When she woke, they were on the Garden State Parkway.
“What time is it?” Teresa asked, stretching. She had been dreaming again. Something upsetting involving her father. In fact, she felt on the verge of a seizure, there inside the dream. Awake now, the threat had passed. “Did I snore?”
“Not that I noticed,” Dave replied. His eyes were fixed on the sun-bleached highway. The urban sprawl of northern New Jersey had given way to parched grass, wildflowers and stunted pine. “Do you normally?”
“I didn’t think so, but my last boyfriend complained.”
“And that was the end of him.”
“I have a one-strike rule about insulting my womanly perfection,” she quipped. “Come on, you could at least smile.”
“I’m smiling on the inside,” he said, a sliver of amusement reaching his lips. She knew he was in pain. He had refused her spare Vicodin in favor of Advil—apparently alcohol was not his only demon. Contrary to the latest medical wisdom, they wrapped his ribs in cloth bandages this morning, before setting out from Owl’s Point. Any awkwardness she felt handling his bare torso was dispelled by his acute discomfort, and the ugly bruising.
“Look at this traffic,” Teresa said.
“This is nothing. I should have come down in October all those years.”
“You a Jersey Shore guy?” she asked, surprised.
“Used to be, before I got married. July and August this road is a parking lot.”
“Your wife didn’t like it?”
“It never occurred to me to bring Luisa to Surf City or Barnegat Light. She’s more a Greek islands or Costa del Sol kind of girl.”
“I’ve never been there,” Teresa said. Without envy, but with some wonder at why she had been so few places in her life. “Must be beautiful.”
“Some of it. They wrecked the Spanish coast with overbuilding. I prefer Madrid.”
“I love Madrid,” she gushed. “I mean I used to. I haven’t been in a long time.”
“Dad’s hometown.”
“Yes.” Of course he would know that. “What happened with your wife? If I can ask.”
“I made the mistake of working for her father.”
“Before or after you got married?”
“It all happened together,” he said in a weary voice. She left it to him to continue or not, and after a while he did. “We met in graduate school. Your field, art history.”
“No kidding? I guess that makes sense, given your work.”
“We were terrible students.” He shook his head and grinned, so Teresa did also. He had an oddly contagious smile. “Luisa wasn’t really that interested. But her dad investigated stolen fine art and she worshipped her dad, so she tried. I was more into it, especially the Spanish stuff. Your field again. But I was also lazy and undisciplined. I only cared about what I cared about. The oddballs and mysteries. Like, whatever happened to Storm on the Sea of Galilee? From the Gardner heist, you know? What was in the lost top half of El Greco’s Vision of Saint John? Where was Goya’s demonic self-portrait?”
“You knew about that in school? Before you took the case?”
“Yes,” he said fervently. “It was one of those rumors that got passed down through the generations of art wackos. The people I gravitate toward. I was obsessed with it.”
“So you got your degree and what?”
“Never got the degree,” Dave said. “I dropped out and went to work for Luisa’s father. The great Ricardo Reál, also known as Richard Real. She and I had gotten serious. More serious than I was about my studies. Luisa had worked through that youthful creative impulse and switched to law school. She was used to living a certain way. I needed to make money. And the work interested me, at first. Then less and less, until your grandfather called. Eighty-one, this is us.”
They followed the long curve of the exit ramp and headed east on Lakehurst Road.
“It was one case,” Teresa said.
“No,” Dave answered. “It was the case.”
“It’s not your fault that it wasn’t solved.”
“Ricardo thought I mishandled it. That I told your grandfather too much, too soon. I came to agree with him, but either way I couldn’t let go. I kept investigating in my free time. Then on work time, then all the time. Ricardo warned that I was slipping, but I wouldn’t stop. He had to fire me. I starting drinking too much. Luisa and I had terrible fights. You find out some things about people too late. She preferred winners, like her dad. She had no stomach for adversity. Anyway, it’s a sad story, and a common one.”
And too simple, Teresa thought. At least in that version, but it was not her business.
“You reminded me of her,” he said. “Luisa. When I first met you.”
“Gee, Dave, I don’t know what to say to that.”
“Nothing. It was momentary. You are fully your own person now.”
“Yeah? Which way did you like me better?” Teresa asked. Feeling her face redden and wondering who she had left in charge of her mouth. Dave only smiled, which was just as well.
They parked in a lot on Water Street, near the river from which the town took its name. Then they walked east toward The Riverside Grill, one of several businesses in a row of two-story brick-fronts, with a marina in back.
“You know her by sight,” Dave said, “so go in and ask for her.”
“What will you do?”
“There’s a good chance she won’t want to talk. There must be a kitchen entrance on the water side. If she’s scared, that’s the way she’ll run.”
“And you’ll do what? Tackle her?”
“Make her see reason,” he said impatiently. “I’m counting on her being worried about her brother. If she doesn’t care, we’ve got no leverage.”
Teresa tarried on the sidewalk, thinking. “Other way around,” she said, before self-doubt could trip her. “You go in the front and I’ll go around back.”
She could see his skepticism, and waited for him to explain why it was a stupid idea. Which for all she knew it was.
“Okay,” Dave said instead. “I’ll give you five minutes to get there. But look, if she shows one ounce of hostility, you get out of her way.”
“Jenny isn’t going to hurt me. What she might do to you, I can’t say.”
Teresa let him ponder that while she sought the nearest route to the water. There was an alley between a liquor store and a boat repair shop, but it ended at a fence. No gate was visible. Backtracking to find another way would take more than five minutes, or however long she had now. Flexing her fingers a few times, she took hold of the shaky wooden fence and climbed up, peering over the top. The drop did not look bad, so she swung herself over and let go. The concrete walkway she landed on connected to the boat piers and ran parallel to the back of The Riverside Grill. Teresa moved in that direction, waiting for someone to challenge her presence. Her senses were sharp. Too sharp, yet she felt in control. Late-morning sun was bright on the water. A group of middle-aged men and women on a gleaming white yacht were laughing and listening to ’80s rock. A young kitchen worker from the restaurant hosed out large plastic tubs.
When Teresa was within twenty yards, the door behind the kid opened fast, and a woman stepped out. She was in jeans, a T-shirt and windbreaker, and those clogs that chefs wore—good for arch support and keeping above a hot grease spill. Not so good for quick getaways. The woman tossed a soiled apron back through the door before closing it, then shuffled toward Teresa as quickly as she could move. Looking over her shoulder so often that she took no notice of the younger woman until they were face-to-face.
“Jenny,” Teresa said, bringing the cook up short. She was heavier, and her strawberry hair had gone gray, but the lively green eyes were the same. Just now they were confused, bordering on hostile. “It’s Teresa. Teresa Marías.”
“Oh my goodness,” the woman nearly shrieked. The smile was forced, but there was genuine warmth in her voice. “Little Tay. You’re a grown woman.”
“So they tell me.”
“What are you doing here?” Then the penny dropped, and Jenny nodded slowly. She waved an arm back toward the restaurant. “That’s your man inside?”
“My, um, yes,” Teresa fumbled. Her man.
“It’s lovely to see you, child, but this is a terrible time. I have to be getting—”
“Jenny, when did you last talk to Pete?”
“Pete.” The word seemed foreign to her for a moment. “A few days ago. Why?”
“He’s in trouble.”
The woman deflated, shoulders falling as the breath went out of her. She swayed a moment, then pulled in a fresh lungful of river air, straightening up. Resilient. Or anyway, unsurprised.
“Of course he is. How bad?”