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Jinks called out as Dutton walked by her office. “Why the long face? Someone cleaned out your bank account?”
He stepped inside, balancing a briefcase in one hand and a cardboard container with two cups of coffee in another—after he’d gone out to get something better than the bitter sludge he’d had from the breakroom earlier. He dropped the briefcase to the floor. “I was going to put that on my desk first, but . . . “
He handed her one of the coffees. “How do you keep so fit drinking coffee with six sugars and three creamers?”
“I’ve been going to the gym every day at five. Felicia gets the kids ready for school while I get ready for work. Then she gets ready for work. Mornings at our house could use some air traffic control.” She took a sip of the coffee. “You didn’t answer my question.”
He flopped down on a chair. “I ran into Zelda. And then I ran into the mayor. He accused me of trying to win her back to make him look bad. And then to show what a nice guy he is, he threatened department funding over this Forsythe business.” Adam wasn’t about to mention Lehmann’s crack about the radios.
“Oh, is that all? I was afraid he’d gone nice on us because that’s when we should start to worry. At least we know where he stands.”
“He likes to stand on other people. Comes from being the only child in a long line of lawyer-politicians. Bet he’s never had to clean his own bathroom.”
“Or clean up baby puke.” Jinks smiled. “And the uber-privileged wonder why we don’t bow down and worship at their pedicured feet.”
“Think he gets a pedicure?”
“Oh, yeah. A girl Felicia works with saw him at her salon.”
Dutton blew on his plain black coffee before taking a sip. Zelda always said he had scratchy feet. No more scratchy feet for her. Just shopping trips to Fifth Avenue in New York and Newbury Street in Boston, and foie gras at lunch every day if she wanted.
Jinks tilted her head. “So, what did Zelda have to say?”
“Not much. Bought some wine. Says she misses me. Asked about the case.”
“Misses you? Was the mayor half-right? Would you get back together with her after she dumped you for a social-climbing turd?”
If she’d asked him that a few months ago, he might have said yes, pathetic as that sounded. You didn’t live with someone for ten years without forming a bond. But now he wasn’t so sure. Maybe he was finally ready to move on.
“I’m holding out for you, Jinks.”
She laughed. “You’ve got good taste. Who wouldn’t want a half-Asian, half-black lesbian cop?”
He and Jinks had come up through the ranks and made detective at the same time. They were the only two detectives in the small force, but she’d earned his trust a hundred times over. It hadn’t been easy for her, either, due to what she called prejudice times four, or “quad-udice,” for being in not one, but four minority categories. He’d heard the rumors, especially after his kidnapping.
“How’s the case with the missing husband going? Any breaks?”
“After talking to his wife, I’d bet he’s in the Caymans getting himself a new identity to get away from her. But their two kids are adorable. Be hard to leave them behind. We haven’t ruled out murder, yet, since he had a couple grand on him when he disappeared.” She picked at the rim of her cup. “And the Forsythe case?”
“Beverly Laborde is my best lead. She’s hiding something, I just don’t know what.”
“Anything interesting in her background?”
“Nothing to tie her to Forsythe yet. But she’s calm and cool, that one. Intelligent, too.”
“I don’t know. Don’t think it’s all that bright to stiff Reggie Forsythe, if she did stiff Forsythe, from what you’ve been telling me. Sounds like he’s John Gotti, Junior.”
“Possibly. All that chatter about him might have some truth, or it might turn out to be jealousy. Unless I come across something telling me otherwise, he’s the official victim in all this.”
Adam drained the last of his coffee and hopped up to throw the cup in the trash. “I got a lead from Harlan Wilford. Wish me luck.”
“You bet. And hurry up, will ya? The chief is making noises about pulling me off my case to work on Forsythe, too. I don’t want to disappoint those two kids, you know?”
Dutton hurried back to the office to work the phone and computer. A couple hours later, he was standing by the fax, tapping his foot. He’d identified the Kornelson guy Harlan told him Beverly was researching, the owner of the document she’d wanted him to authenticate. Then, he dug up the name of the library where Thaddeus Kornelson’s papers had ended up and extracted a promise from the archivist for copies.
By now it was late in the day, and he debated whether to pore through the materials this evening or wait until tomorrow. Making up his mind, he headed for home, first stopping for some C&S Pizza, heavy on the peppers and onions. With his feet propped on his coffee table, a pizza slice in one hand and one of the faxes in the other, he started to read.
It was detailed stuff, but he got all the way through and re-read it several times. Like Harlan Wilford said, the part about the silver statue was written in verse he strained to decipher. Adam glanced over at his guitar on its stand. Maybe some music would help him think?
Grabbing the remote control to the TV, he instead flipped through the channels hoping to clear his head. But the endless stream of shopping channels, so-called news, and bad cop shows with their GQ pretty-boy detectives made him even more irritated. He stopped at an unassigned channel that was all snow.
Through the hypnotic blur of white dots and hissing static, slivers of an idea began to coalesce in his brain, and he fumbled for his laptop on the floor. The verses mentioned a vault which at first he’d thought meant safe deposit box. And also a sacellum, the Latin word for “monument,” which he’d assumed was referring to the statue itself. But now he believed the words meant something else entirely, so he researched the internet for references to the history of Quechee Gorge.
He checked his watch. Nine-thirty. Too late to scope it out now since the gorge park was closed. He’d have to wait twelve hours. He found one cop show that wasn’t half-bad, but his eyelids kept closing, and before he knew it, the remote fell from the couch to the floor with a “thunk.”
Adam rescued the remote, even as he cursed it for waking him up, and flipped to another channel. He landed on a sports channel broadcasting a cricket match. His mind wandered as he stared at the action without really watching. “Cricket” the word came from cricket the game. As in fair play, honorable. As in what Mayor Lehmann most certainly was not. The Forsythes, too, if they turned out to be as bad as he suspected. And Beverly Laborde?
He’d interrogated black-widow types before. He’d arrested female criminals for everything from embezzlement to murder. But none of those women could match Laborde’s poise, her composure. Perhaps she really was some master criminal, heartless, uncaring, orbiting through her own shady universe. An icy comet—make that a human icy comet—leaving trails of debris behind wherever she goes.
Adam looked at the clock again. Only ten. Some geezer he was turning into, going to bed so early and then falling asleep in front of the TV. Okay, not so much bed as couch. He hadn’t slept in his bed much since the divorce. Probably should sell the house. Or get a new bed. At least, Beverly Laborde was sleeping soundly tonight in her two-fifty-a-night king featherbed.
