chapter twenty-five

“Wow!” says Larry. “Did she luck out. Right place, right time. Crappy way to get the job, but there’ll be no stopping her now.”

“Larry, she’s going into a war zone.”

“Tell me about it. Doesn’t get any better for an up-and-comer.”

Hattie brings coffee for both of us. “You sure no toast for you, Joe?”

“Not this morning, thanks, Hattie, my stomach’s a little off.”

“She’d better get back here soon,” Hattie says. “You’re showing the effects. You’ve got a crease between your eyes.”

“Journalists are rotated out of there every six weeks at most,” Larry says. “She’ll be back soon.”

“She’d better be,” Hattie says. She heads to the other end of the counter to flirt with the man from Coffee Central. Larry pulls a copy of the Emblem out of his jacket pocket. I have a sip. It tastes sour. The morning tastes sour. I reach for the cream and sugar.

“I almost asked her to turn it down,” I say.

“She wouldn’t have, couldn’t have. Assignments like that don’t come around every day.”

“Why couldn’t she be one of the weather ladies?”

“Nah,” he says. “You like it that she’s a battler. It’s part of her charm. Hell, if you’d got a chance to fight Tyson would you have turned it down?”

“’Course not.”

“Even though he would have handed you your head?”

“Iron Mike didn’t wear high explosives strapped to his chest.”

“She’s in the best place,” he says. “Soldiers, armoured vehicles, medical personnel.”

“None of those words exactly calm my anxiety.”

“You’ll be okay,” he says. “Just remind yourself that she’s exactly where she wants to be. An assignment like that is a jump from single-A to the big show. She’s playing for the Yankees, pal.”

“Thought you were a Jays fan.”

“Ask me again when they get over .500.” He looks at the front page. “Pisses me off that we got bumped. Guy’s been a fugitive for six days, half the city’s police force chasing him, you bust him, and you’re not even mentioned.”

“Suits me.”

“I’m sure I stuck your name in here somewhere. Oh, yeah, here it is, ‘continued on page five’.”

“How’d your friend Gloria take it?”

“Generous, professional, swears she’ll cut my throat next time she gets a chance.”

“Peer regard, can’t beat it.”

“So,” he says, folding the paper and leaving it on the counter for someone else, “case all wrapped up? Leo getting out? Mission complete?”

“Still a few things to sort out.”

“Such as?”

I check my watch. It’s still on the wrong wrist but at least I’ve managed to get it facing the right way. The fingers on my left hand are functional again. Sort of. “Weed’s arranged for me to see Mr. Santiago.”

“How’s he involved?” Larry asks. “Aside from trying to kill you?”

“Maybe he’ll tell me this time,” I say.

Jesus Santiago comes into the visitor’s room and takes a chair on the other side of a pane of glass. He’s wearing prison garb and a black eye.

Cómo está usted hoy, Señor Santiago? I ask.

“Your Spanish sucks,” he says.

“Really? Raquel always said I had a good accent.”

“She didn’t want to hurt your feelings.”

I nod. “Yes, she was a kind person.”

“Expecting somebody from Immigration to show up,” he says. “Thought it was you.”

“This will be a short visit,” I say. “Raquel was what? Your sister?”

He waves the question aside. “How bad did I get you?” he asks.

“Just a nick,” I say. “Almost healed.”

“You hit pretty hard.”

“Call it even?”

“Except I’m in here.”

Can’t argue with him there. He wouldn’t be sitting on the wrong side of the Plexiglas except for my interference. “I apologize for getting in your face the other night,” I say. “Raquel didn’t deserve what happened to her. I’ve been trying to find out who did it and I thought you might —”

“Might’ve killed her?”

“— might have seen something that would help me find him.”

“When you do, I’d like my knife back, and five minutes in a dark room with the motherfucker.”

“Can’t blame you for feeling that way,” I tell him. “She was a lovely woman. I liked her a lot.”

“Yeah,” he says. “She had a good heart. My big sister. Always looked out for me. Family, right or wrong. When I told her I wasn’t going back, she said ‘Come up here.’ No questions asked.”

“Going back to the army?”

“Going back to fucking Eye-raq. If I wasn’t in here, I’d be shipping out today.” He looks around. “Fuck, this is an improvement. Three tours is plenty.”

I can’t even imagine what three tours in Iraq would be like and I can’t bring myself to feign empathy. What he’s been through makes my week look like summer camp. “Did you see the man who fell?”

“Too dark. Heard him screaming all the way down though. Didn’t see him till he landed.”

“Nasty way to go,” I say.

“I’ve seen worse,” he says.

“He was one of the men who was in the penthouse,” I say. “We caught his partner yesterday.”

His eyes go cold and hard. “He in here?”

“I don’t know where they’re keeping him.”

“You wouldn’t tell me anyway.”

“Did you see Raquel when you got to town?”

“Called her. She told me to stay close. She was going to get some cash to me so I could disappear. She never showed up.”

“How long were you there?”

“Just a day. Found some dude’s little lean-to. I was going to call her in the morning.”

“You’ve met Raquel’s husband, I suppose?”

“Ex-husband. He divorced her for desertion two years ago. He’s remarried already. Has a kid.”

“I thought she couldn’t get a divorce.”

“Maybe she wasn’t divorced according to the Pope, but according to the State of California, she was a single woman.”

“I think she was wrestling with that,” I say.

“She would. Hell, she wanted to be a nun for a while.” He looks like he’s endured as much of an interview as he’s going to. He looks at the wall clock.

“I’m supposed to talk to some Immigration dude in a minute,” he says.

I stand up. “My boss has some high-priced legal talent at his disposal,” I say, “maybe they can help.”

“Why would he do that?”

“He loved your sister very much. He wanted very much to marry her. She was going to have his child. I think he’d probably like a chance to help.”

“They’ll send me back sooner or later.”

“Be surprised how long a good lawyer can drag things out. War might be over by then.”

“That war won’t ever be over, dude. They’ll just keep moving it around.”

“At least you could get bail to be at your sister’s funeral.”

“Won’t be cheap.”

“I don’t think the money will be a concern.”

“Hell, right now all I’ve got is Legal Aid,” he says. “A good lawyer wouldn’t hurt.”

“I’ll get on it,” I say. “Thanks for your time.” I get up to leave.

He smiles. “Hasta luego,” he says.

“Si,” I say. “Hasta pronto.”

“She was being kind.”

“She was like that,” I say. I stop and look back at him. “My girlfriend’s just been sent to Afghanistan.”

“Army?”

“She’s a reporter.”

“Tell her to stay out of the south,” he says. “All bets are off down there.”

“Welcome home, Mr. Alexander.”

“Thank you, Andrew. I hear they tried to stick you with a new door.”

“Yes, sir. Electrified,” he says with a shudder.

“Turned them down, I hear.”

“It wasn’t worthy of your house, sir.”

“Quite right,” says Leo.

Andrew swings open his gleaming brass showpiece and tips his gold-braided cap a careful inch, a gesture he reserves for heads of state and visiting royalty and never grants to movie stars.

Margo Traynor, bless her, has organized an unobtrusive welcoming line of main floor luminaries, all of them prepared to step forward or quietly retreat depending on what they read on Leo’s face. Leo makes it easy.

“Maurice, you’re looking fit. New position agrees with you?”

“Settling in nicely, sir, thank you,” says Maurice.

“Roy Sullivan was concierge here for thirty-seven years, did you know that?”

“Yes, sir. Taught me everything I know.”

“He used to tell me a story about his first job,” Leo says, raising his voice and angling his head just enough to include the rest of the welcoming committee. “His new boss said to him, ‘I’ll give you a hundred dollars a week. Will you take a hundred dollars a week? And Roy said ‘Sure’ and the guy said ‘Okay, you got a nice two-hundred-dollar-a-week job; don’t let me catch you takin’ no more.”

Leo roars with laughter and slaps Maurice on the shoulder. Maurice manages a reasonable approximation of a guffaw. Hearty chuckles resound, as much for Maurice’s discomfiture as Leo’s story, and the ice is broken. Rolf Kalman is embraced and engaged in a private consultation regarding Leo’s evening meal. Rolf suggests a wine or two, an agreement is reached; he shakes Leo’s hand formally. Leo nods at me to shake Rolf’s hand as well. Mine has a hundred-dollar bill folded in the palm. Cheery greetings for Gritch and Rachel, genial waves and nods for the gathering, and I begin ushering my boss toward the elevators.

Margo steps forward holding a thin leather binder, which she hands to me. “Messages and legal papers,” she says. “Nothing critical.”

Leo turns and comes to her, takes both her hands in his and leans close. “Miss Traynor,” he says quietly, “be assured that I am fully aware who actually runs this house.”

“Kind of you to say, sir.” She looks him square in the eye, doesn’t curtsy, give her that.

“I take it Mr. Gruber is still under the weather?” Leo inquires.

“He’s expected tomorrow.”

Leo looks around at the stately expanse of the main lobby. “Looks almost as good as when she opened.”

“You’ve done a fine job bringing her back, sir.”

“It’s a new age for the old girl,” he says with pride. “She needs a fresh hand on the tiller.” He smiles. “We will chat again, very soon.”

“You owe me money,” I whisper as I walk by.

“We’ll see,” she says. “Day’s not over yet.”

Roland is holding elevator number one for us. Leo plants himself like a stockman appraising a prize bull. “How are the calves coming along, young man?” he asks.

“Eighteen inches this morning,” Roland says with some pride.

“Good, very good.” Leo judiciously pokes one enormous bicep. “Be no stopping you this year.” He enters the car, I insert the penthouse key, the doors begin to close, a manicured hand breaks the beam, and Roselyn Hiscox, perfect hair, impudent smile, steps inside and faces her father. If she’s suffering a hangover, I see no evidence.

“Looks like you got away with another one, Daddy.” she says.

He takes a moment to focus, or gather himself.

“Rose?”

As I move forward, Leo puts out an arm to stop me. The doors close behind her, the elevator begins to rise.

“Did you get my birthday card?”

“My goodness,” he says with admiration in his voice, “you look positively —”

“Sane?” she asks, brightly.

“I was going to say beautiful, elegant, confident, that sort of thing.”

She’s wearing a pale gold outfit, jacket and pants. No doubt a well-known designer’s name is tacked on, somewhere. “But sane?” she asks again.

“I never thought you were crazy, Rose.”

“Really? I could have sworn when you packed me off to the funny farm —”

“That was for your protection. Surely you know that by now.”

“Oh,” she says. “I thought it was for yours.”

There is an awkward pause. Well, awkward for me. Roselyn appears to be enjoying the moment.

Leo retrieves his aplomb, turns to me. “You’ve met my daughter, haven’t you, Joseph?”

“Yes, sir, we’ve talked a few times.”

“She’s turned out quite splendidly, wouldn’t you say?”

“Very stylish.”

“We Alexanders always knew how to shop,” she says.

Leo says, “The last time I saw you —”

“Relax, Dad, I won’t shoot you this time.”

A sudden sense memory — a branding iron scorching my chest, Havana tobacco turned to smoldering powder in my hand. I feel the hairs on the back of my neck rise and cold beads spring to my forehead. If she so much as caresses the catch on her designer bag I’m going to deck her. I thumb the knot on my clavicle reflexively. The elevator is taking its time.

“I’ve found more positive ways to channel my madness,” she says.

“Glad to hear it, glad to hear it,” says Leo. The adrenaline rush has brightened his eyes and restored his composure. The doors open and he leads the way into the penthouse.

Roselyn looks around with the air of an interior decorator itching to be turned loose. “My, my,” she says. “Positively Edwardian.”

“First time you’ve been up here, isn’t it?” Leo asks.

“Nobody would give me the secret password.”

“It’s a bit early, but I’ve had an abstemious weekend. Join me?”

“No, thanks,” she says.

“Joseph?”

“No, thank you, sir. I should really be attending to things.”

“Not yet,” says Leo.

“He thinks I might have a gun in my bag,” she says.

“Have you?”

“I’ve found the word processor to be mightier than the .32.”

“Mind if I check?” I ask as politely as I can.

“Help yourself,” she says.

The purse is soft gold leather and holds nothing lethal.

I hand it back. “I never saw your face that night,” I say.

“No one did,” she says. “Black is invisible at a bunfight like that. It was the perfect operation. Except I missed.”

“Not entirely,” I say.

“Joseph tells me you’re writing a book,” Leo says conversationally. He pours himself a generous splash of brandy. I’m proud of him; his hand doesn’t shake and he doesn’t knock it back.

“Yes, I am. It should be a lulu.”

“I look forward to reading it.”

“Actually, I thought you might want to bid on it, before it gets between the covers, so to speak.”

He laughs with genuine amusement. “You think I’m afraid of what’s in it?” He shakes his head. “I don’t care if my life gets plastered over the front pages.” He finally takes a drink, half of it in one swallow, inhales deeply through his nose, his combative spirit restored. “My self-indulgence has cost me over the years — divorces, settlements, animosities, grudges — but I don’t owe anyone. Every business deal I made was a fair fight and the people I was up against would have done the same to me.” He drinks again. “But certain things … you do certain things for family, to protect your family. You maintain a level of reserve.” He looks at her. “It’s your life I’ve been trying to protect.”

“Me, too, Daddy. Catharsis. That’s what it’s all about. Lance a few boils, bellow a few primal screams, and collect a big payday.”

“You’ve never had to worry about money. There has always been a trust fund in your name.”

“Which name? Rose Alexander? Rosie Webster? Roselyn Hiscox?”

“What does it matter? You will always be my daughter.”

“Will I?”

“Of course.”

“If you don’t need me any longer, sir …” I start.

“Stick around, Joseph. There are a few things you should probably hear.” Leo pours himself another measure of brandy and walks toward the windows. Outside, the sun is shining. “You came within an inch of killing Joseph that night, you know?”

“I didn’t expect him to move that fast.”

“Yes. Surprising in a man his size.”

“If it’s any consolation,” she says, “I wasn’t aiming at you.”

“It isn’t,” I say.

“If you’d killed him I wouldn’t have been able to let it go,” he says. “Not this time.”

“Why not? You cover up your own.”

“I’ve never killed anyone.”

“And yet they die,” she says. “On second thought, I will have a drink.”

“Joseph?”

“I can pour my own,” she says. “Got any vodka?”

“In the freezer,” Leo says.

“Juice, tonic?” I ask.

“Tonic,” she says.

I open the refrigerator. A few items are still waiting for a party that will never take place — chocolate truffles and a baking tray of little cakes. I grab tonic, and a lime, just in case, ice cubes, and a frosty bottle from the freezer.

She’s followed me into the kitchen. “I’ll take it from here,” she says.

She slides a knife out of the rack and slices the lime neatly in half. My forearm twitches. One of these days I’ll add up the war wounds I’ve incurred while in Leo’s employ. All in all I think prizefighting may have been the less hazardous profession.

“That night is still ablank, is it?” Leo asks. “Psychiatrists and therapists and now a public revelation of family secrets and you still can’t face what happened that night.”

“I have faced that night, Daddy dear. A thousand times. I’ve been hypnotized, regressed, drugged, and had my dreams picked over like pigeon entrails.” She stirs her drink once with the knife blade, has a sip. And another. “I know my mother died,” she says. “And I know that the only one who hated her was you.”

“I never hated Lorraine.”

“Could have fooled me,” she says.

“Would you mind putting the knife down?” I ask.

She looks at the blade in her hand as if surprised to find she’s still holding it. She smiles at me. “Do I worry you, Joseph?”

“A woman was killed in this kitchen with a knife like that,” I say. “And as near as I can figure, so was your mother.”

She places the knife carefully on the cutting board and steps back. “There,” she says.

“Thank you.”

“Terrible coincidence, don’t you think?” she says.

“I doubt it was a coincidence,” I say.

Leo comes toward us, his eyes cold. “If I thought you had anything to do with Raquel’s death …”

“You’d what? Ship me back to the Websters?”

“That was for your own good.”

“You didn’t really think I killed my own mother?”

“What was I supposed to think? You were covered in her blood. Your fingerprints were on the knife.”

“I found her body.”

“It doesn’t matter now,” he says.

Roselyn erupts. “What unmitigated horseshit!” she yells at him. “Of course it matters. You didn’t defend me. You made it clear to everyone that I’d done something unspeakable and then made me disappear. I was in shock. I was practically catatonic.”

“The police were going to take you into custody.”

“They had nothing. I’ve checked. I got my hands on a copy of their file. The prints were from my left thumb and finger. I picked it up like this.” The knife dangles like a dead fish.

“They didn’t want to prosecute. We all thought it would be better for you …”

“And for you.”

“It had nothing to do with me. I wasn’t there.”

“You came back early.”

“Someone did,” I say.

Chocolate truffles in the refrigerator sit beside a familiar baking pan. Date squares.

“I’m leaving now,” I say. I turn my special key and summon the elevator. “If it’s any comfort to the pair of you, you’re both innocent of the murder of Lorraine Alexander.” The elevator bell rings. “And the murder of Raquel Santiago,” I finish.

“Joseph!” Leo barks. He walks across the room and faces me. “Who?”

“Check the refrigerator,” I say. “You’ll figure it out.” The elevator doors close.

“What are you doing?”

“Looking at security tapes. What are you doing?”

“Packing. I’m getting a lift to Tokyo.”

“Good. That’s in the opposite direction.”

“Dee’s coming over. I get to pick my own camera crew.”

“Is she happy about it?”

“Are you mad? She’s doing handsprings.”

“I don’t get you media types,” I say. “Smart people run away from danger. If someone tried to drag me into a war zone I wouldn’t be doing handsprings.”

“You had your own war zones pal,” she says.

“With rules,” I say.

“What’s on the security tapes?” she says, neatly changing the subject.

“Cars,” I say. “Coming, going, coming, going.”

“Sounds exciting.”

“It’s depressing.”

“Really? Why?”

“There’s a car I didn’t want to see, coming and going.”

After Connie goes back to packing I start on the security tapes for the fifth, sixth, and seventh floors. The most likely ones. When the cameras were made operational January 1st, they came with a monitoring station that was set up in the small office next door. I’m not sure who we ousted to get the space but these days it holds a number of TV sets and computers and the like. I rarely go in there and I’d be lost in my present pursuit if Todd wasn’t handling the technical details, time codes, buttons to push, which monitor to look at.

“Roughly what time for these?” Todd asks.

“Between two and two-thirty,” I say. Can’t be a lot of traffic that time of the morning.”

“Emergency exit cameras, east side, that’s this one. Sixth floor. Nobody, nobody, and … somebody.”

“That’s all I need, Todd, thanks. Keep that one and the parking garage one separate okay.”

“Sure,” he says. “Cracked it, right?”

“I’m afraid so,” I say.

Olive’s is mostly quiet on Monday nights. Olive usually takes the night off. Sometimes Barney takes the night off. Not much reason for Weed to be there other than at my invitation.

“You’re sure about this?” he wants to know.

“Oh, yeah,” I say.

“All pretty circumstantial,” he says.

“You didn’t come down here because you think I’m nuts.”

“I’m just saying. We don’t actually have anything concrete.”

“All you need,” I say. “Security cameras from the parking garage, and the sixth floor emergency exit, dates and times, licence plate, and parking receipt.”

“I kept thinking this had to have some connection to the Calgary thing. It was just too damn symmetrical.” He’s drinking coffee. This isn’t a night for merriment. “Cold cases never go away,” he says. “Some cops go to their graves still gnawing on something that happened fifty years back.”

“Roselyn said that Madge found her huddled under a table, covered in her mother’s blood. If that’s true, only two possible explanations: Rose Alexander, age nine, stabbed her mother to death; or, Madge got back from Calgary a little earlier than she told the police.”

“Okay,” he says, “grab a couple of hours sleep. We’ll get an early ferry.”

“My vehicle isn’t roadworthy at present,” I say.

“I’ll drive,” he says.