by Dan Simmons
Rigby shook her head. “What motive, Joe? Kennedy’s rich, successful, handsome…his security agency is one of the top three in the state, you know. Plus, we checked—his Lear was in transit.”
Kurtz wanted to say are you sure? but stopped himself. The headache throbbed and muted flashbulbs were going off behind his eyes. He set his hands firmly on the top of the steering wheel. “The Major had a son who killed some people down in the Neola high school back in the seventies…” he began.
“Sean Michael O’Toole,” said Rigby. “Kemper ran that down. The crazy kid was sent to the big hospital for the criminally insane in Rochester and he died there in 1989…”
“Died?” said Kurtz. Arlene hadn’t been able to get into the hospital records. “He would have been young.”
“Just turned thirty,” said Rigby. For a woman who’d just downed four tequilas and two beers, she was articulating her sentences well enough, but her beautiful brown eyes looked tired. Very tired.
“What happened to him? Suicide?”
“Yeah. Messy, too.”
“What do you mean?”
“Young Sean didn’t just hang himself or asphyxiate himself with a plastic bag or something…uh-uh. He doused himself and several other inmates with gasoline and set fire to his wing of the high-security ward during visiting hours. Three others died as well as Sean and half the wing burned down. The current director says that he still doesn’t know where the boy got the gasoline.”
Kurtz thought about this. “The Major must have been proud.”
“Who knows?” said Rigby. “He wouldn’t talk to Kemper or me about his son. He said, and I quote—‘Let the dead bury the dead.’ Army officers—you gotta love ’em.” She opened the door and stepped out onto the grassy curb. Clouds were scuttling and the wind from the northwest was cold. It felt like late October in Buffalo to Kurtz.
“You have tomorrow off?” said Kurtz.
“Yeah,” said Rigby King. “I’ve worked the last five weekends, and now that your and O’Toole’s case is officially closed and the dead gay guys have been turned over to the coroner, I get tomorrow off. Why?”
“You want to ride down to Neola with me tomorrow?” Even as he spoke the words, Kurtz was surprised he’d actually suggested this.
Rigby looked equally surprised. “Neola? That little town down near the Pennsylvania border? Why would you…” Her expression changed. “Oh, that’s where Major O’Toole and the Vietnamese colonel had their homes and business before they retired and moved to warmer climes. What’s the deal, Joe? You looking for a little payback for the late-night slap and want some backup while you brace the sixty-something-year-old in his wheelchair?”
“Not quite,” said Kurtz. “There’s something else I want to check on down there and I thought it might be a pretty ride. We’d be back by nightfall.”
“A pretty ride,” repeated Rigby, her tone suggesting that Kurtz had begun speaking in a foreign language. “Sure, what the fuck. Why not? What time?”
“Eight A.M.?”
“Yeah, sure. I’ll drink some more and pass out early so I’ll be in good spirits for our picnic tomorrow.” She shook her head as if bemused by her own idiocy, slammed the passenger door, and walked toward her townhouse.
Feeling some of the same bemusement about himself, Kurtz put the Pinto in gear and drove away.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE
Kurtz had just headed east on Sheridan when his phone rang. He fished it out of his peacoat pocket, thumbed it on while trying to avoid an old woman in a Pontiac swerving from lane to lane, and heard only dial tone. A phone rang again in his other pocket.
“Shit.” He’d answered the Gonzaga cell phone by mistake. He found his own phone.
“I’ve got some of the information you wanted,” said Baby Doc.
“It didn’t take you long,” said Kurtz.
“I didn’t know you wanted me to take a long time,” said Baby Doc. “That would have cost you more. You want to hear this or not?”
“Yeah.”
“The guys I chatted with didn’t sell Mr. G. the metallic article you were asking about,” said Baby Doc.
Kurtz turned left off Sheridan and translated—Baby Doc’s people hadn’t sold Yasein Goba the .22 he used in the shooting.
“But these guys I mentioned have had some contact with our friend.”
“Tell me,” said Kurtz. He was looking at house numbers in the more upscale neighborhood here south of Sheridan Road. The trees were larger here than in Rigby’s neighborhood, the street quieter. The wind was blowing hard and skittering yellow and red leaves across the pavement ahead of his slowly moving Pinto.
“The guys were asked to do some special paperwork for a friend of his,” said Baby Doc.
Forged visa? thought Kurtz. Passport?
“What friend?” he asked.
“A lovely girl named Aysha,” said Baby Doc. “Our late friend’s fiancée. She’s coming from the north to visit Sunday night, as it turns out. Evidently her people don’t keep abreast of the news up there. Probably because they live on a farm.”
Goba’s fiancée, Aysha, was being smuggled across the Canadian border tomorrow night. Neither she nor the smugglers had heard of Goba’s death in Canada where they’d been hiding out and waiting to cross.
“What time tonight? Which place?” said Kurtz.
“You want to know a lot for not much in return,” said Baby Doc.
“Add it to my bill.” Kurtz knew that his offer to return a favor would be called in sooner or later. He was going into a lot of debt this day. He just hoped that Baby Doc’s favor didn’t include him having to fly to Iran to shoot someone.
“Midnight Sunday night,” said Baby Doc. “Blue 1999 Dodge Intrepid with Ontario plates. The span of many colors. She’ll be dropped off just beyond the toll booths at the entrance to the mall.”
It took Kurtz only a second to translate this last. They were smuggling her across the Rainbow Bridge, just below the Falls, in two days. The Rainbow Centre Mall was near the first exit after the Customs booths.
“Who’s meeting her?” said Kurtz.
“No one’s meeting her,” said Baby Doc. “All of her friends on this side went on to other things.” Translation—Goba’s dead. Any deal we had with him died when he did. We keep the money he paid us and she fends for herself.
“Why not cancel the delivery?” said Kurtz.
“Too late.” Baby Doc didn’t elaborate on that, but Kurtz assumed it just meant that no one cared.
“How much did our pal pay for this generosity?” asked Kurtz. Goba worked at a car wash and hadn’t been out of jail long enough to save much money.
He heard Baby Doc hesitate. This was a lot of potentially damaging information Kurtz wanted in exchange for nothing more than a promise of future friendship. But then, he knew what Kurtz had done for his father.
“Fifteen bucks,” said Baby Doc. “For each side.”
Thirty thousand dollars for the paperwork and smuggling, split between Baby Doc’s people and the Canadian smugglers.
“Okay, thanks,” said Kurtz. “I owe you.”
“Yes,” said Baby Doc, “you do.” He broke the connection.
Peg O’Toole’s townhouse was much more handsome than Rigby King’s—brick, two-story, large windows with fake six-over-six panes; her unit shared its building with only three other townhouses, a four-door garage was set tucked away in back and mature trees shaded the small yard in front. The clouds were moving grayer and lower now, the wind blew colder, and the last of the leaves were being torn from the trees like the last survivors dropping off the upended Titanic.
Kurtz found a parking place and crossed the street to look at the townhouse. He had his breaking-and-entering kit in the backseat of the Pinto, but he wanted to think about this first. His concussion headache had grown worse, as it tended to do in the afternoon, and he had to squint to think.
While he was standing there squinting, a man’s voice sai
d, “Hey, Mr. Kurtz.”
Kurtz whirled, one hand ready to move toward the .38 in its holster under his peacoat.
“The security and personal protection guy, Officer O’Toole’s fiancé,” Brian Kennedy, stepped out of an orangish-red SUV, crossed the street, and held out his hand. Kurtz shook it, wondering what the fuck was up. Had Kennedy tailed him here?
“How do you like it?” said Kennedy, turning slightly with a flourish.
It took Kurtz a second to realize that the handsome young man was talking about his sport utility vehicle. “Yeah,” Kurtz said stupidly, following Kennedy back across the residential street toward the big SUV. He’d been wondering if his defensive alertness and powers of observation were suffering because of this stupid concussion, and now he knew. If someone could sneak up on him and park an orange two-and-a-half-ton SUV behind him while he was gathering wool, then perhaps he wasn’t quite as alert as he should be.
As if reading his mind, Kennedy said, “I was parked here listening to the end of something interesting on NPR before going in to Peg’s apartment when I saw you drive up. Like it?”
Kurtz realized that he was still talking about the truck. “Yeah. What is it?” He wasn’t familiar with the badge on the high grill. Kurtz didn’t give the slightest goddamn about what make it was, but he wanted to keep Kennedy talking a minute while his aching brain came up with some excuse for him to be standing out in front of the dying Peg O’Toole’s townhouse.
“Laforza,” said Kennedy. “Limited production out of Escondido. It’s not an SUV, it’s a PSV.”
Pretentious Shithead’s Vehicle? thought Kurtz. Aloud, he said, “PSV?”
“Personal Security Vehicle.” Kennedy pounded the driver’s side door with his knuckles. “Kevlar door inserts. Thirty-two millimeter Spectra Shield bulletproof glass on the windshield, side windows, and sunroof. Hands-free communication and a transponder inside. Supercharged GM Vortec six-oh liter V-8 under the hood that produces four hundred twenty-five horsepower.”
“Cool,” said Kurtz, trying to make his voice sound like a fourteen-year-old’s.
“My personal vehicle is a Porsche 911 Turbo,” said Kennedy, “but I drive the Laforza sometimes when I’m around clients. Our agency gets a small kickback from the people in Escondido if we help place an order.”
“How much would one of these set me back?” asked Kurtz. He kicked the front left tire. It hurt his foot. He’d just expended his entire cache of car-buying expertise.
“This is a PSV-L4,” said Kennedy. “Top of the line. If I get you a discount, oh…one hundred and thirty-nine thousand dollars.”
Kurtz nodded judiciously. “I’ll think about it. I’d have to talk to the missus first.”
“So you’re married, Mr. Kurtz?” Kennedy was walking back toward the townhouse and Kurtz followed as far as the sidewalk.
“Not really,” said Kurtz.
Kennedy blinked and folded his arms. He may look like the current James Bond, thought Kurtz, but he doesn’t seem quite as fast on his intellectual feet as the superspy.
As if responding in delayed reaction, Kennedy laughed twice. He had the kind of loud, easy, unselfconscious laugh that people loved. Kurtz could have happily used a shovel on the man’s head at that moment.
“So what brings you to Peg’s neighborhood, Mr. Kurtz?” The security man’s tone wasn’t aggressive, just pleasantly curious.
“I bet you can tell me,” said Kurtz. This guy drives a Porsche 911 Turbo. He’s a member of that club that Tom Wolfe called “Masters of the Universe.”
Kennedy nodded, thought a minute, and said, “You still think like a private investigator. You’ve been working through some things about the shooting and wonder if there’s a clue in Peg’s house.”
Kurtz widened his eyes slightly as if in awe of Kennedy’s ratiocination.
“But you weren’t thinking about breaking in, were you, Mr. Kurtz?” Kennedy’s white smile took the edge off the question. It was a smile, Kurtz thought, that could honestly be called “infectious.” Kurtz hated things that infected other things.
Kurtz smiled back, with no fear of his chagrined smirk being thought of as infectious. “Naw. I had enough prison time in Attica. I was just in the neighborhood and was…as you say…thinking about the shooting.”
I always used to stand outside victims’ homes and try to pick up on psychic vibes when I was a licensed P.I., thought Kurtz but didn’t articulate this coda. It might be gilding the lily a bit, even for someone as self-satisfiedly obtuse as Brian Kennedy.
“Want to come in?” said Kennedy, tossing a ring of keys in the air. “I was just picking up some insurance stuff and legal papers that the hospital wanted. I don’t think Peg would have minded if you just step in a minute while I’m here.”
Kurtz picked up on the past-tense in that last sentence. Had O’Toole died? The last he’d heard, she was on life support.
“Sure,” he said and followed Kennedy into the building.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-TWO
So what did O’Toole’s apartment look like?” said Arlene when Kurtz was back in the office later that waning Saturday afternoon. “Any clues lying around?”
“Just clues to her personality,” said Kurtz.
“Such as?” said Arlene. She flicked ashes into her ashtray.
Kurtz walked to the window. It had grown colder and darker and begun to rain again. Even though it was an hour from official sunset, the streetlights had come on along Chippewa and the headlights and taillights of passing cars reflected on the wet asphalt.
“Such as the place was neat and clean and tilled with art,” said Kurtz. “Not a lot of original art—she couldn’t have afforded that on her probation officer salary—but tasteful stuff, and more small original oil paintings and sculptures than most people would collect. And books. Lots of books. Mostly paperbacks but all of them looked like they’d been read, not just leather-bound crap to look good on the shelves, but real books. Fiction, nonfiction, classics.”
“No real clues then,” said Arlene.
Kurtz shook his head, turned back to the room, and sipped some Starbucks coffee he’d picked up. He’d brought a cup for Arlene, and she was drinking hers between puffs on her Marlboro. “She had a laptop on her desk,” said Kurtz. “And two low filing cabinets. But obviously I couldn’t look through them with Kennedy there.”
“Weird that he let you come in with him,” said Arlene. “He must be the most guileless security expert in the world…”
“Or too crafty for his own good,” said Kurtz. “He made tea for us.”
“How nicely domestic,” said Arlene. “Made himself right at home in Ms. O’Toole’s townhouse, huh?”
Kurtz shrugged. “He told me that he’d been staying there with her when he was in Buffalo every few weeks. I saw some of his suits and blazers in a closet.”
“He let you wander into her bedroom?”
“He was grabbing some stuff,” said Kurtz. “I just stood in the doorway.”
“Fiancés,” said Arlene, using the tone that other people did when they said “Kids.Whaddyagonnado?” She nodded toward her computer screen where the names of WeddingBells-dot-com clients were stacked like cordwood.
“The question remains, why’d he invite me up?” said Kurtz, turning back to watch the traffic move through the cold October rain. “He asked me what I was doing there, but then he gave the answer—as if he didn’t really want to press me on it. Why would he do that? Why wasn’t he pissed—or at least suspicious—when he found me hanging around outside O’Toole’s townhouse?”
“Good question,” said Arlene.
He turned away from the window. “Do you know any Yemeni?”
Arlene stared at him. “Do you mean any Yemeni people?”
“No, I mean the language,” said Kurtz.
Arlene smiled and stubbed out her cigarette. “I think Arabic is the language spoken in Yemen. Some of them speak Farsi, I think, but Arabic is the dominant languag
e.”
Kurtz rubbed his aching head. “Yeah. All right. Do you speak any Arabic that a Yemeni would understand?”
“Al-Ghasla,” said Arlene. “Thowb Al-Zfag, Al-Subhia.”
“You made that up,” said Kurtz.
Arlene shook her head. “Three kinds of wedding dresses—the dress of the eve of the wedding, Al-Ghasla, the bridal gown, Thwob-Al-Zfag, and the gown of the day following the wedding, Al-Subhia. I just helped a client from Utica order all three from a Yemeni dressmaker in Manhattan.”
“Well, I guess that’ll do,” said Kurtz. “I’ll bring little Aysha here on Monday night and you two can discuss wedding dresses. She doesn’t know she’s a widow even before she’s married.”
Arlene stared at him until he explained about Baby Doc’s phone call.
“That’s really sad,” said Arlene, lighting another Marlboro. “Do you really think that she can tell you anything about what Yasein Goba was doing? She’s been in Canada.”
Kurtz shrugged. “Maybe we won’t even be able to understand each other, but if I don’t meet her up in Niagara Falls tomorrow night, no one else is going to. Baby Doc’s people have washed their hands of her. She’s just going to get picked up by the cops sooner or later and shipped back to Yemen by the INS.”
“So you pick her up tomorrow night and try to talk to her,” said Arlene. “And can’t. What then? Sign language?”
“Any ideas?”
“Yes,” said Arlene. “I know some people through my church who take part in a sort of underground railroad helping illegal immigrants get into the States.”
“Goba’s already had that part arranged,” said Kurtz.
Arlene shook her head. “No, I mean I’ll get in touch with the guy who helps the immigrants—Nicky—at church tomorrow, he’ll call one of the Yemeni people they use to translate, and they can help us talk to the girl.”
“All right,” said Kurtz. “Get your friend’s translator here early Monday morning.”
“Can’t it wait until later?” asked Arlene. “This woman—Aysha?—can sleep at my place Sunday and we can meet with the translator on Monday.”
