CHAPTER NINE

Guthrie ordered pizza once they were back at the office. Vasquez opened the laptops, discovering that they contained schoolwork and the traces of daily lives. Olsen used his cell phone for calls, but the laptops held the address books, mailing lists, and accounts. Only a few files asked for passwords. Guthrie wired the hard drive to his computer and drew a blank. After the pizza arrived, the little detective ate one slice, then let out a disgusted sigh.

“You finally realized that pizza’s crap?” Vasquez asked.

“Huh?” Guthrie scowled at her. “So? My uncles flew most of that family over here in the seventies. They’re family. And they don’t have pizza on their menu—they make that because I ask for it. Anyway, I’m thinking about Olsen.” He studied the directory on the hard drive. “Those are some huge files,” he muttered, then stood and walked around the backs of the couches to look from the office windows.

“Watching people can make you chase your own shadow,” he said. “You carry your suspicions around with you, and then you can end up seeing them everywhere—sometimes instead of what’s actually there. That’s why we can’t tell Olsen anything, not even part of it.”

The little detective studied Vasquez’s blank expression and realized he wasn’t making sense. While they finished the pizza, he tried to spell it out. If they told Olsen about the things they’d discovered—the eyewitness and the deliveryman—the big man wouldn’t be able to think about anything else. He would start climbing the walls of his cell, and that would be as bad as his being shocked into silence. Olsen could know the killer. Left alone with his thoughts, he might realize it.

“You told the lawyer about Ghost Eddy,” Vasquez said. “And you told Tommy.”

“Maybe I’ll come to regret that,” Guthrie said. “Jeannette Overton stays in my pocket, though.” He sat down again and picked up the phone. Vasquez went back to combing the laptops while Guthrie called downtown and talked a guard lieutenant into making sure Olsen contacted him. Then he began muttering about the size of the files on Bowman’s hard drive. Ordinarily, casual users didn’t fill drives with anything except for commercial software. Scratch files and databases took a small fraction of their space. Bowman’s drive was loaded. The file names looked like gibberish.

Greg Olsen called from the Manhattan House, and Guthrie put him on speakerphone. After enough breath to say hello, the little detective said, “Mr. Olsen, we kinda need some background. Is it gonna be all right if we get some things from Grove Street?”

“Sure, if you need something,” he replied.

“Rachel’s gonna ask you about some people, then,” the little detective said, ignoring her startled look and gesturing for her to get started.

While Vasquez quizzed Olsen about the names in the address books, noting down people from Columbia, Guthrie opened the paper files from the back bedroom at Grove Street. He flipped quickly through the financial records but slowed when scanning Olsen’s military record. The big man had been discharged as a lieutenant colonel, wearing a chestful of decorations. His last was a Purple Heart. Olsen was stop-lossed for the final three of eight consecutive years in Afghanistan, without ever rotating for staff service. Guthrie extracted a single page from the file and smoothed it on his desktop.

The little detective waited for a pause to stretch after Olsen ran himself out describing to Vasquez what he knew about the people in Bowman’s address book. “Mr. Olsen,” he said, “you’ve had a few days to sit and think. Have you had any ideas about who killed your fiancée?” The pause continued, and the detective filled it. “Maybe I should phrase that a different way. We have some ideas about who might’ve wanted to kill Camille Bowman. That didn’t need much digging. What’s interesting here is that they decided to frame you for doing it. Do you see what I mean? After that, it occurs to me that I’m less curious about Bowman, and more curious about you. You’ve had an interesting life. Have you got any ideas about who would want to frame you for murder?”

Quiet drifted, faintly counterpointed by distant horns and the thrum of traffic. “So you think this could be on me, then?” Olsen asked. “I suppose the seat isn’t hot enough unless it’s melting through the ice at one and the same time. That’s different. Then you might not be too far off, and a pretty good detective with it. I don’t doubt plenty of people would want to kill me, and line up for a chance if the carnival sold tickets, but I don’t suppose they could get to New York.” He laughed briefly. “Then again, if they gave my name to Homeland, they might get a visa, with cab fare and directions to reach me. Is that who you mean, then?”

“That’s better than what you were giving me, but you could start closer to the city.”

Guthrie’s question foundered on the rock of Olsen’s determination that no one would’ve killed Camille Bowman for any reason. The argument was a whirlpool. After a few circles, Guthrie realized the big man was simply defending his memory. He needed to be led more carefully. The detective started over by asking how he came to choose New York City to finish school, instead of returning to Wisconsin. Olsen claimed his primary reason was always at hand—with a bit of emphasis on hand—and pointed to Hillary Clinton as his model. She came to New York to enter the Senate. The state was forgiving of outsiders. He meant for Columbia Law School to be his springboard into politics.

Olsen volunteered for the army after 9/11. After serving, he felt the war was unnecessary. He decided Al-Qaeda was an idea that wasn’t damaged by waging war against it. He knew that speaking up against the war wasn’t popular. More Americans worried about lines at an airline counter than worried about soldiers fighting overseas. Coming back to discover the apathy was a rude awakening, but he had a constant reminder. That was enough for him. Then he met Camille Bowman. She was murdered, and now he was in jail.

“That’s it?” Guthrie asked after Olsen came to an abrupt stop.

“Yes,” the big man snapped. “That’s it. Six months and seven days ago, I realized I had my arms wrapped around her. That was like getting cross-checked into the boards—you just hold on, skate hard, and pray you’re still on your feet. I didn’t know that could happen. Then just as suddenly it stopped, twelve days ago. End of report.”

“If it was that simple, you wouldn’t be there,” Guthrie said.

“Am I missing something?” Olsen demanded.

“Maybe that I ain’t wasting breath on the obvious,” Guthrie replied. “Bowman was snatched outside LMA—pretty sure you know the place. I can find all that out without asking you—”

“She was at LMA?”

“Sure.”

Olsen sighed. “So maybe this is on me, then,” he muttered.

“What’s that?” Guthrie demanded.

“I was a busy man,” Olsen said bitterly. “An important man. I left her alone. With time on her hands, she drifted back to what she did beforehand, now and then. I wasn’t ever able to find fault with her for that.”

“You’re saying that wasn’t something you did together.”

“One time I went with her to that club, a long night I spent fending away drunken girls and prying hands loose from Cammie. Those youngsters are pretty forward, maybe to the point of already putting their clothes back on when you’re finally coming to the point of taking your own off.”

The little man laughed. “I had a look,” he said. “But who knew about the gun? You did, and Bowman did. Who else?”

“Gettysburg! She practiced at Gettysburg, and Michelle always went with her. Maybe Michelle noticed something there. Talk to her—”

“Slow down there, Mr. Olsen. Michelle Tompkins knew about your gun. Michelle Tompkins came and went at Bowman’s apartment. She had access to the gun—”

“Why would she do that?”

“Maybe she had some interest in you.”

“She didn’t like me. She tolerated me. She was Cammie’s friend. So maybe she’s my friend now. I guess we had a truce, a few months ago then. When Cammie decided to be serious about her schoolwork, maybe that’s when Michelle’s attitude changed. That’s it, because she harped on that. She was real studious, a supernerd. She was the tagalong at the party.”

“Cammie’s party at LMA, you mean?”

“So now you need the obvious, then?”

“I’m not finding it so obvious. This could use some spelling out. Tompkins was along for the ride—in the party at LMA, and then at your party with Bowman, it seems. The three of you were together? I guess you can’t call that a couple—”

“She was Cammie’s friend,” Olsen interjected.

“A friend who sat on the bed with you? Or did you notice when they switched out?”

“That’s not true!”

The little detective let a long moment pass to see if Olsen would say more. “I admit I didn’t find any pictures of it at Grove Street, but the suggestion came to me. Now would be a good time to get in front of it. What occurs to me most is that Tompkins knew about the gun, and she spent plenty of time at Grove Street. That gives me something to think about.”

“After a few more years,” Olsen said, “I might not be caught quite so off guard by the abruptness in this city, but I hope that won’t mean I’ve come to match it.” A moment’s silence intervened. “Michelle didn’t kill Cammie. She was the only one who was really her friend. She was the only one who didn’t desert her.”

“I hear you,” the detective said.

The moment Guthrie cradled the phone, Vasquez said, “I don’t think she did it. Why’d she send us looking if—”

“Does it matter what we think?” Guthrie asked tiredly. He stood, went to the coffeemaker, and poured a cup for himself. “Maybe Olsen was framed. But if we clear him, the next suspect is Tompkins. Then is she framed? Or maybe she did it, and now she’s making it look good. Or maybe he did it. He should be as mad as a hatter after eight years in Afghanistan.” He took the piece of paper from his desktop and handed it to her. “Read it.”

Vasquez scanned the paper. “This’s a job offer—a million a year for consultation,” she said. “He don’t need to be a lawyer.”

“See the address—North Carolina. That’s a private security firm. Really, they should be called mercenaries. The date there, Olsen was still in the hospital after having his hand sewed back onto his arm.” The little detective nodded. “They want him bad—see where it says call for a follow-up offer? They don’t want him because he does a good job of tying his shoes. Greg Olsen’s covered in blood. Our question is this: How fresh is the last drop?”

*   *   *

That afternoon, they drove uptown to hunt for Ghost Eddy. The sun played hide-and-seek in some thin banks of clouds beyond the Hudson River, but the streets of Washington Heights and Morningside were still glowing hot. Vasquez drove. She cruised up and down the blocks while Guthrie cranked the old Ford’s window up and down to hang out and fire words at the street people. He emptied a large cooler of drinks and sandwiches, and reused some tired jokes until they finally found the cemetery. Vasquez quickly lost count of the names the little detective shouted. Some of the vagrants threw annoyed looks and drifted away without talking, but most came to the old blue Ford and propped a hand on the top of the window frame while they drank a soda and bantered with Guthrie. The afternoon slid toward evening.

The little man’s search revealed the same information again and again. Ghost Eddy had gone to ground. The gray-bearded drifter was as canny as a fox. No one knew where he came from or where he went to, but they saw him haunting the streets. The summertime sidewalks had a heavy burden of loiterers and passersby for Guthrie to sift, and eventually his voice faded to a croak. The street women claimed Ghost Eddy wasn’t eating as much, but Guthrie figured that for wishful thinking. Others pointed out his cans in the 150’s, and a liquor store he visited on 149th Street, east of Jackie Robinson Park. Guthrie jotted down a list of corners where Ghost Eddy was spotted, alleys he passed through, and stoops he sat on, but the long afternoon didn’t get them a single glimpse of the gray drifter.

The sun got lost in the clouds late in the day, when dusk was hustling toward the city. Vasquez guided the old Ford south on Broadway like a slow bomb. Guthrie had already mentioned a break for supper, but he was tapping his pen softly on the dashboard while he scanned his notes.

“Okay, Rachel, what do we know?” he asked.

She shrugged. “Ghost is the right name for this guy.”

“Sure, but he’s leaving tracks.”

“Where?”

“He’s got money, ain’t he? Enough to go to the package store, steady. But he’s not hooking cans.”

Vasquez nodded. “I see what you’re saying, viejo. He robbed Bowman’s body. Maybe that’s where the money is coming from.”

“Good. So, next time he calls, we ask Olsen how much pocket money Bowman carried. Then what?”

“Check the store for how much Ghost Eddy’s spending.” She turned the old Ford left on 125th Street, then went down until she could turn back uptown on St. Nicholas. She gunned the old car hard into the turn, and grinned when Guthrie gave her a sour look. She felt better about looking for the drifter. Searching the blocks had been like looking for a needle in a haystack, but now they were luring a pet cat with cream.

The bodega on 149th Street had a dirty dark green facade, slanted inward to a recessed door. The display windows held stacks of canned beans and beef stew, topped with hanging tri cards promoting a cheery, fat-cheeked cook in a billowing apron. A little bell rang when they entered the dimness inside. The street was bright, even with dark approaching, and the inside seemed like a cave with cool, spicy air. One long shelf sliced down the middle of the narrow store. The liquor was behind the counter, like a wrinkled glass wall behind a tall old black man perched on a high stool. Wisps of white marked his mustache and beard, but his hair was still deep black.

Guthrie wandered around the long central shelf, leaving Vasquez to talk to the proprietor. Guthrie listened, and occasionally looked over to watch. The young Puerto Rican started slowly, shifting uneasily from foot to foot, but she built some momentum during her description of Ghost Eddy. The old black man, Jude Nelson, unfolded himself from the stool and leaned on the countertop, nodding when she finished. He was familiar with Ghost Eddy. The gray drifter usually had clean money, and something funny to say—unlike the other vagrants, who came in carrying grubby bills and cups of change, with a shifty look that turned easily into anger or begging. Nelson counted the drifter as a decent customer.

“So what’s this about?” he asked. “It’s not my business, except that you’re asking me to pass another man’s business.”

Vasquez glanced at Guthrie, but he turned quickly away to study some jars of pickles. He raised his fedora like a shield to block his view of her—and to keep her from seeing his smile.

“Okay, then,” Vasquez muttered before turning back to the proprietor. “About ten days ago, there was a killing. This guy we’re looking for, he saw something, and we’re wanting to follow up. He’s kind of dodging, but he ain’t got reason. We ain’t cops. We just want to clear the guy the cops got, if he ain’t the one, you know?”

Jude Nelson nodded. “That’s an old story about maybe being good enough for jail,” he said. “I understand that. But what can I do?”

Vasquez’s smile was brighter than her red windbreaker. She played fill in the blanks with the proprietor to round out the interview. Ghost Eddy usually spent twenty or thirty dollars at a time, for something hard, something soft, and a handful of food. The past ten days, he’d been spending more—fifty or sixty—and buying more hard than soft. Lately, he wasn’t talking, but Nelson didn’t press customers for small talk when they didn’t volunteer. He agreed to ask the drifter if he would have a talk with them, though, and pass the answer along. He shifted back to his stool, which made him seem even taller, and waved to Guthrie as they were leaving the bodega.

Once they were back in the Ford, Guthrie told her to drive up and down 151st Street a few times. He already knew where the manhole was that Black-haired John had mentioned, but he wanted to remind himself of the lot’s situation. They paused to eat, then cruised the manhole a few more times as the light failed. The night began slow and hot. Guthrie checked his notes again before deciding to set up in the abandoned lot on 151st Street. He figured the manhole for a good maybe, and worth watching. If they saw Ghost Eddy going in or out, they would have a chance for a conversation.

Redbrick buildings crowded the lot from all sides except the street side, but an alley wandered from among them on one backside corner. The manhole was an old-style rectangular job that shouldered above the sidewalk and opened on top with a swinging lid. About half of the rectangular casing jutted beyond the sidewalk into the lot. The sidewalk boasted some fence posts with drooping triangles of rusting hurricane fence; layers of debris sheltered behind them in the dusty lot. Trails cut through the weeds from the alley in the back to the manhole and the cross corner of the lot.

Sometime in the past, the manhole had been secured. Since then, a long war raged between lockers and breakers, with the debris of battle scattered around the old battleship. The war appeared over. Every hasp welded on had been sawn, burned, or broken. Links of chain, long gone with rust, peeped from the dirt like old shell casings. A fiery deathblow warped the lid past the point of closing normally, leaving it to sit dark and silent like a boxer with a crooked jaw, wearing tattoos of slag and weld burn. The city maintenance workers’ surrender was only an admission that they had no control over what was determined to emerge from the darkness beneath the city. Turning a blind eye was just easier.

Guthrie decided the lot had enough junk cluttering it to set up inside. He sent Vasquez to buy some cold food and leave the Ford parked down the street. When she came back, he was in the lot with some makeshift stools. He gave her a flashlight and a pair of quick-start railroad flares. Aboveground, the streetlights were numerous, but he thought they could end up going underground. One of the buildings blocked the western sky and passed for a cool wall.

After the light was gone, the city’s noise seemed to fill the space left behind. Guthrie and Vasquez were invisible in their corner. Above them on the bricks, some of the windows leaked light through shades. Traffic on 151st was light, but in the dark silence it seemed to race over their laps while they waited. Every so often, someone hustled by on the street, or an elderly couple would tap by slowly. Vasquez developed a habit of checking her watch and dropping sighs. Guthrie laughed quietly at her, but she couldn’t stop. The sound of a kicked bottle came from the alley a little after midnight, and a golden tomcat prowled the lot at two o’clock. He watched them distrustfully, then shook furry haunches at the bricks nearby. Morning tagged along an eternity after that.

“Tomorrow,” Guthrie said when he stood up in the morning light. His knees and back crackled when he stretched. “He’ll be here tomorrow.”

Vasquez snorted.

“It could happen,” he said. “Let’s get breakfast, and then I’ll run you home.”