by Kathy Reichs
“What, you don’t like dogs?”
“This pair seems a bit high-strung.” Dripping with sarcasm.
Seconds later, Slidell and I were seated on an overstuffed sofa in an overfurnished living room. Pinder sat opposite in a Brentwood rocker. From the back of the unit came frenzied scratching and yipping, muted now by walls and a door.
While Slidell opened the interview, I studied Pinder. She had pale skin, bottle blond hair, and oddly lopsided cheekbones, the left jutting forward more than the right. Were it not for an overabundance of makeup, her aquamarine eyes would have been striking. I put her somewhere just south of twenty.
The apartment put her somewhere just north of eighty. Doilies. Knickknacks. Carved wooden pieces straight out of the Depression.
And photos. Lots of them. All showing people or pets. Apparently there’d been a long march leading up to the current Pomeranians.
The air was thick with odors. Fried food? Mothballs? Soiled laundry? Cigarette smoke?
I refocused on Pinder. She was describing her job at a bar on Wilkinson Boulevard. Slidell was taking notes. Or pretending to. Every now and then Pinder would pause, as though listening over the sound of the dogs. I suspected we weren’t alone in the house.
“Let’s talk about Vince Gunther.” Slidell got to the point.
“He’s my boyfriend. Was my boyfriend. What’s he done?”
“What makes you think he’s done something?”
“Why else would you be here?”
“Where is he?”
Pinder shrugged. She was wearing blue jeans and a black T-shirt that said Cheeky Girls.
Cheeky girls? A club? A philosophy? A rock group? Katy was right. I was growing old and losing touch. I made a note to find out. Maybe I could impress her by dropping the name.
“Wrong answer,” Slidell said.
“I don’t know. Maybe California.”
Pinder began worrying the fringe on a rocker cushion, twisting and untwisting strands around her index finger.
“California?”
“He talked about going west to work on his tan.”
“Let me explain something, Miss Pinder. You cross me, and roughly ten tons of do-do will descend on your head.”
“We broke up.”
“When?”
“A couple weeks ago. Maybe three.”
“Why?”
“’Cause Vince’s a creep.”
Thumping and rattling joined the canine cacophony, suggesting the dogs were now throwing themselves at a door.
“If Vince’s a creep, why go his bail?”
“He said he loved me. I’m an idiot. I believed him.”
Grabbing the armrests, Pinder twisted to shout over one shoulder, “Poppy! Peony! Knock it off!”
“Explain how that worked,” Slidell said, voice edged with annoyance.
Settling back, Pinder sighed theatrically.
“Vince asked me to take five hundred dollars to some office down by the courthouse. He said he’d pay me back as soon as he was out.” The fringe-twisting resumed.
“He stiffed you,” Slidell guessed. “Then dumped you.”
Pinder’s eyes came up, misty and red with anger. “Vince’s a fag-fucking whore.”
All righty then. A woman spurned.
“He could have made me sick.” Her lips trembled and moisture welled on her lids. “Who knows? Maybe he has.”
Tears broke free and rolled down her cheeks, taking a lot of mascara with them.
“My granny’s got Alzheimer’s. There’s no one here but me. Who’ll tend to her if I die?”
Granny was probably upstairs sleeping. That’s why Pinder was alert to sounds in the house.
“Don’t sound like Vince’ll be stepping up to the plate.”
I gave Slidell the Look.
He hiked both shoulders. What?
“You’re really not sure where Vince has gone?” I asked.
Shaking her head, Pinder backhanded more tears.
I decided to try another tack. “How did you and Vince meet?”
“He came into the bar.”
“How long did you date?”
“Three months.” Mumbled. “Maybe a year.”
“You were close?”
She snorted.
“Did the two of you talk?”
“What do you mean?”
“Did he confide in you?”
“Apparently not.” Bitter.
“Did he ever mention a kid named Jimmy Klapec?”
She looked surprised. “I know Jimmy.”
Slidell’s brows shot to his hairline.
“Can you tell me about that?” I asked.
“Jimmy and Vince are friends, you know, both being on their own.” She looked from me to Slidell and back. “Jimmy’s nice. Shy, you know? And kind of sweet.”
“Jimmy Klapec is dead,” I said.
The heavily mascaraed eyes went wide.
“He was murdered.”
Wider.
“When was the last time you saw Jimmy Klapec?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe last summer. I only met him once or twice when he came into the bar with Vince.”
Slidell began thumbing pages over the top of his spiral. “Vince was busted on September twenty-eighth, you pried him loose on the twenty-ninth. He mention seeing Klapec around that time?”
“Sort of.”
“Sort of?” Impatient.
“The night Vince got out we stayed here, caught some TV and ordered a pizza. Cheap bastard. That’s pretty much all we ever did. Problem is, my granny was having her nightmares, so I ended up mostly upstairs. Vince was watching some rock-and-roll thing. Hold on.”
Shooting to her feet, Pinder disappeared through a doorway. In seconds we heard banging, then, “Poppy! Peony! I’m gonna whip your butts.”
Seconds later, Pinder returned and dropped into her chair.
“Go on,” Slidell said.
Pinder looked blank.
“You’re nursing Granny and Vince’s catching some tube.”
“Oh, right. One time I’m passing through the room he’s pointing his beer at the TV, laughing and hooting. I ask, What’s so funny? He says, Looks just like him. I say, Who? He says, Friend of Jimmy’s. I say, Where is Jimmy, anyway? He says, Jimmy got into it with this dude and took off. I say, When? He says, Earlier that night. Then the asshole cracks up again. Vince is moody. I was glad he was happy. And I figured he was probably drunk.”
“Who was he pointing at?”
“Some dork in a hat.”
“Vince ever mention someone looked like Rick Nelson?” Slidell asked.
“Who?”
“A singer.”
“Sounds like him. Jerk was always comparing people to movie stars and stuff. He once said his former girlfriend looked like Pamela Anderson.” Pinder snorted. “In his dreams.”
Slidell looked at me. I shook my head, meaning I had no other questions.
Slidell handed Pinder a card. “You see Vince, you give us a call, eh?”
Pinder shrugged.
Back in the Taurus, Slidell said, “Not the brightest bulb in the marquis.”
I asked, “Got Rinaldi’s notes?”
Slidell dug the photocopies from a grease-stained canvas bag on the backseat. As he drove, I reviewed what his partner had written.
JK. 9/29. LSA with RN acc. to VG. RN-PIT. CTK. TV. 10/9-10/11? CFT. 10. 500.
“Pinder’s story supports our take on this. According to VG, presumably Vince Gunther, JK, presumably Jimmy Klapec, was last seen alive with RN, presumably Rick Nelson, on September twenty-ninth. RN’s probably the violent john that Gunther quit doing.”
“The guy Klapec fought with,” Slidell said.
“The guy who killed him.”
“And that guy’s Asa Finney. Rick Nelson with pits.”
I still wasn’t totally convinced.
“Did you check out CTK?” I asked.
“Yeah. And PIT. No record of Finney or
Klapec flying to Akron or Pittsburgh any time in the last thirty days.”
I looked at Rinaldi’s final entry.
RN = BLA = GYE. Greensboro. 10/9. 555-7038. CTK-TV-9/27. VG, solicitation 9/28-9/29.
GYE 9/27?
“Vince Gunther was arrested for solicitation on September twenty-eighth, spent the night in jail until Pinder arranged for his release the following day. OK. That part’s clear.”
“When I find the little greaseball he’ll wish his ass never left the slammer.”
Slidell made a hard right. I braced on the dash, then refocused on the notes.
Boyce Lingo’s phone number.
“Glenn Evans says Rinaldi never called his boss. Maybe he did, maybe he didn’t. What’s important is Rinaldi recorded Lingo’s number. Why?”
“I don’t know. Yet. But I do know one thing. I’m gonna put a car on Miss April Pinder.”
“You think she might be hiding Gunther?”
“A little surveillance never hurts.”
I went back to the notes.
“Greensboro. Evans said he and Lingo were in Greensboro on October ninth. Was that what interested Rinaldi? And if so, why?”
Suddenly, a line connected two dots.
30
“RN EQUALS BLA EQUALS GYE.” I TWISTED IN MY SEAT, EXCITED. “BLA. Boyce Lingo Assistant. GYE. Glenn Evans. That’s got to be it.”
Slidell flicked his eyes to me, back to the road.
“Check out Evans’s middle name,” I said. “I’ll bet the farm it begins with a Y.”
We rode in silence as Slidell merged onto I-277 to loop southeast around uptown.
I tried to reach out to my subconscious. Why the subliminal alert while Slidell was questioning Evans?
Nothing.
“So what’s Lingo’s connection? Was Eddie looking at him as a suspect? What would Lingo’s motive be?”
“Sex. Drugs. Money. Jealousy. Betrayal. Envy. Take your pick. Most murders result from one on the menu.”
There was another long stretch while Slidell considered that.
“What about the artwork on Klapec’s chest and belly?”
I had no explanation for that.
“And one other minor detail. Evans says he and Lingo were in Greensboro when Klapec got capped.”
Or that.
It was 4:40 when Slidell dropped me at my Mazda. Traffic was brutal driving to UNCC. By the time I arrived at the optoelectronics center, Ireland had gone. As promised, she’d left hard copy of her SEM scans.
Wanting to get home before celebrating another birthday, I grabbed the envelope and bolted straight back to my car.
I was on Queens Road when Slidell rang my mobile.
“Glenn Yardley Evans.”
“I knew it.”
“Old Glenn and I are about to have another encounter.”
“I’ve got SEM magnifications of the bone I took from Jimmy Klapec’s femur.”
“Uh-huh.” Slidell sounded decidedly unenthusiastic.
“Now what?” I asked.
“Now I talk to Evans and you look at your…whatever the hell it is you just got. We swap stories in the morning.”
My thumb moved to DISCONNECT.
“And, doc.”
I waited.
“Watch your back.”
Knowing the larder was empty, I stopped and loaded up at the Harris Teeter supermarket on Providence Road.
It was dark when I pulled in at Sharon Hall, too late for sunset, too early for moon-or starlight. Entering the grounds was like plunging into a black hole. The ancient oaks loomed like silent black giants guarding the dark swath of drive.
Circling behind the main house, I was surprised to see a red and blue glow pulsating from the direction of the Annex.
I cracked my window.
And heard a recognizable staticky sputter.
My scalp tightened and my palms went moist on the wheel. Killing the headlights, I crept forward far enough to peek around the corner.
A CMPD cruiser was angled toward my condo, doors open, radio crackling, dual beams lighting two cops and a man.
Though my view was partly obscured by bushes and the edge of the coach house, I could see that the man stood with arms raised, palms flat to one wall of the Annex. While one cop frisked him, the other asked questions.
The man was tall and lean and wore a leather jacket and jeans. Though his back was to me, there was something familiar about him.
As I watched, the frisking cop found and examined a wallet. The man spoke. The cop pulled something from inside the man’s jacket.
I couldn’t stand it. Knowing I should stay back, I made the turn and rolled closer.
Porch light haloed the man’s hair. Sandy. Not long, not short.
Something prickly blossomed in my chest.
Impossible.
The frisking cop passed an object to the questioning cop. Words were exchanged. Body language relaxed. It was obvious tension was easing.
Both cops stepped back.
The man dropped his arms and turned. The frisking cop handed the object to him. Tucking it inside his jacket, the man raised his chin. Light fell on his features.
The trio watched as I rolled into my driveway and climbed out of the car. The frisking cop spoke first.
“Good timing, ma’am. We were informed the porch light was a signal for trouble. Seeing it lit, we approached the premises, found this gentleman looking into one of your windows. He says the two of you know each other.”
“Detective Ryan is an old friend,” I said, staring into a pair of Arctic blue eyes.
“You’re good then?”
“We’re good.” Tearing my gaze free, I turned to the officers. “Thank you for your vigilance.”
The cops pulled out. Crossing to my car, I began hauling groceries from the trunk with unsteady hands. Wordlessly, Ryan joined in the effort.
In the kitchen, I offered Ryan one of the beers Katy had left in my fridge. He accepted. I opened a Diet Coke for myself.
Took a long drink. Set the can on the counter. Carefully. Spoke without turning.
“You’ve been well?”
“Yes. You?”
“Yes.”
“Katy?”
“She’s good.” I didn’t offer that she was out of town for a while.
“I’m glad. She’s a great kid.”
“This is a surprise.” I didn’t ask about his daughter. Mean-spirited, I know, but pain takes you past the point of civility.
“Yes.” I heard movement, a chair scrape, more movement.
“You’ve picked a bad time, Ryan.”
“I came for Rinaldi’s funeral. He was a good man.”
I’d forgotten. How many years now? Three? Four? Ryan met Rinaldi and Slidell while helping me with a case involving black marketeering in endangered species.
“And to see you.”
Tentacles began squeezing my heart.
My eyes fell on Monday’s wineglass, still upturned in the wooden dish rack beside the sink. The newly awakened beast called out.
How welcome that would be. Glowing red warmth, then confidence and conviction. Finally, oblivion.
Followed by self-loathing.
Closing my eyes, I fought to banish the craving.
“Where are you staying?”
“A Sheraton out by the airport.”
“How did you get here?”
“A couple of uniforms dropped me at the corner of Queens and something. I walked over from there. I turned on the porch light and was poking around.”
“And got busted for peeping.”
“Something like that.”
“I could have let you go to jail.”
“I appreciate the character reference.”
I didn’t answer.
“We need to talk.” Ryan’s tone was gentle, yet insistent.
No, wrangler. We don’t.
“I’ve made mistakes.”
“Is that a fact?” I could barely speak.
/> “It is.”
The refrigerator hummed. The clock ticked on the living room mantel.
I tried to think of something distracting to say, or at least light and clever. Nothing came to mind.
In the end what I said was, “Is the beer cold enough?”
“Just right.”
I could barely breathe as I emptied bags and placed items on my pantry shelves. Ryan watched, silent, aware of the jolt his sudden appearance had delivered. Knowing I’d open real conversation only when ready. Or I wouldn’t.
From the beginning I’d felt an almost overwhelming attraction to this man, initially resisting, finally succumbing. Right off it was more than just sex or the assurance of a Saturday-night date. Ryan and I had spent hours together, days, watching old movies, cuddling by fires, arguing and debating, holding hands, taking long walks.
Though never roommates, we’d been as close as two people can be. We’d shared secret jokes and played silly games no one else understood. I could still close my eyes and recall the way his back curved into his hips, the way his fingers shot through his hair in frustration, the way he smelled just after a shower, the way our bodies molded when dancing.
The way he could stop my breath with a wink from across the room. With a suggestive quip on a long-distance call.
Then, one day, he just walked away.
Now Ryan was drinking beer in my kitchen in Charlotte.
How did I feel?
Hostile. Cautious.
Confused as hell.
Did I still love him?
Pain also has a way of wearing love down. And Ryan had never been easy.
Nor, to be fair, had I.
Did I want that melodrama back in my life?
I felt compelled to say something. What?
The tension in the room was almost palpable.
Mercifully, my cell sounded. I checked the caller ID. Slidell.
Mumbling an apology, I walked into the dining room and clicked on.
“Yes.”
“Talked to Evans.”
“Yes.”
“Where are you?”
“Home.”
“You OK?”
“Yes.”
“What? You sick again?”
“No. What did you learn from Evans?”
“Well, ain’t we Miss Congeniality?”
I was definitely not up to soothing Skinny’s wounded sensitivity.
“Evans?”
