Della
Christine kept giving me the runaround, wasting a lot of my time. After a while, I’d had to let my plans for her go while I spent a week down in Laurel Falls tending to some store matters. I’d just returned to D.C. the night before.
Alex was already at his desk when I got up. “Hon, I finally had a chance to research that Christine character’s husband. He’s loaded. One of those D.C. lawyers whose quietly raking in the money.” He handed me a sizeable file.
“So she can afford the plan I’ve got in mind,” I said, sipping his coffee and leafing through his report. “You know, what I’m planning to ask for those kids, she probably blows on facials and pedicures in any given month. I’m done with letting her drag her well-groomed feet any longer.”
I didn’t want to ask too much of Alex—he had plenty of his own work to worry about—but I needed to know more about Christine’s burly boyfriend. Alex had tried searching in some photo database he subscribed to, but nothing had come up.
I still had a few contacts from my reporter days. The last I knew, Howard Pinzer was at The Hill. While Christine’s galoot didn’t appear to be in politics, reporters like Pinzer had tools to find almost anyone. I dialed the only number I had for him and was surprised when he answered. Then again, given the state of journalism, few reporters had the luxury of job-hopping.
“Howard? It’s a blast from the past—Della Kincaid.”
“Hey, Ghoulfriend, how’re you doing?”
Just like that, I was back in. When I gave him a brief overview of what was going on, he suggested we have lunch. “I want to hear all about you and Jed Clampett.” Journalists think they’re so funny (and generally they are).
We met on Wednesday at the Old Ebbitt Grill, Washington’s oldest bar and restaurant. A great place for people-watching, at least for us political junkies. Howard looked the same, only without as much hair. With his tie askew and dark circles under his eyes, he gave off a weary vibe.
After we ordered, he said, “Tell me what it’s like to get away from it all.”
“To tell you the truth, I haven’t gotten away from anything. I’m embroiled in something that landed me back in D.C.” I brought him up to date with a CliffNotes version of the Holt/Overton ordeal. When I showed him a photo of The Couple enjoying their steamy embrace, he whistled the way people do when remembering a kiss like that. Then I showed him the one that captured their faces.
He removed his glasses and held the photocopy close to his eyes. “Can I have this?” he asked. He put his glasses back on and added, “He looks mobstery. I’ve got some connections I can show this to.”
I paid for our lunch, and we left. Out on 15th Street, Howard gave me a kiss on the cheek and promised to get back by day’s end or the next day at the latest. True to his word, he called around nine o’clock that evening. Just what I’d figured. Roscoe Cohen, a major mobster in the construction business.