The Lobby Café doesn’t open until eight o’clock but Hattie spots me lurking by the newsstand and lets me in through the kitchen.
“It’ll take a minute for the coffee, Joe,” she says.
“You want some juice?”
“No, thanks. Wait. Yeah, juice is a good idea.”
“Orange, grapefruit, V8?”
“What’s best for a man of my years? Nutritionally?”
“Grapefruit,” she says. “Connie spent the night?”
“Yes.”
“So you’ll be wanting whole-grain toast this morning.”
“I suppose.”
“She’s good for you, Joe. Got you running again, taking better care of yourself.” She puts a large glass of juice in front of me. “Actually, eating a grapefruit is better than just drinking the juice.”
“I’ll remember that for next time.” I take a gulp of juice. It’s sour, bracing, probably good for me. “She’s going to China,” I say.
“For good?”
“Six days.”
“You’ll survive.”
The Emblem has the story on page three. HOTEL MAID STABBED. No mention of Raquel’s connection to Leo. The discovery of a dead body in the Warburton site has been treated as a separate item. That won’t last long.
Hattie puts a cup of coffee in front of me and nods toward the door. “Should I let him in?” she asks.
As if on cue, Larry Gormé, crime beat reporter for the very paper I’m dripping coffee on, is looking in through the glass. I check the wall clock: 7:53.
“Don’t do it on my account,” I say.
“Oh, well,” she says “The coffee’s ready.”
Hattie unlocks the door and Larry bustles in, tipping his fedora like a gentleman, grabbing the stool two down from me, craning his head to see which page I’m on.
“See that?” he says. “Circumspection. Restraint. Nothing about how she may or may not have had a romantic relationship with the head honcho.”
“You’re a credit to your trade,” I say.
“A shining example. Thanks darlin’,” he says as Hattie gives him a coffee at the same time she brings my toast.
“You having breakfast?” she asks.
“In the morning?” He looks horrified. “I’ll take a couple of aspirin if you’ve got ’em.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” she says.
“I tried to track you down yesterday,” he says.
“I was out.”
“Working this case?”
“Nope.” The toast is full of whole-grain goodness.
All I need now is yogurt and I’ll be too healthy. “You know Mooney and his partner?”
“Pizzaria? Sure.”
“I don’t think that’s his name.”
“What we call him in the city room,” he says.
“He’s broken a few noses. Not mine o’course. My nose is clean.”
“And your heart is pure.”
“Here’s your aspirin,” says Hattie.
“Life saver. How’s the little bingo-caller?” he asks.
“Packing.”
“You two taking a trip?”
“She is. Going to China with the governor general and a trade delegation.”
“Hey. Next stop, Canada AM.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me,” I say. “She’s good enough.”
“Good-looking enough, too.” Larry washes the aspirin down with his coffee. “Networks have a strict no-mutts policy. It’s what’s kept me out of the big time.”
“I can’t give you anything you can publish, Larry.”
“Sure, sure, I know that. I don’t want an interview, but I know you, you’ll be poking around even when you say you’re not poking around.”
“I have been warned, in no uncertain terms, that if I ask too many questions the cops will make my life semi-miserable.”
“That’s you. They can’t tell me to keep my nose out of it; asking questions is what I do for a living. What do you want me to ask?”
Good question. A better one might be Do I really want answers? He pulls a notepad out of his inside pocket. I munch toast for a minute, consult a mental checklist: Don’t broach the subject of Leo’s dead wife, oath of vengeance, definitely nope, and stay away from the fact that Raquel was in all likelihood pregnant at the time of her death. However … “I’d like to find out who defaced Leo’s award at the fancy-dress bunfight Monday night,” I say.
“Defaced, how?”
“Somebody bored a hole through his eye. Took some gear, timing, and somebody to do the job.”
“That’s new stuff,” he says. His pen is moving but he doesn’t look down. “You figure it’s connected?”
“Somehow. And the dead body, as yet unidentified, that they found in the construction hole, most likely fell from the penthouse.”
“Aha!” he says. “This is not information that’s readily available.”
“Something else,” I say.
“Lay it on me.”
“Okay, the limo company switched drivers between the time we got there and the time we left.”
“So?”
“So. The driver was the last one who had the award, and he’s gone missing.”
“Better and better,” says Larry. “Cops looking for him I suppose?”
“I suppose.”
“Which company is it?”
“Ultra.”
“Oh, yeah?” He laughs. “I know that outfit. They chauffeured Ben Affleck last time he was in town. The entertainment mob was following them around for a week. Who’s the driver?”
“Guy named Starr. Dimitar Starr.” I spell it for him.
He writes it down carefully. “Never heard of him,”
says Larry.
“There’s a kicker,” I say.
“Hey, don’t stop now.”
“Ultra is owned by Theo Alexander.”
Hattie’s holding the phone out to me. “Joe? It’s him.”
Leo’s in the penthouse with Mooney and Pazzano. When I get there the three of them are outside. Gulls are wheeling overhead, yelling at the humans below to throw them something. Rain clouds are being pushed up the valley by a west wind and shafts of sunlight are bouncing off the puddles on the terrace. Leo and Mooney are engaged in an intense discussion that doesn’t look amicable. Pazzano is off to the side, edgy, like Cujo on a chain. His eyes light up when he spots me and he dances across the patio to block the French doors.
“They’re busy,” he says.
“Fine by me,” I say.
“What were you doing up on the roof?”
“My job, Detective,” I say.
“Told you to keep your nose out of it.”
“Didn’t think it was off-limits since you fellows had released the Crime Scene,” I say. “Prematurely as it turns out.”
Pazzano’s hands are curled, almost fists, and he can barely keep from bouncing.
“You gonna drop by for a workout one of these days?” he asks.
“Detective, my fighting days are history,” I say. “Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about miniature golf.”
“Sorry to hear that.” He doesn’t bother to take the sneer out of his tone. “I was looking forward to working on a few things.”
I move two steps sideways to look at the big oil painting over the fireplace; an America’s Cup race from the 30s, J-Boats, majestic sloops heeled over in a brisk Newport breeze. The brass plaque on the frame identifies them as Enterprise and Shamrock V.
Pazzano follows me. “Guy in your line of work needs to stay sharp,” he says. “Don’t you think?”
“I’ve been kicked up to management,” I say. “Got some fresh faces looking after the day-to-day.”
There’s another marine painting on the wall to my left. TYRANNOUS, OFF CAPE FLATTERY reads the inscription. The lee rail is awash, the crew hanging over the high side, the man at the helm, bareheaded, windblown, bears a striking resemblance to Leo.
“There’s a safe behind this painting,” Pazzano says. “You know what’s in it?”
“None of my business, Detective,” I say. “Was it touched?”
He doesn’t bother to answer.
On a shelf is a model of the boat in the painting. A racing sloop, navy blue with a thin red stripe the length of the hull.
“You like boats?”
“Don’t know a thing about them, Detective,” I say.
“She was knocked up. Did you know that?”
“I do now,” I say.
He makes a tour of the room, touching things, lifting things and putting them back in the wrong places, cigar box, porcelain figurine, a first edition Jack London Call of the Wild. He’s trying to irk me.
“Yep. His little Senorita got herself knocked up. The lab hasn’t quite determined if he was the father, or if she had something going on the side, but we’ll find out sooner or later.”
Mooney comes in from the patio. Leo is still outside, smoking a cigar, his eyes on mountains.
“You ever heard of this Jesus Santiago before?”
Mooney asks.
“No, Detective,” I say. “Located him yet?”
“He’s on everybody’s ‘Bust His Ass’ list,” he says.
“Glad to be of help,” I say.
“Some help,” he says.
Leo glares in my direction when I step onto the terrace. The muscles in his jaw are clenched, the end of his cigar is ragged. Mooney’s interrogation has left him bruised and bitter.
“Offensive and incompetent,” he growls. “They’re no closer than they were two days ago. They haven’t found the limo driver, they don’t have any witnesses, so now they’re coming at me.”
“It’s what cops do,” I say. “Start over, re-interview everyone. Next they’ll be bothering Connie, Gritch, Ms. Saunders.”
“Those people aren’t suspects.”
“And you are?”
“Not in so many words, but the implication was clear. Rich older man, hotel maid, pregnant, in the will for who knows how much, history of …”
“Of?”
“Old scars, Joseph. Old scars.”
If he doesn’t want to tell me, fine. I’m happy to stay out of it.
He wanders away from me toward a far railing, stands looking out at his city, hands clasped behind his back, cigar in his teeth. For a moment I can see him on the bridge of a clipper heading for Rangoon.
“I once was a man, Joseph. I rode the range, I sailed the seas, I wasn’t locked up like fucking Rapunzel.”
“If you want to go out somewhere, sir, I’ll be happy to come along.”
“That’s just the point, Joseph! I have nowhere to go, or want to go, or need to go. I’ve cut myself off.”
“Takes a little time.”
His hands are gripping the railing and he’s leaning out, looking down. He takes a step back and jerks his head sharply as if banishing a fleeting impulse. “Find the son of a bitch, Joseph!” Leo mashes his cigar into the wet soil of a planter and heads back inside. “I need the books closed!”