed more than amorphous suspicions. Besides, I was weary of her playing the role of the wronged party. Robert Tillman—slippery and anonymous as he was proving to be—was the wronged party here, not Maya, not Alta. I had to remember that. I couldn’t let my sympathy for Maya’s plight or my understanding Carm’s estrangement blind me. I thought about calling Carmella, but decided I was still pissed off at her on several counts, not the least of which was her hiding Alta’s personal effects from me. And though I had tried to bury the old pain, seeing Israel brought it all back. No, she was going to have to come to me and not halfway, either.

The house phone rang.

“I’m done with my case.” It was Pam. “Come on up here for a few days.”

I almost said no. I didn’t. I didn’t say yes, but I didn’t say no. I took a long breath and remembered being at 40 Court Street and how I didn’t go look at the old offices. I thought about why I hadn’t looked. I thought about being mad at Carmella and about how she was my living past and not the happiest part of it. I thought about the case and how it was often better not to work things to death, that cases, like good red wine, sometimes needed to breathe. That there were things in the world that couldn’t be willed or forced to happen. I thought about the tumor in my stomach. I thought about how good Pam had been for me, how good we’d been for each other. Okay, I thought, so there was no drama between us the way there would always be drama with Carm. So what?

“I’ll be up there late tonight, okay? There’s some stuff I need to handle down here first.”

“You’re coming?”

“Did I give the wrong answer?”

“It’s just that—are you done with what you were working on?”

“No,” I said. “Whatever I leave behind for two days, will be here when I get back. Anyway, I’ll be able to check on the wedding arrangements and see Sarah when I’m up there.”

“I know it’s crazy, but when I saw you holding Carmella in your arms, I thought I was losing you.”

You probably are, but not to Carmella. “Don’t be silly. I’ll see you tonight.”

“Bye.”

“Pam,” I stopped her from hanging up, “don’t wear too much to bed.”

I felt the smile on my face before I realized I was happy at the idea of being with her. It might not have been mad love between us, but whatever it was, was good and I didn’t want to piss it away the way I had so many other good things before it.

As soon as I put the phone down, it rang again.

“Good afternoon, Moses. Harper Pettibone here.”

“Hey, Harper. This is unexpectedly quick.”

“Well, you seemed anxious to learn whatever you could and it so happened I played squash this morning with Deputy Mayor Rosenberg.”

“Who won?” I asked, but not to be polite. Harper didn’t like to lose, so he made sure not to.

“Still busting my chops. You haven’t changed, Moe, have you?”

“More than you could know.”

“He gave me a few good games, did the deputy mayor, but in the end …”

“I’m hoping you didn’t call to talk squash.”

“I managed to work the circumstances of Robert Tillman’s unfortunate demise into our locker room chat.”

“I bet that gave him agita.”

“On the contrary, Moe, Max Rosenberg looked like the cat who’d eaten the proverbial canary, cage and all. When I pressed him on it, he said, and I quote, ‘It’s futile fishing for that particular payday, old man. Not only is it unbecoming of you, but that’s one wrongful death suit this city will never have to worry about.’”

“That’s crazy, Harper. How can he be so sure?”

“That he wasn’t willing to discuss, but he wasn’t whistling through the graveyard. I can assure you of that. I play cards with the deputy mayor as well and he isn’t much of a poker player. He couldn’t bluff his way out of a paper sack.”

“Would you care to speculate?”

“I never care to speculate, but I will. Either someone’s already gotten to the relatives and paid them off to go quietly into that good night or the city is holding a trump card. My guess is it’s the latter.”

“How’s that?” I asked.

“You can never be sure you’ve gotten to all the relatives who might have a claim. It’s like that whack-a-mole game. Just when you pay one relative off and get a signed waiver, another one pops up. No, the city’s holding some ammunition in abeyance and for the deputy mayor to speak with such bravado, it must be pretty potent stuff.”

“Thanks, Harper. I really appreciate it.”

“I’ll keep checking with my other sources. Rosenberg was so annoyingly smug, I’m tempted to go find one of Tillman’s relatives myself.”

“If you hear anything else, I’ll be reachable by cell. I’m going up to Vermont for a few days.”

“Enjoy yourself. You looked like you could use the rest.”

He was right.

This time, something else rang when I hung up the phone. It was the building intercom.

“Hello.”

“Yeah, boss, it’s me, Brian.”

“Doyle! What are you doing here?”

“We need to talk and not over the phone.”

“Come on up.” I buzzed him in.

Brian Doyle didn’t look quite the same as he had when I’d seen him at O’Hearns—the difference being his blackened right eye and the nasty, finger-shaped bruises on his neck. And seeing him, I knew why he was here.

“Have a run-in with the Jorge Delgado Fan Club? Took more than one fireman to do that to you,” I said. “How many?”

“Three.”

“Where?”

“Outside a bar by Delgado’s old firehouse.”

“How’d the three of them fare?”

“Two of ’em are at the dentist today, the other one’s getting his nose reset.”

“Glad to hear you haven’t lost your touch, Brian.”

He smiled at that, but the smile quickly vanished. “I’m off the case, Boss. Emotions are running way too high on this one. Those guys were spoiling for the fight even before I walked in there. Someone’s been in those guys’ ears whipping ’em up. It was like they were waiting for me or anyone to walk in there and start asking questions.”

“Sorry, Brian. I owe you for this.”

“No, you don’t.”

“If you say so.”

“Boss, I never tell you what to do, but leave this thing alone for now. I know you can usually handle yourself, but if you had walked into that bar … Listen, they’re burying the guy tomorrow. In a few weeks, who knows, maybe you can start asking some questions again. For now, it’s too dangerous. You should enjoy yourself. Enjoy Sarah’s wedding. You shouldn’t be doing this stuff.”

I held out my hand to him. “Thanks, Brian.”

He ignored my hand and hugged me instead. “Thanks for everything, Boss.”

“I’m not dying yet, you asshole,” I said, playfully pushing him away.

He winked with his good eye. “Just figured I’d get it out of the way now … just in case.”

“Fuck you, Doyle.”

“Yeah, I love you too. Take care of yourself.”

With that, Brian was gone. As I walked around the house, packing for my trip, his words, though only half-serious, rang in my head. “… just in case.” We both knew in case of what.