Kudlacik looked across the squad room and frowned. Quinn was slumped in his chair, skin pale, sweat beading his forehead, his eyes puffy and half closed. Every few minutes little coughs shuddered his chest.
“Go home,” Stan ordered a moment later, looming over Virgil’s desk.
“We need to get a lead on these guys before they find out we got Monroe.”
Stan pushed a stack of paper out the way and parked his butt on the corner of the desk.
“We both know it’s going to take at least a day to get Monroe’s phone and credit card records, and–”
“The stuff we found in his car could get us the break we need. I can–”
Stan angrily waved Virgil’s words away. “You can’t do anything if you’re dead on your feet. Look at yourself. You keep going this way and by tomorrow morning you’re going to be back in the hospital. Go home and get some rest.”
“I–” Virgil began then slumped forward as another cough racked his chest.
“Jesus,” Stan muttered and reached down to pull Virgil to his feet. “I’m driving you home.” Virgil shook his head and weakly pulled away.
“All right, I’ll go home, but you’re not driving me.” Kudlacik gave him a suspicious stare. “I’m perfectly fine. I’ll be careful, I promise.” Stan paused then reluctantly took a step back. “I’ll be in at eight. If you get a lead on Monroe’s neighborhood from that trash in his car have the uniforms run a canvas with his picture.”
“I know how to do my job. Go home.”
For a moment it seemed as if Quinn had something more to say then another cough shook him and he slowly made his way out of the room.
Virgil found himself driving like an old man, slowing as he neared each light, scanning the driveways and parked cars for unexpected threats. The open parking space in front of Vito’s Pizza & Subs seemed like an omen and he pulled in almost without conscious thought. The night air was damp and tinged with the smells of gasoline and smoke, but when he passed through Vito’s front door he was overwhelmed with the fragrance of garlic and oregano and baking bread.
Waitresses in burgundy blouses and black skirts scurried between a dozen tables. At the front counter a large-breasted woman with a mound of brown hair wrapped in a bun pounded on the keys of a twenty-year-old cash register, then handed an enormous pizza box to a young man in a frayed woolen coat.
“Take out or eat in?” she asked Virgil once the boy had shouldered his way through the front door.
“Take out.”
“You know what you want?”
“Give me a minute,” Virgil said and grabbed a menu from the counter. He settled into one of the wooden chairs backed up against the front window and squinted at the specials in the dim light. Pizza? Calzone? Eggplant Parm?
He twisted in his seat, trying to catch more of the glow leaking in from the street lamp, then he noticed her sitting in the chair closest to the door. She looked to be around ten or eleven with straight-cut brown hair, her hands folded primly in her lap. Something about her seemed strangely familiar – the shape of her nose, the tilt of her chin, an odd, out of phase echo of his daughter’s face as he had last seen it nine years ago.
If he could, Virgil would have displayed Nicole’s photo on his phone and compared her likeness, point-by-point, with the child sitting a few feet away, but Helen’s treachery prevented that. The only image he had of Nicole now was a police artist’s rendering and his own failing memory.
As if sensing his attention the little girl turned then smiled. For half a second Virgil stared back then he asked, “Does your mother work here?”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m just waiting.”
Virgil glanced at the dining room and the corridor leading to the bathrooms beyond but didn’t spot anyone who looked like the child’s absent mother.
“I’m waiting too,” Virgil told her, then held up his menu. “I guess I should order.” He spotted the hostess shooing a busboy toward a table piled with dirty plates, and he waved at her when she turned around.
“I’ll have the eggplant parm with a side of meatballs to go,” he told her. She scratched a few lines on an order pad and handed it to a black-haired, white-skinned waitress who looked like a Madonna suddenly come to life.
Virgil resumed his seat and smiled when the little girl turned back toward him.
“My name is Virgil,” he said.
“My name’s a secret,” she answered in a whisper.
“That’s very exciting. Sometimes my name’s a secret too.”
“Because you’re a policeman?”
“How did you know I’m a policeman?” Virgil asked.
“You can call me Jane,” she said, leaning close across one of the chairs. “Are you looking for a bad man?” Her gaze darted around the restaurant from face to face.
“Yes, but he’s not here.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“Not yet.”
“If I was looking for a bad man,” she said in her best grown-up voice, “I’d look for him someplace like this. I’d ask if they ever brought food to his house. That’s what I’d do.”
Virgil thought about that for a moment then smiled. If Latwan Monroe was as lazy as he was vicious he might well have had meals delivered to his place. If they could narrow down their search to the right neighborhood, a canvas of restaurants that delivered might get them a home address.
“Thank you, Jane,” Virgil said. “That’s a very good idea.” Just then he caught a flicker of motion from the corner of his eye and turned to see the hostess approaching with a large plastic bag.
“Eggplant parmigiana with a side of meatballs,” she said. Virgil handed her his VISA card.
“You want extra cheese or red pepper flakes?”
“Sure, one of each.”
She dropped a couple of foil envelopes into the bag then a moment later handed back his card.
“Thanks.” Virgil began to turn away, then stopped. “Where’d she go?” he asked.
“Who?”
“The little girl.” Virgil pointed at the empty chair.
The hostess looked toward the door then back at him.
“What little girl?”
“The one who was sitting there while I was waiting for my order.”
She looked briefly at the empty chairs then her lips turned down.
“For the last fifteen minutes you were the only person who’s been in those chairs,” she said and took half a step back. Virgil’s head swivelled around and he made a quick scan of the room. No little girls. No Jane. Now the hostess was looking toward the kitchen, checking on who might be available to protect her if her nut-job customer suddenly lost control.
“Sorry,” Virgil said. “My mistake.”
Clutching his dinner he turned and hurried outside. He laid the food on the Dodge’s passenger-side floor then circled the front bumper and opened the driver’s door. Just before getting in he glanced back at Vito’s and saw Jane standing beneath the flickering red and yellow pizza-pie neon sign.
She looked up at him and gave him a happy wave. Virgil stood there frozen for a couple of seconds, suppressed a cough, then, knowing it was madness, waved back. Now I know your secret name, he thought. It’s Nicole.