by Neil Olson
“You saw my flag,” said a voice so slack it was almost indecipherable. A branch hit the ground near Dave’s head—the club that had struck him. A man bent to retrieve the bloody rag. His shaggy hair made a blond halo in the light beam. Bending and straightening took some time. “Must have thought it was a surrender flag.” Pete cackled, but the sound was horrible through his ruined face.
Dave tried again and was able to breathe, but the pain in his ribs doubled. Small breaths, he told himself. Gentle, gentle. Pete squatted beside him. One eye was swollen shut, he had the bloated lips of a corpse, and there was blood all over his face and shirt.
“You,” Pete said. “They send you to do the dirty work, huh? That used to be my job. You poor, stupid dick.”
Dave rolled onto his side and tried to speak, but what emerged was the noise a child might make imitating a dinosaur.
“Whoa there,” said Pete. “Don’t make me hit you again.”
“Who did that to you?” Dave whispered.
“Hell,” Pete laughed. “Don’t they tell you anything? You need to reconsider your line of work, friend. Where’s my pistol?”
“Don’t know.”
“I saw you picking up stuff out there.”
“Cigarettes,” Dave wheezed. “No pistol.”
“Damn,” Pete growled, but the tone shifted quickly to whining. “That’s my only gun, man. I need it.”
“What for?”
“Business, you know?”
“Blackmail business?”
“Shut up. You shut up or I’ll kick you where it hurts.”
“That should be easy.” The pain was backing off somewhat, and Dave thought he might not be too badly hurt. “What happened, Pete?”
“Man don’t like hearing the truth, that’s all.” He stood and reeled a few steps. “I thought you were one of them. That’s why I hit you so hard.”
“You should go to the hospital. We both should.”
“Nah, I got to get out of here. They might have called the cops. Make it all my fault, you wait and see. I didn’t break your back or nothing, did I?”
Dave sat up very slowly, though not slowly enough. He tipped his head, thinking he would vomit, but nothing came. Mulhane was already moving away, disappearing noisily into the surrounding darkness.
“Pete,” Dave called after him. The heavy steps stalled, but Dave was not sure what he wanted to say. “What happened to the painting?”
“He didn’t really hire you to find it, did he?”
“No,” Dave admitted, both to the other man and to himself. “That was a lie to pull me in. I just want to know.”
“I didn’t take it.”
“But you know who did.”
“What did she tell you?”
“Who?” But that was wrong, Dave knew. He should have guessed, or kept quiet. The footfalls started again. “Stay away from them, Pete. You hear?”
“Why should I?” the disembodied voice asked.
“Because those types always come out on top.”
“That’s what they think, but I know things.”
“What do you know?” Nothing. “Well, it doesn’t matter,” Dave said in a tired voice. “They’re poison. They poison anyone who comes near them. You stay away.”
“Yeah,” the other man said after a few moments. “Maybe. You do the same.”
Dave retrieved the flashlight and made a pathetic attempt at pursuit. Even in his battered condition, Mulhane managed to disappear completely before Dave freed himself from the trees. No more woods, he thought as he staggered over the damp grass toward the street. Go back to the city and stay there.
The street was empty. Where was the damn car? Had Teresa driven off? Had Mulhane taken her hostage? But, no, there it was fifty yards away. It was Dave who had come out in the wrong spot. Teresa sprang out of the passenger seat as soon as she saw him, eyes wide with worry and phone plastered to her ear.
“Are you all right?” she asked, looking him up and down.
“More or less.”
“It’s Philip,” she said, holding the phone out to him. Dave grabbed it too roughly.
“What is she doing with you?” the lawyer demanded. His voice sounded stronger but also thicker. Dave suspected whisky courage.
“I’d still be driving in circles if she wasn’t here.”
“I didn’t tell you to—”
“Pete’s alive.”
“He is? Thank God. What shape is he in?”
“Good enough to club me with a tree branch. But you worked him over pretty good, or someone did.”
“Is he there, do you have him?”
“No, he got away from me.”
“Damn it, Webster. The man’s dangerous, he could say anything.”
“He’s badly banged up, he’s lost his gun, and I think I convinced him to keep his distance from you. Philip, what is going on?”
“Okay, okay, we’ll just have to... Go back to the house, and I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Philip,” he said savagely, then held the phone against his chest while he breathed deeply and painfully. Why the ribs again? He brought the device back to his ear and spoke calmly. “If you do not tell me what the hell is going on right now, I am going to drive to your house and beat it out of you.”
“I have to think this through,” the lawyer insisted. “Be patient. I’ll call in the morning.”
“Philip, no. Philip?”
The connection was cut. That high-handed little dick, Dave would bounce his head off the walls of his pretty white kitchen. He would grind his... Teresa was watching him.
“What?” he said furiously.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yes,” Dave said more gently. He was not angry with her, and anyway she was utterly unimpressed with his rage. “I’m good. Probably cracked ribs.”
“Should we get you to a doctor?”
“There’s nothing to do for ribs. They don’t even bind them anymore, just give you painkillers.”
“Pete’s all right, too?” she asked cautiously.
“I wouldn’t say that. He was all right enough to give me the slip a second time.”
“What do we do now?”
Right. Get with the program, Dave. He levered himself very slowly into the passenger seat as Teresa scampered around to the driver’s side and swung in.
“Now,” Dave breathed, when the pain had subsided enough to speak. “We go show your uncle that I do not make idle threats.”
* * *
The house was dark, except for a light in the kitchen. No sign of the Mercedes in the driveway or the garage. No way to know if someone lurked in the bushes. Dave had felt eyes upon him since walking the Owl’s Point woods, and all nature was suspect now. They went to the kitchen window and peered in. Chairs were knocked over, and there was broken glass on the table and floor. He could just glimpse a painting askew in the hall.
“Quite a brawl.”
“Do you think Pete came here after we talked to Philip?” Teresa asked.
“Doubt it. He was in no shape to do this kind of damage. Let’s take a closer look.”
He used a potted geranium to shatter one pane of the window and unlock it. No alarm sounded. He began to pull himself up, but Teresa grabbed his forearm.
“You aren’t in any condition for that.”
“I can’t ask you to break into your uncle’s house,” Dave said, pleased at recovering so quickly. The pressure of her hand had shut his brain down briefly.
“I’m guilty by association just standing here. I’m also lighter and smaller, but you have to give me a boost. I’m not exactly athletic.”
“Okay. Be very careful of the glass. And don’t touch anything you don’t have to.”
“You want me to levitate?”
“That would be best.”
She may not have been an athlete, but her legs were strong, and she was a good climber. He held her a little too long, which was better than letting go too soon. Half a minute later she let him in the door.
The worst damage was in the kitchen, and it was not too bad. Overturned chairs and a few broken glasses. From the impact marks on the wall, Dave guessed they had been thrown at someone. The coffee table in the living room was tipped over and the sofa knocked back a foot. In the cramped study in back, a cut crystal glass with a faint scotch residue sat on the desk. Beneath it was a check and a note. The check was made out to David Webster for $10,000. The note said: We’ll talk soon. Keep your mouth shut.
“He knew you would break in,” Teresa said, amazed.
“Yes,” Dave agreed.
“And what? He ran off so he wouldn’t have to face you?”
“Possibly. Possibly he was running from someone else.”
“Like Pete,” she said.
“Maybe. He may also have been chasing someone.”
“You know, don’t you?”
“No,” Dave said. Which was true, strictly speaking. Though he had a theory or two.
“This is hush money,” Teresa said, flicking the check with her finger. Her moral vehemence amused him.
“It’s just money.”
“We need to call the police now. Let them figure this out.”
“Teresa.” How should he say it? “Some men have beaten one another for reasons they understand and we don’t. I would be very surprised if any of them pressed charges, and no one involved wants the police called.”
“Then what do we do next?”
“The wise thing would be to go back to the house and finish your work.”
“Do you usually do the wise thing?”
That made him laugh, though it hurt. “Almost never.”
“My work is essentially done,” Teresa said. “I want to understand what’s happening to my family, Dave. It’s important to me. So I’m asking you again, what do we do next?”
20
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.”
