But she believed in the wrong thing, she had chosen the wrong side, and that was reason enough to dismantle her life.
THURSDAY
17
"Ocean's hell on paint and wood," Edward Keyes said, handing out scrapers and brushes to Crow and Lloyd. "Ocean's hell on everything, corrosive as a sonuvabitch. I usually paint in the fall, but my Mexican crew up and quit on me."
"Do you have to stereotype them by race?" Crow said automatically, then regretted it. They were dependent on this man's generosity, after all.
"What I'd say? Just said they quit, and they did. Left me high and dry last fall, and now I'm way behind if I'm gonna open for Mother's Day weekend. I should give up on shingles, go with something more mod-ren I know, but I like the old-timey look. It's not as much work as it looks to be, not once you get a rhythm."
Lloyd, who had glared at Edward Keyes throughout his overview of the seasonal preparation required by Frank's FunWorld, spoke for the first time. "Why Frank?"
"What?"
"Your name ain't Frank. So why this place called that?"
"Sounds better, don't you think? Allitter-something."
"Alliteration," Crow put in, and the other two regarded him as if he were the nerdiest kid in the class.
"Had a cat named Frank once. Mean old tom. By the way, you'll want to get as much painting done as you can in the morning. Wind kicks up in the afternoon something fierce. That's why I usually do it in the fall." And with that, Edward Keyes left them, whistling a happy tune.
Crow supposed that he would be cheerful, too, if he were dispensing the supplies for this backbreaking work, then retiring to the sheltered interior of the park to tinker with the rides and reassemble the Whac-A-Mole games, with a radio to provide some mental distraction. Crow and Lloyd remained outside on this bright, windswept day, with nothing but their own companionship. Which could have been pleasant, but the only conversation Lloyd seemed capable of was a litany of complaints.
"Why we got to paint? We're paying our way, aren't we? You givin' him cash for our food and our rooms, which ain't much. So why we got to work?"
"What else are we going to do with our time?"
"I don't know. Watch TV and shit. Anything but this."
"What would you be doing back home, a day like today?"
"Find some action. Hang." Lloyd made a few desultory passes with the paintbrush. "Why can't we use a roller at least? Go a lot faster."
"Roller won't cover shingles. We'll be able to use it on the concrete, though, on the other side. And when we get to that part, it will seem so easy it won't be like work at all."
"Were you a teacher?"
Crow was flattered. "No, but it interests me. I think sometimes of going back to school, getting a certificate." Only how would I explain to Tess that I could afford it?
"Yeah, that sounds like teacher shit." Lloyd pitched his voice high and took on a bright, prissy tone. "‘Really, it's not that hard, boys and girls, if you just try.' That kind of thing. They was always saying shit like that."
"Was there anything you liked about school?"
"It was warm," Lloyd said pointedly. "They didn't make us stand outside in the cold, painting shit."
"Look, if we talk, pass the time, this will go a lot faster."
"I got nothing to talk about with you. Seems to me talking is what got me here."
"Here" was actually beautiful in its way, a short, old-fashioned stretch of boardwalk in the town of Fenwick, just above the state line and Maryland's far-busier resort, Ocean City. The early-spring light, the empty beach, the careworn buildings—they made Crow's fingers itch with the desire to paint again, although not in this way, applying coats of latex to the battered surfaces of Frank's FunWorld.
"World" was a little grandiose for this bunkerlike rectangle that contained one bank of Skee-Ball machines, several video machines, a single Whac-A-Mole, and a couple of booths for the hand-eye coordination games that spit out tickets good for schlocky items at the so-called Redemption Center. The rides were geared toward small fry for the most part—little motorcycles that went 'round and 'round, little boats that went 'round and 'round (although their basin was dry), and a ringless, currently horseless merry-go-round. The only concession to anyone above age ten was a bumper-car ride, with the obligatory You Must Be This Tall sign. They would have to paint that, too, Mr. Keyes had said. That and the clown's face. Well, Crow had just complained to Kitty that he never got to paint anymore.
"No, I mean we could just talk talk. About life. Or movies and books. What do you like?"
"I like them dinosaur books and movies," Lloyd said. "Jurassic Park."
"Michael Crichton. So you like futuristic plots, science fiction."
Lloyd made a face, but Crow decided it was the word "science" that was putting him off.
"You liked Minority Report, right?"
"The one with the Top Gun dude?"
"Yeah, sure. Anyway, the guy who wrote that also wrote this one called Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?, which they made into a Harrison Ford movie. Bladerunner."
"Bladerunner's a better title."
"Maybe." Crow began with bounty hunter Rick Deckard and his mood organ, his argument with his wife, Iran, whose name confused Lloyd no end. Crow's memory was shaky at first, and he sometimes conflated film and book, but slowly the beloved story came back to him in detail, almost every sentence intact.
Once the mix-up over Iran's name was cleared up, it wasn't apparent if Lloyd was listening. Then he asked a question about midway through, a clarification of some plot point. Other than that, he was quiet and thoughtful. The wind seemed to settle down and the sun grew stronger, so the work wasn't quite as hard on their exposed hands. Before they knew it, they had finished scraping and painting most of the shingles.
"That guy write any other stories?"
"A few," Crow said.
When the wind kicked up as predicted and they had to suspend painting for the day, Crow prevailed on Edward to come to the library with them. He was paranoid enough to want to avoid using his own card to check out materials, even if it turned out that Delaware and Maryland had some sort of reciprocity agreement between their library systems. A silver-haired volunteer with an accent that reminded Crow of his Virginia roots showed them the library's books-on-tape, which included several unabridged editions. With the tapes running up to twelve hours, they couldn't get through more than two in a week of work, and it was hard for Crow to imagine they would be in this limbo much longer than that. He encouraged Lloyd to make one of the selections. Lloyd picked Stephen King's The Stand, despite Crow's subtle lobbying for The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon. "No girls," Lloyd had said. Crow chose Robert Parker's Early Autumn, then picked up several books as well—Chester Himes, Walter Mosley, Elmore Leonard's Rum Punch, which Lloyd seemed to find mildly intriguing after being assured it was the basis for Quentin Tarantino's Jackie Brown.
"That was kind of conspicuous," Edward Keyes said when they were back in Fenwick, sitting down to a lunch of warm soup and grilled cheese sandwiches, made on the hot plate in Frank's office. Crow had considered his own appetite remarkable until he watched Lloyd consume four sandwiches, three glasses of sweet tea, and most of the Utz chips in under ten minutes.
"What? Choosing Stephen King and Robert Parker? Or buying a boom box with a tape deck to play them?"
"The three of us going up to the South Coastal Library. Me getting a library card after living here almost twenty years without needing one, then helping some white kid and some black kid check out books on tape. They'll be talking about that for months, up to the library."
In Baltimore fashion he pronounced it "lie-berry." The very sound of Edward's vowels made Crow a little homesick.
"It's not as if anyone is looking for us," Crow said. "Not in this, um, configuration. True, the authorities are keen to find Lloyd. Maybe," he added hurriedly, noting Lloyd's panicky look. "But as far as everyone else is concerned, I'm down south, looking for bands to
book at the Point."
"I told Spike I'd take you in, no questions asked, and I'm not asking any. I'm just making a few commonsense observations. You're supposed to be laying low. What you did today—that was about as laying low as a mallard tap-dancing at the edge of a duck blind."
"Okay, so we won't go to the library again. We probably won't need to. I'm sure we'll have this sorted out in less than a week."
"No hurry," Edward said. "It's not like I'm going to run out of work for you two to do. You might not be able to paint in this breeze, but there's plenty of other stuff to do around here."
Crow had been afraid of that.
Jenkins decided to take Gabe to a restaurant where he still had some residual drag, dating back to his first tour of duty in Baltimore. McCafferty's was a Mount Washington steak house, sort of the Palm Lite, with caricatures of Baltimore celebrities hanging on its walls. "Baltimore celebrities"—now, there was a phrase that could never be used without invoking in-the-air quotation marks. But the steaks were excellent and the location obscure, so the likelihood of being overseen or overheard was practically nil.
"What do you think?" Jenkins asked Gabe, who was studying the caricatures with what appeared to be a mix of yearning and contempt. He was a New Yorker. Well, a New Jersey kid, but the biggest snobs often came from across the river. He probably wanted to be up on that wall, but felt sheepish about it, as if he were aiming too low.
"It's a good New York strip, although a little pinker than I normally like. Restaurants just don't believe you when you ask for medium, but it's what I prefer."
Dumb-shit. "No, I mean about the case. Is there a way we could sort of slide our way in, without actually breaking faith with the county police?"
"Oh, the case." At least the Youssef investigation excited the kid more than the food in front of him. "If you really want to take it from them, we need to press my kidnapping theory. Although we could argue that the mere fact it appears to be job-related—a federal prosecutor, probably killed on orders of a drug dealer—gives us an entrée as well."
"Yeah." Jenkins swirled the red wine in his glass, watched the legs run down the side. He had gotten very enthusiastic about wine for a while there, started learning the basics and the vocabulary, then lost interest. Dinner was going to cost him about $140, and he would have to put it on his personal card, given that none of this was authorized, although he would tell the kid it was on the government. Not that he couldn't afford it, but it seemed unfair somehow. Why shouldn't an agent be allowed to take an AUSA to a meal, no questions asked? They were talking about a case, damn it, the murder of a federal prosecutor. But it was that kind of loose thinking about his expense account that had caused Jenkins so much grief when they started gunning for him.
"Yeah," Jenkins repeated. "Thing is, I'm not so sure we want the case, officially. Not the way it is now."
"What do you mean?" Oh, the kid was a glory hound, wild for the scent.
"They're gonna drag her to the county grand jury, right? And she'll probably give in, tell them what she knows. But that's too public, too drawn out. It builds expectations—and it gives her too much power. I'd like to get to him—and I'm sure it's a him, fuck that ‘he-or-she' shit—before this whole thing gets out of hand. Plus, the trail gets colder every day. She says he's out of town. With our luck he'll be in Mexico by the time she gives up the name. She could be stalling us for just that reason."
Gabe chewed thoughtfully, although not thoroughly. When he opened his mouth to speak, he still had a little steak moving around.
"But what else can we do except wait, if we're not willing to take the case away from the county cops?"
"You're a federal prosecutor."
"Yeah." Realization was dawning, but it was a slow, ponderous dawn. Jenkins preferred young men who thought a little faster on their feet, but he was stuck with this one.
"Example: Collins did a little door-to-door in her neighborhood yesterday, while we were at the interview. One guy said she had a houseguest recently, a black kid who caused all sorts of problems. I say it's the source. We figure out who his contact is, this allegedly dead guy, and I'll bet anything it's a drug dealer. That links her guest to drug dealing, and that means she had a drug dealer staying under her roof."
Jenkins turned over the palm of his right hand, gesturing Gabe to follow him. But he was still chewing his undercooked-by-his-standards steak.
"RICO statutes," Jenkins prompted. "You accuse someone of allowing drugs to be dealt from her house, you can file to seize the house, the car. Once her own assets are threatened, she won't be all Joan of Arc, will she?"
"Bit of a reach. It presumes that we can figure out who the dead contact is and that he's a drug dealer."
"Collins said he could have that name in twenty-four hours," Jenkins said. "Besides, no harm in bluffing, right? We don't have to actually do any of this. We just have to make her think that we can. But okay, put RICO aside. We also could have her bank records in a day or two, depending on what bank she uses. So many of our old guys are in security gigs around town, they'd let you eyeball her records, probably, if we tell them the paperwork is coming."
"I'd have to go to Gail…." The kid looked at once nervous andeager, wanting this opportunity, yet fearful of breaking chain of command. Jenkins would never have gotten anywhere if he thought this small. Then again, he might not have gone too far either. It had been such a shock when they came for him, especially when he realized how his colleagues gloated at his fall. Yes, he had been a little pushy and he had courted the media more than he should have. But he'd also been genuinely collegial, a good guy, friendly and helpful. He hadn't realized that small-minded types could hold even innocuous stuff against you. Pygmies. Fucking pygmies. He wondered if that was a word you were allowed to say anymore, if it was now officially insensitive. But "fuckin' little people of tribal origin" didn't have the same ring, did it?
"We don't need to involve the boss lady just yet. No authorization memo, nothing in writing. You and me, we could just go visit the chick dick at home, unofficial-like. Talk to her. Let me tell you, once you start poking around people's affairs, you always find something. If all else fails, just say IRS. Everybody cheats on his taxes."
"I don't."
"Well, yeah, of course. We don't." Jenkins winked at the boy over his wineglass. He was drinking iced tea and had seemed judgmental when Jenkins ordered alcohol with lunch.
"No, I don't. For real. I don't even itemize deductions. Without a house it's not worth it. And when my dad rigged up an illegal cable box, I told him to take it down or I'd turn him in."
"You didn't." Jenkins tried to make his tone sound admiring, but he was actually thinking, What a stiff-necked little prick.
Ah, well. That just made him even more perfect for the task at hand.
18
"Miss Monaghan?"
Tess was used to being accosted anywhere, anytime in Baltimore, her personal and professional identities forever overlapping. Relatives crashed meetings with clients when she was foolhardy enough to conduct her affairs in public places, while those who knew her through her work had no qualms about confronting her during obvious downtime. Once, a disgruntled city official, unhappy with the effect that Tess's research had on his divorce settlement, kept up a running commentary on her ethics during a screening of Lawrence of Arabia. He had finally been led out of the Senator Theater by two young ushers, still hissing invectives all the way—"Bitch! Whore! CUNT!"—while Tess stared straight ahead, trying to lose herself in the restored glory of Peter O'Toole's gaze.
Still, it was disconcerting to have someone address her formally while she was naked except for Jockey underwear.
"Yes, that's me," she said, pulling on her bra and T-shirt as quickly as possible.
"I'm sorry to bother you, but you looked too, um, focused to interrupt on the gym floor. I'm Wilma Youssef."
The first irrelevant thought that crossed Tess's mind was, But you're so blond. Silly, she had imagine
d Youssef's wife more as a sister—dark-haired, dark-eyed, olive skin. The woman standing at the end of this row of lockers was a petite, blue-eyed blonde. Tess's second, still-not-on-point reaction was, You've kept your face out of the news. Gregory Youssef's image may have been as ubiquitous as the girl on the Utz potato chip bag, but his wife had managed to stay off camera, no small feat for a grieving widow.
Then, finally, an almost appropriate observation: What did one say to a notorious widow? What did one say to a widow who almost certainly believed that you were an obstacle in her husband's murder investigation?
"Hi," Tess said, offering her hand, once her T-shirt was in place. Mrs. Youssef declined to shake.
"I really need to talk to you, but I don't have much time. My mother-in-law spells the nanny at day's end, but I hate to impose on her longer than necessary. Can we speak in the café upstairs?"
Tess made a face. There was nothing wrong with the bar-restaurant in the Downtown Athletic Club, but gym was like church to her—a sacred place, yet not one where she wanted to linger once her ablutions were done.
"The Brass Elephant is just a few blocks away. Could we have a drink there?"
"Oh, yes. That bar you like so much."
"How do—"
The widow Youssef's smile was at once sad and superior. "We've been making quite a study of you. Do you think it's a coincidence that I'm at this particular gym at this particular hour? I don't exactly have time to work out."
Tess wasn't sure what was more unnerving—the idea that someone could so easily discern her patterns or the woman's use of the first-person plural. Who was this "we," exactly?
No Good Deeds Page 14
