Chapter 22
“The list?” he said groggily.
“The phone list,” I repeated. “From last night. The one with the calls from Joe Silvio’s cell phone.”
“Oh, right,” he said. “What time is it?”
“Nearly six,” I said.
He yawned loudly. “That’s why I run a family newspaper. Woodward and Bernstein hours blow.”
I didn’t touch the line. I was too distracted. I was pretty sure I was right. I just couldn’t make the pieces fit.
“Robert, get the hell up and do your damn job. The job your daddy’s trust fund pays you for.”
“No need to get personal,” he said.
“Oh, there’s every need. Finding a killer and doling out payback to you, which is going to be a gift that keeps on giving.”
“I’m going,” he said. “The list is in my jacket, I think. Which is in the car.”
I heard shuffling sounds. A robe, slippers. Maybe he was shushing a lover.
God, what if he’s no different than Stephen Hatfield, festooning his bed with boy toys like that receptionist in his lobby, giving them gifts, then discarding them when he’s through? Why does that behavior seem somehow more acceptable in his world than in mine? Why do the young men who take his trinkets seem smart, canny, not used?
Then I thought, Why can you think so clearly about his imaginary love life and not your own? Because—drumroll, cue Stephen Hatfield—it’s just about the sex, as far as you know.
Then I thought, You’re being an idiot. How do you know any of what you just thought is true? For all you know, he may be in a long-term committed relationship.
“I’m going,” he said. “It’s in the garage.”
“You leave your clothes in the garage?”
“When I get home late,” he said.
“Go out partying?”
“Huh? No. I was reviewing the files my PIs compiled for me. Hey, did you know Scott Ferguson got into a fight last night?”
“Where? Do you know why?”
“Some guy was being too attentive to a cocktail waitress at the Ghostly Booze Bar. Scott offered her a ride home. The guy was a biker with the Muscles for Anarchy motorcycle club. Bodybuilding bikers. Three of them surrounded him outside the park. One took the girl. The others trashed him. Wrong iron crosses to cross.”
Not if you have something to prove or feel like you should be punished for something, or both, I thought.
“Catchy headline, don’t you think?” he said self-admiringly.
“Where are you?” I asked.
“I’m going as fast as I can on two hours’ sleep. What is this, anyway?”
“I’ll let you know if I’m right.”
He went the rest of the way in silence. I heard room doors open and close. I heard a car alarm beep. I heard that door open. I heard more rustling.
“Okay,” he said. “You ready?”
I looked at the desk. “Ready.”
He read the number. I swore. It matched.
“So?” he asked.
I said, “Guess what? I’m right.”
“Sweet! Whose number is it?”
I replied, “I said I’d let you know if I was right. I was. Bye.”
“Dammit, Gwen—”
I hung up. And felt very good about it, I did.
I was wired. “Priorities,” I said.
I decided to give Grant five more minutes of sleep. I went into the dining room. Stacie was back in her chair, huddled over her second cup of instant.
“Let me make some of the real stuff,” I said.
“This is okay—”
“For me,” I said.
I worked with filters and a bag of McNulty’s behind the counter. They were from a coffee bean store on Christopher Street in the West Village. I’d been buying beans there since my student days. I wasn’t about to stop drinking Bavarian Chocolate Cherry just because I’d moved to another world.
“I have some news,” I said.
She looked up hopefully. I guess my tone of voice told her it wasn’t bad news, for once.
“Scott was hurt because he tried to defend a server at that bar last night,” I said.
“He did?”
“Yes indeed. From the Muscles for Anarchy motorcycle club.”
“Bikers? He’s hated them since high school!”
“Well, he got it out of his system last night,” I told her. “Maybe he was doing for himself what you did for yourself. Had to express something he’d been keeping inside.”
“God, the MFA,” she said.
The big machine was locked and loaded, and I switched it on. The blurping sound filled the room, followed by the incomparable smell of fresh-brewed. I went back to her table.
“Why don’t you go see him?” I said. “Stay with him?”
“I—I can’t. Work.”
“Does Sammi have anyone else she can call?”
“Sure, but I need the paycheck.”
“Not from there,” I said.
“Sorry?”
“Why don’t you come to work here?” I asked, not quite sure I was doing the right thing. But I was taking my own advice: it was what was inside. I was just laying it out.
“Are you serious?”
“Pretty much all the time,” I said ruefully.
She jumped up and hugged me and ran her left hand up and down my spine and wept and probably would have stayed there if I hadn’t put my hands on her arms and gently pushed her back.
“Why don’t you call her and explain what happened?” I suggested. “I’m sure she’ll understand. Then you can stop by later and give your two weeks’ notice.”
She lunged at me again. “Thank you, sister. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” I said.
She finished the Danish and drank more coffee, and then—showing promise—took the cup and dish back to the sink, which she found without having to ask.
“I’ll call you,” she said as she took off the jacket and grabbed her damp sweatshirt. “I love you.”
“Talk to you later, Stace,” I said.
I wasn’t quite at that same gushing level. Stacie to Stace was about the best I could do then.
I let her out, locked the door behind her, then went to the office. I called Grant on his cell. He answered groggily.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey,” I replied.
Shit, damnation, and Faust. That was lame buddy talk.
“How are you this morning?” he asked.
“Good.”
And more of the same.
“Guess what?” he said, without waiting for me to buddy-answer, “What?” “I called the chief at home last night. Told him about the Silvio cell phone list. McCoy’s in for an internal affairs investigation after the funeral.”
“Now I’ve got news for you,” I said. “That cell phone number on Reid’s list? It belongs to Lydia Knight.”
I could hear the intake of air. I recognized intake from outflow from sex. Our lovemaking was at the same level as our more interesting conversation.
“Does Robert know?”
“He knows that I know, but he doesn’t know what I know.”
“Thank you,” Grant said. “Crap. I’m going to need that list in order to get a search warrant. We should have it this morning. How do you know it’s Lydia’s number?”
“She wrote it down for me.”
“You have it in her handwriting?”
“I do.”
“That may be enough to get the process rolling,” he said. “Can I come by?”
“I’m at the deli,” I said.
“See you in a few.”