27. This Has to Be the Dude

This has to be the dude you were seeing,” Tonya says.

“Toy, if you—or anybody else you work with—tries to find this person, I promise there will be an actual murder to investigate.”

“Just saying.”

“Stop saying. We had a deal and I’ve kept up my end. I’ve told you what he says happened in Blanco’s crash pad while he was there. But you can’t just go confront Cornish or the Ritz with that.”

“Of course not. What happens in God-knows-where stays in God-knows-where. I don’t burn CIs.”

It’s about nine p.m., and I’ve been home from Pittsburgh for an hour. Toy stopped for carnitas at Ruben’s, and we’re eating off the coffee table in front of my couch, drinking beer. We take a beat to let the air settle between us. Toy’s in her summer civvies—shorts and T-shirt and no bra. Looking at her relaxing on my raggedy sofa, I somehow flash on Koob sitting there. I guess it will be a while before I let go of that.

“So, you have to work Walter Cornish, right?” I ask her. I spent a little time while I was driving back trying to figure out how Tonya can safely exploit Koob’s information. “You’ve got an angle on Walter, right, because he told us he hadn’t been in that apartment for two years?”

Tonya has brought the mini pad she uses to make notes and she touches it here and there for a while.

“Definitely,” she answers then. “He said he hadn’t been in the apartment since he rented to Frito. And he wasn’t in the building the day before. Walter made both those statements not long after he came in. And repeated them to the patrolman who spoke to him the next day.”

“And remember he opened the window over the fire escape and was waving around this handkerchief, supposedly to clear the air. I say he was cleaning up, making sure he’d wiped all the prints after everyone came in and out.”

She nods repeatedly. She likes it.

“If you find a way to confirm Walter was there the night Blanco died, a way that doesn’t involve mentioning the CI, you can come down on Cornish pretty hard.”

“Two problems,” she says. “Number one, I lost my magic wand on the way over, so I don’t have any evidence, except for your guy’s word, that Walter was present. And second, even if I had that proof, I’m not sure Walter will just crumble.”

“You said the techs picked up some ridge details in a number of places. Maybe that window?”

She looks again at the mini.

“Yes. A couple spots on the outside of the window.”

“So Walter’s prints are on file with the department, right? Maybe they can do a comparison and say the ridge detail around the window and other spots around the apartment are a match.”

“That won’t do it,” she says. “Walter will claim any prints from him were left the night Blanco was discovered, not the night before, when he died.” We all would testify Tonya was screaming at him about touching stuff—although that’s suspicious in itself, given his experience.

“What about the mosquito? Have you checked Walter’s blood type? It’s probably still in his personnel file, right?”

She likes that idea and promises to work on it.

“But look,” she says, “it’s gonna be a hard flip, getting Walter to roll over on the Ritz. I don’t know if proving that he lied to us will do it. He’ll make up some fairy tale to justify fibbing.”

“Like what?”

“Maybe he’ll say he was protecting Frito. I don’t know. But a dude like Walt, bullshit flows through him like blood.”

“Don’t forget he also committed perjury at the P&F hearing.”

She groans. “You can just hear him. ‘So I forgot that I bonked the Chief before the flood. A guy like me has a lot to remember. That ain’t perjury.’”

Tonya, we both know, can be pretty contrary, but she’s not trying to be difficult. She’s making good points.

“And don’t forget, Pink,” she adds. “We can’t even prove it was murder yet. Even your boyfriend has no direct evidence of that.”

I want to tell her to stow the ‘boyfriend’ crap, which is basically old stuff between us. But I let it go because whatever I say might provide some link to Koob’s identity.

“You can see the problem, right?” she says. “The only thing that will turn Walter Cornish is a murder rap. Perjury? Obstruction of justice? Those kinds of beefs can’t put him inside long enough to make it worthwhile to dime out someone as dangerous as the Ritz. The story around HI has always been that when he was a young cop, Ritz did hits for the mob. You know, he’d pull over the target on a dark street like it was a traffic stop and pop the poor bastard as soon as he’d lowered his window to show his license. Walter’s heard those tales for sure.”

I understand. We’re not close on Walter. She says yes to a second beer while we’re thinking.

“So any news on your end?” I ask, when I hand over the bottle. “Tox screen?”

“Nothing much showed up. Frito was taking Xanax, I guess. His doctor says stress of the job.”

“But he wasn’t strung out on something, so Ritz might have a lever on him?”

“Heroin. Meth. Fentanyl. The tox screen covers all the standard addictive substances.”

I think. “But you found his doctor? Any recent injections?”

“Ten-year tetanus shot, but that was two months ago.”

“New COVID booster? Cops, where they go, they should be careful.”

“No record of Frito getting another jab in the state health department’s database. And Marisel knew nothing about him taking any shots. And why two injection sites?”

“Maybe the first syringe jammed? That’s probably happened.”

She makes a face.

“What about our friend the tiger mosquito?” I ask.

“There’s no sign of the mosquito toxin in the skin sample, but I guess it dissipates quickly. Still, the expert really doesn’t believe a mosquito left those marks.”

“Maybe Walter and Ritz shot Frito up with something after the CI left?” I say.

“Like what? Truth serum? That’s a date-rape drug, so it also would show up on a regular tox screen and in the blood chemistry.” She takes a second, then says, “We’ve got a lot of blind alleys.”

“At least you have suspects now.”

“If your informant wasn’t the one who killed him.” She gives me a pretty hard look.

“Not this guy,” I answer. “And besides, if he was blame-shifting, he’d put Walter and Ritz in on the murder directly, wouldn’t he?”

She considers that and seems to nod. Then she sits back, sort of gathering herself.

“There’s one other thing,” Tonya says. “You and Rik need to have a heart-to-heart with the Chief. About that picture.”

Because of what I promised Koob, I haven’t told her that the photo of Blanco and the Chief was on Lucy’s computer. But now I wonder if she’s learned the same information on her own. It turns out to be something else.

“That ring,” Tonya says. “The one Blanco brought to court?”

“St. Viator’s 1974?”

“Exactly. The school is closed, but they actually have an archive at the Board of Ed, including the yearbooks. I sent Mimi Yurz over there.”

“And you got a surprise?”

“For sure.”

“Blanco’s uncle actually went there before he dropped out of school?”

“No chance. But there was a name that stood out.”

“Hit me.”

“Moritz Vojczek. ‘Class clown,’ by the way. Remember that one next time somebody asks you if you think people change.”

  

Driving back to Highland Isle from Pittsburgh, I had called Rik from the highway. He was going to be in the office late, preparing for a suppression hearing on a new case in federal court, and we agreed he’d stop by my place on his way home. He has Gomer the Turd with him, since I had to unload the dog on short notice, and Rik and I agreed, when I first took Gomer in, that Rik would keep him for a couple days in a pinch, so long as Rik’s daughter isn’t home from college or coming back soon. Gomer seems to like Rik more than me, but only a little. Gomer’s big talent is making all humans feel rejected.

Rik arrives while Tonya is still there. Gomer runs all over the place, wagging his tail and sniffing everywhere to find out what’s different, then goes to his bed in the corner and takes a bite on each of his toys to reestablish himself.

Rik and Tonya are somewhat awkward around each other. Their relationship, which was minimal before, was basically adversarial, and now there’s that strange feeling of SheKnowsThatIKnowThatSheSaid. Rik asks for water—he doesn’t drink much—and I get him a bottle from the fridge, and he and Tonya clink beverages when she’s on the way to the door. Once she’s gone, he spreads out on the sofa, occupying most of it. He’s beat.

“Successful trip to Pittsburgh?” he asks.

I drop a stitch on that one. All I’d told him was that I had a good lead and that I would explain more when I got back.

“Sandy called me this morning to see if I’d heard from you today,” Rik says. I still had been turning big circles inside myself after talking to Koob, and I drove numb for several hours. I had forgotten to call Pops until I was getting close to the Tri-Cities.

“Pretty successful,” I say.

Rik takes in what I’ve already told Tonya with a flat calm. It’s the defense lawyer thing. You’re never surprised by the bad shit people do. Like Tonya, he wants to guess the source.

“I promised him he’d be treated like a CI,” I say. “Tonya agreed to that in advance.”

“This has to be your weird neighbor. Only how does he get into a room with Ritz and Blanco if he’s conducting surveillance on Ritz?”

“Not relevant. Not now. But there’s another piece I didn’t tell Tonya yet.”

When he hears that the Blanco photo came off the Chief’s computer, Rik looks like I slapped him. When I add what Tonya just told me about the ring, he gives up a deep-body groan.

“Clients?” I ask.

He tries to smile, but remains silent. Gomer has wandered back to us and Rik is scratching the dog’s ears while he thinks.

“Man,” he says finally and chugs the water. Then he does some deep breathing. “Okay,” he says at last. “We better talk to Lucy right now. I’m going to be tied up all day tomorrow, and things might move fast.” He looks at me bleakly. “There’s a lot we don’t know.”