The James Deans Part 5

"When I'm done with this case, I'll make sure we won't have to go through this again."

"But-"

"But nothing. I've got everything I ever wanted, right now. As long as Sarah and I are enough for-"

"Shhh," she said, pressing her finger across my lips. "Let's go to bed."

"Are you sure?"

"The only thing I've ever been more sure of is when I said 'I do.'"

Who was I to argue?

THE PHONE RANG, but it wasn't John Heaton. That would have been too much to ask. It was Thomas Geary's increasingly familiar if unwelcome voice that greeted me. He did have the good form to keep it short and sweet. The meeting with Senator Brightman had been arranged for later in the day out at Geary's house in Crocus Valley. Before I could protest, Geary a.s.sured me that I could have all the time alone with Brightman I wanted.

Katy was gone, her side of the bed still creased and warm from where she'd slept. I stayed behind for a little while to enjoy the scent of her that still lingered in the air. I felt light enough to float. They say you never really miss things until they're taken away. We would continue to wonder about what could have been and to quietly mourn our lost child. They also say you don't know how much you miss something until you get it back. I put my hand in Katy's vacant s.p.a.ce, running a finger across the creases in the sheet. I knew I had missed her, but not quite how much until now.

I DIDN'T SEE it until I got behind the wheel. There was something stuck between my windshield and wiper blade: a business card. That's what you get, I thought, for being too lazy to pull into the garage. As I got back out of the car, I tried to guess what life-altering product or program this card was promoting. Was I going to make extra money working out of my home? Was I going to lose forty pounds safely and naturally, or was I going to learn how to buy real estate with no money down? I plucked the card. It was, oddly enough, one of mine. There was something written on the back.

There once was a man named Moses Who didn't know his a.s.s from where his toes is He took a case that was a total disgrace So that a killer could come out smelling like roses It was unsigned. A pity, considering Shakespeare, Blake, and Eliot were now all shaking in their shoes at the prospect of being dethroned. I crumpled up the card and flicked it at the sewer grate. My aim had been better when I was a kid. I hesitated and went to pick the card back up. Unballing it, I smoothed the card out as best I could and slipped it into my wallet.

The ride to the Brooklyn store went by in a flash, the words of the limerick repeating over and over again in my head. I ran through the list of possible candidates for its authorship. Whoever was responsible had gone to a lot of trouble to leave it for me to see. I hope he took the time to see the sights of scenic Sheepshead Bay. Maybe take in the late show at Pips Comedy Club or guzzle down a dozen littlenecks at Joe's Clam Bar.

Klaus seemed surprised to see me, but I let him know I was there only to pick up messages and do some work in the office. As far as the wine business went, he was to either handle it himself or refer it to Aaron.

"There's one message on your desk from a Larry McDonald, E-I-E-I-O, and one from someone who called himself Wit," Klaus remarked with a smirk. "You know Wittgenstein? My boss, the closet philosopher."

"Yancy Whittle Fenn," I said in my defense. "All his best friends call him Wit."

"Y. W. Fenn! Now I am impressed."

"Good thing one of us is."

I'd picked the Brooklyn store because it had an empty room next to the office. It was the perfect s.p.a.ce to lay out the contents of the Spivack and a.s.sociates file. While what I'd told Wit was true, that I didn't always work in a conventional manner, I wasn't exactly a psychic reader, either. Straightforward police work had its moments. I skimmed through the thick file, copying down certain facts and data that I might be able to put to use between now and my appointment with Brightman. I wrote down the street address of Brightman's community office, the place where Moira Heaton was last seen, and the name and number of the NYPD detective who'd handled the case. That done, I retreated to the office to make some calls.

"Hey, Larry, it's Moe."

"Like I don't know your voice, schmuck."

"So?"

"Remember the Hound's Tooth?"

"Now who's being a schmuck?" I chided. "I'm retired, not senile."

"Nine o'clock?"

"Ten's better."

"We'll split the difference. Okay, Moe?"

"See you there."

Actually, I felt kind of stupid now for having had Larry go through the trouble of getting me the files. What I hadn't known at the time I asked the favor was that I'd be the recipient of Joe Spivack's largesse. It was too late now. I doubted there was anything in the official police record that wouldn't be in the Spivack file. In fact, I wouldn't be at all surprised if the police record was substantially less comprehensive. Cops can afford to follow up on only so many leads. They're limited by time, caseload, and funding. On the other hand, private investigations are limited only by the depth of the client's pockets.

I dialed another seven-digit number.

"Who the h.e.l.l is this? It's ... The sun is still out, for heaven sakes." Wit was sounding a wee bit hungover.

"You like limericks, Wit?"

"My head's killing me. Who is-"

"It's Moe Prager, your potential horse-trading partner. So, do you like limericks?"

"There once was a man from Nantucket ... You mean that sort of tripe?"

"Exactly. You wanna hear one?"

He didn't answer. I took that as a yes. I read off the back of my card.

"Such atrocious grammar," he critiqued, sounding more like himself. "Is that supposed to have some significance to me?"

"I don't know, I just thought I'd run it by you. Basically, I'm returning your call."

"Have you given my proposition any further consideration?"

"I gave you my answer last night."

"That," he sn.i.g.g.e.red, "was an answer. You still have time to go back and change it."

"Nah, I always heard it was better to go with your first answer when you're being tested. Besides, too much erasing makes it hard to score."

"Don't lose my number, Mr. Prager. We're still only in the first hour of the exam."

I had to give the guy credit. He didn't back down easy. I'd have to watch him closely. His type could sneak right up and bite you in the a.s.s.

DETECTIVE ROB GLORIA was only too happy to meet me at what had once been State Senator Steven Brightman's community affairs office. Fortyish, bright-eyed and barrel-chested, he looked a little sharper than what I'd expected. Well deserved or not, Missing Persons had the rep of being a dumping ground for the barely adequate and downright inept. And my one close encounter with Missing Persons during the search for Patrick had only served to reinforce its bad reputation. But there were studs and stinkers in every bureau of the NYPD.

The now vacant storefront was on a busy street squeezed between a Chinese takeout and a real estate office. It was not unfamiliar to me. I'd seen pictures of the place in the Spivack file. The only hints of its former tenant were a sun-bleached campaign poster Scotch-taped to the inside of the plate-gla.s.s window and, just beneath it, a sign listing the new office address and phone numbers for reaching Brightman.

"You wanna have a look-see?" Detective Gloria asked, jingling a ring of keys.

"Sure."

He opened the door with the ease of a man who'd done this several times before. He hadn't had to struggle, figuring out which keys went where. I liked that. He'd spent a lot of time here. This case meant something to him.

"Did you know John Heaton when he was on the job?" I wondered as Gloria pushed the door back for me.

"Nope." He strode a few feet to his left. "This is approximately where Moira Heaton's desk was. There were generally three or four other people working here, answering phones and such. She was the last one to leave that night, supposed to lock the doors at eight."

"Supposed to?"

"No one was here to see her do it, and we only have an iffy witness or two who might or might not have been driving by that say they saw her leaving."

"But the front door was locked?" I said, my eyes drifting to the gray steel back door.

He followed my gaze. "I'm way ahead of you. You're figuring someone locked the front door from inside and dragged her out through the back. Didn't happen that way. Produce delivery to the c.h.i.n.ks next door. There were people in and out of the alleyway for fifteen, twenty minutes."

"A delivery at night?"

"Because of the holiday the next day. They didn't wanna get caught short. It's kosher. We checked 'em out and the driver, too. Clean all around. Besides, both doors were locked, and the Heaton girl didn't have keys to the back door. Nope, we figure whatever happened to her didn't happen here."

"What makes you think something happened to her and she didn't just split?"

Detective Gloria looked at me like I had three heads. "Come on, you were on the job. You know."

"I had to ask."

"I guess."

"Why'd this case get to you?"

There was an attempt at denial in his eyes, but it was a weak one. "I used to think it was because she was a cop's kid, you know? Now I'm not so sure. It's too f.u.c.kin' clean. Even if she split on her own, it's too clean. Nothing's missing from her apartment. Her bank account and credit cards are untouched. There's zero physical evidence, no witnesses. Look, you get conflicting evidence all the time so's it can make you crazy. But here, there's like negative evidence. You work cases long enough, you get a sense about these things. It's like when you're riding your patrol sector, you just know when something don't feel right."

I knew exactly how that was.

The siren scents of frying ginger and garlic came calling through walls. I asked Rob Gloria if he wanted to heed their call.

"Order me a number five with extra duck sauce on the side," is what he said.

So we sat and ate, silently at first.

I broke the ice. "There's something you're not saying."

"There's a lot of things I'm not saying. You're workin' for Brightman, right? How come?"

"I guess I could say because he hired me, but the truth is I sort of got forced into taking the job. It's a long story not worth repeating. Why he hired me is easy. I think he wants to run for higher office and needs to get any stink off him before he tries. I can't tell you for sure, because I never met the man. What's John Heaton like?"

"Typical hotheaded donkey. Why?"

"Just curious."

"Somebody else's been sniffin' around, you know?" he said, shoveling a forkful of pork lo mein into his mouth.

"Y. W. Fenn?"

"You met the little p.r.i.c.k, huh? Yeah, he's a queer duck, that Wit. Just being in the same room as him makes me want to shower."

"You think Brightman did the girl, don't you?"

"What I think's my business. What I can prove is something else."

"Then maybe it's a good thing Wit and I are around. Maybe we can shake a little dust out of your clean case."

"I doubt it," he said, throwing a five on the counter to cover his end. "I doubt it."

I sat with my mostly untouched food in front of me, watching Detective Gloria's unmarked Chrysler retreat. Of course, it's what he didn't say that intrigued me. His silent accusal of Brightman didn't shock me, per se. That was the point of this whole exercise. It's why Brightman needed someone like me. Brightman could jump through hoops of fire and have Jesus himself testify to his innocence, but without concrete evidence that he didn't do it he was screwed. The public outside his district would treat him with the same silent suspicions as Rob Gloria.

Klaus was just being flippant before when he mentioned my closet philosophy. As it happened, however, his casual remark was quite prescient. Trouble was, I couldn't prove a negative in Philosophy 101, and I didn't think my chances had improved with age.

CROCUS VALLEY WAS a quaint hamlet to the northeast of Glen Cove on the North Sh.o.r.e of Long Island. It proudly displayed its rustic trappings to strangers pa.s.sing through, but only in an effort to cloak the smell of money. You weren't apt to see Jags and BMWs out on the street like you might in Sands Point or Great Neck. That's not to say residents of this little piece of heaven didn't drive luxury automobiles. Quite the opposite was true. The people of Crocus Valley had that Waspy humility and false sense of good taste to park them around back.

Thomas Geary's digs weren't hard to find, as his property line was only a chip and a putt away from the twelfth hole of the Lonesome Piper Country Club. If I got the chance I'd have to sneak a peek to see if the out-of-bounds stakes were made of solid gold. The Gearys' was a white country manor surrounded by corral-type fencing. I could see stables in the distance, and I recalled Constance talking about her love of riding. A semicircular driveway led up to the front portico. The minimum lots in this neck of the woods were five acres. My guess was the Gearys' property more than doubled that.

I parked in front. Although the wine business afforded me the luxury of no longer driving a rolling advertis.e.m.e.nt for AAA membership, there was little danger of the good-taste police citing my host. By the time I made it onto the porch, Geary was standing in the front-door jamb. The sight of him dressed in jeans and riding boots and holding a Manhattan was priceless.

"Come in," he said, dispensing with his put-on manners.

I followed him into a big study. Here there was a grand piano, naturally, a harp in one corner, a wet bar, and expensive but muted furniture. There was a trophy cabinet filled to the max with medals, ribbons, cups, statuettes, etc. All bore Connie's name and were for excellence in music or riding. There was a rustic fireplace with a maw bigger than my garage door. Since I hadn't seen another car outside, I figured maybe Brightman had parked in the fireplace.

"Jesus, Constance won all these," I said, just to say something.

Geary frowned. He seemed not in the mood for small talk. "Ah, a man with the flare for the self-evident."

"Feel free to fire my a.s.s anytime you want."

His expression said he liked that better. He still didn't offer me a drink or further conversation.

"I thought you might want to know there's somebody else poking around about Brightman and Moira Heaton's disappearance. He's already been to the cops and he's paid off Moira's father not to talk to anyone else. I also kinda get the impression he's no fan of your boy Brightman."

"Wit is being rather a pain in the a.s.s. Will you join me?" he asked, holding up his drink.

"A beer, if you've got any. So you know Wit?"

"Ba.s.s Ale or Michelob?"

"Mick."

"Yes, Moe," Geary said, handing me a bottle, "everyone of breeding and means knows Wit. He's a bit of a hanger-on. He has the right pedigree, but the wrong banker. If you understand my meaning. He used to be fun back in the day, a life-of-the-party sort; funny, biting, and b.i.t.c.hy. Amusing to have around, but ever since ... Well, he's become tiresome."

"Since his grandson was-"

"Yes, since then. But try not to alienate him. He could actually be quite useful. When you get to the bottom of Miss Heaton's unfortunate disappearance, Fenn's name could add credibility. And speaking of that, how is the investigation going?"

"It's too early to tell, but someone left this for me." I showed him the limerick. "The cops think Brightman's guilty, you know."

"Yes," he agreed, "but guilty of what?"