“Definitely,” Chris said. “It’s midnight in DC. I just hope nothing’s wrong.” She gestured at a couple of armchairs. “You grab a seat and take the call. I’ll round us up the coffees.”
“Okay—but don’t look so worried. Jamie’s a night owl. Midnight’s early for her. Probably nothing at all.” She sank into a soft leather chair and hit the Talk button.
“Alix, Jamie here. I’ve done some checking on Tiny for you, and well . . .”
“Uh-oh, there’s a problem, isn’t there? I can hear it in your voice.”
“A teeny-weeny tiny one, yes. It seems—”
“—there’s a warrant out for his arrest. I knew it. Oh, boy—”
“No, nothing as serious as that. It’s just that it turns out the man doesn’t seem to exist.”
Alix breathed a sigh of relief. “Well, I can’t say I’m surprised. Tiny does do his best to stay below the radar.”
“No, I don’t mean we couldn’t find him. I mean the man . . . does . . . not . . . exist.”
Alix had reached for one of the coffees that Chris had brought and was moving it toward her mouth, but that stopped her. She put the cup down on a glass-topped side table. “I’m afraid you’ll have to explain that a little more.”
“Alix, it turns out that in all of these United States, only one person named Beniamino Guglielmi Abbatista was born between 1950 and 1970. He came into this world on April 30, 1958, and resided with his parents in an apartment at 1134 Jerome Avenue in the Bronx, on the ground floor of which was Caruso’s Barbershop.”
“Yes, that all sounds right. What’s the problem?”
“The problem is that the little guy died of bronchopulmonary dysplasia on December 4, 1958, at the age of eight months, and was buried in St. Raymond’s Cemetery, where, presumably, he still resides.”
“What!” Alix very nearly knocked the cup over.
Chris stared at her, concerned. “Alix . . . ?”
“Tiny doesn’t exist!” Alix whispered.
Chris blinked. “Oh, is that all,” she said. “You had me worried for a minute.”
“You understand what this means, don’t you?” Jamie said.
“Not really, no. If he’s not Tiny, then who is he?”
“Oh, I’d say he’s still Tiny, he’s just not Tiny Abbatista. But exactly who he is . . . sorry, that I don’t know.”
“But how could he—”
“It’s not that hard to pull off, Alix, and back then it was even easier.”
It was particularly easy when you had access to the parish records of a sizable Catholic church, she explained. And St. Raymond’s was one of the biggest and oldest in New York. All you had to do to find yourself a new identity was to go through their records until you located somebody who’d been born about the same time you had, and would thus have been about the same age you were—but who’d conveniently died as an infant, thereby handily eliminating any alternative paper trail that might trip you up, such as Social Security number, work history, etc. The backup information that you needed to go along with your new ID was right there in the records for you too: address, parents’ and siblings’ names, and more. As for a fake Social Security card and things like a birth certificate, they could be easily made to order, then as now.
“And you think that’s what he did?” Alix asked. “But wait, he’s been in prison—more than once. Wouldn’t this have come out the very first time they arrested him? Don’t they check things like that?”
“My dear, naive child, I hate to shake your confidence in our criminal justice system, but no, it probably wouldn’t have come out. Why would the police have checked local birth records?” She snorted. “And even if they had, good luck with digging out the info. Remember, it’s only the last few decades that those records have been computerized and put into a central data bank. As far as the police would have been concerned, he had a legitimate name and he had a Social Security card; that would have been enough. I’m sure he had an official-looking birth certificate too—maybe even the real one. Now, if he’d been accused of a really significant federal crime, it might have been different, they might have done some—”
“But the whole plan—thinking it up, searching through the records, finding someone to fake the Social Security card and everything, and then seeing it all through—it sounds a little . . . well, complicated for the Tiny I know.”
“He wouldn’t have needed to do all that himself, Alix. All he had to do was find somebody to take care of the whole thing for him. They’re out there: contractors, you might say, who lay it all out, sub-contract the various elements to specialists, and pull the whole thing together. For a fee, of course. Not generally a lavish one, I should add, since the clients they deal with don’t tend to be from among the one-percenters. Mostly, they’re illegal immigrants these days, but there are plenty of other people—crooks, deadbeat dads, fugitives—who are in the market for new identities too.”
“Wow,” Alix said softly. “This is really . . . unexpected. Is there anything else you can tell me?”
“I wish I could, but the truth is, I’m stymied. I’ve got a few irons in the fire, a few people here at the Bureau to talk to, but at the moment, about all I can say is that whoever he is, he isn’t Benny Abbatista. Who he really is . . . sorry, not a clue. Yet. I should be talking to Ted again pretty soon. Maybe he’ll have some ideas. That’s okay with you, isn’t it? We’re not talking about anything official.”
“Sure, I wish you would. And listen, you can mention this to him too: Whoever Tiny turns out to be, I’ve got a really good lead on where he is, and that’s Monterey, so my friend Chris and I are flying there tomorrow morning. We’ll have a lot of places to check, so it might take awhile, but if he’s there, we . . . will . . . find him.”
“And do what, when you do?” Jamie asked with a rare note of concern, or perhaps even disapproval in her voice.
“Nothing dangerous, I promise, not that Tiny would ever hurt me. If the guy is in trouble, and he obviously is, we want to do what we can to help him out. Please don’t worry about us, and don’t let Ted worry either.”
“It’s not Tiny that worries me,” Jamie said, “it’s whoever the guys are that he’s running from.”
“Why would we be in any danger from them?” Alix asked. “Why would they want to hurt us?”
“I don’t know.”
“How would they even know where we are, or who we are, or that we’re even looking for him?”
“I don’t know.”
But even as Jamie said this, Alix realized she was forgetting the man she’d spotted in Washington Square only a few hours ago. They were being followed, and it was surely in hopes of being led to Tiny; what else could it be? Were they in any danger? The stab of concern that accompanied this thought lasted only a moment. If the Sudoku-playing young man with the smudged glasses and the brown baseball cap was all they had to worry about, then there wasn’t anything to worry about. Chris, who’d intimidated him simply by standing over him, could handle him with one hand tied behind her back; maybe both.
“On my honor,” Alix said, “I will stay miles from any possible trouble. Also, I want you to know that I really appreciate what you’ve done. Thank you.”
“Okay, kiddo, I’ll take your word for it,” Jamie said with a sigh. “As if I had any choice. Look, take care, and I’ll call you if I come up with anything else.”
Naturally, Chris was avid to hear everything, and Alix took a few minutes to fill her in while they sipped their coffee and Chris nibbled at some of the shortbread biscuits that had been set out between the urns.
“That,” Chris said, “is absolutely fascinating. It makes Tiny even more interesting than he was before. An international man of mystery.”
“Mm. It’s amazing, really, when you think . . .” She let the rest of her sentence die away. “Oh, my God,” she murmured.
Chris, with a cookie halfway to her mouth, stopped and goggled at her. “Now what?”
“Chris, I’ve been so
stupid . . .”
“How? About what?”
“I should have known, I should have realized . . .”
Chris let out something between a sigh and a growl. “I wonder if you have any idea how much time I sit around wondering what you’re talking about before you decide to let me in on it.”
“Since I was a little girl,” Alix said, continuing to talk to herself more than to Chris, “I’ve heard him talk about being born in the Bronx over a barbershop, so why would I not believe he was born in the Bronx over a barbershop?”
“I don’t know. Why would you not? And what difference does it make if he wasn’t; if he was born over a barbershop in Springfield, Illinois, or over a butcher shop in Lexington, Kentucky, or, or . . .”
Alix finally focused on Chris. “Because, although his English is fine now, twenty-five years ago, when I was five or six years old, he spoke it—and wrote it—as if he had just gotten off the boat the day before: ‘Good-a morning to you, Ahlix. Today we gonna havva some-a nice-a-day, yes?’”
“Okay, but didn’t you once tell me his family didn’t speak it at home? Wouldn’t that explain it?”
“So he said, yes. But as a boy, wouldn’t he have spent most of his waking hours outside the apartment—at school, or running around with his friends? Why wouldn’t he have picked up the language from them? Immigrant kids do it all the time. Nobody has to teach them.”
“Yes, I know that, but—”
“And he was always singing Italian songs and using Italian words because he couldn’t find the right ones in English. Chris, I think maybe he had just gotten off the boat. I think maybe he was born in Italy. Never mind ‘think.’ I’m sure of it. All the pieces fit.”
Chris thought it over and slowly nodded. “You’re right. Wow.” The cookie finally reached its objective, and she chewed for a few seconds before saying, but with obvious reluctance: “But you know, I can’t help wondering why your father never told you about this. He’s his oldest friend—they go back practically to the time Mr. X became Mr. Abbatista. He has to know.”
“Well, yes, all right, he might,” Alix said uncomfortably, “but obviously Tiny didn’t want it known and Geoff was honoring his wishes.” She frowned. “What, you don’t buy it?”
“No. Maybe there was no reason to tell you before, but—no offense, Alix, really, but shouldn’t he have told you yesterday when you told him you were going to be looking for Tiny? It seems kind of pertinent, wouldn’t you say?”
“Yes, but . . . oh, gosh, he tried to tell me. We were on Occidental Mall. He came right out and said, ‘You know, Alix, there are some interesting things you don’t know about Tiny’s past.’”
“And?”
“And I said, like the supercilious brat I am, that I didn’t need to know about his past, thank you very much.”
“You shut him up.”
“That I did. One more thing I need to apologize to him about. We do a lot of apologizing to each other, we Londons.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about it. You know Geoff doesn’t hold a grudge. Water under the bridge.”
“The London bridge,” Alix said with a smile. “More water under it than any other bridge in the known world.”
“In any case,” Chris said, laughing, “now that we’ve come up with this, what now?”
“Now I get ahold of Jamie again,” Alix said firmly, her excitement building. “Now we might start getting somewhere.”
CHAPTER 21
With Jamie, it was full steam ahead; no convincing necessary.
“That makes a lot of sense,” she said, cutting Alix off before she’d finished. “Okay, first thing in the morning I’ll put in a call to my buddy in Homeland Security and see what he can tell us. He owes me one.”
“Homeland Security? What does Homeland Security have to do with it?”
“Homeland Security includes Customs and Immigration now. I’m hoping Jock can get into their records from the eighties, the late eighties, and come up with a list of anyone who arrived during that time who might fit Tiny’s description: male, Italian, about thirty, art background, with a history of trouble with the carabinieri or the Mafia, or who had ‘questionable’ associates. That kind of thing.”
“Also he’s huge. Bet he weighed a good two-fifty, two-sixty, even then. Don’t forget that.”
“Right. I’ve got a good feeling about this, Alix. I think we’ve actually got a chance of finding out who he really is.”
“And if we do, Jamie, remember, you promised—well, sort of promised—that we’d keep it to ourselves. For our eyes only, right? It makes me nervous to have Homeland Security involved. I don’t want to get the guy deported.”
“Don’t be nervous. Now get off the damn line. Even I have to get some sleep. Talk to you when I have something to tell you.”
“That’s all very interesting,” Chris said when Alix had filled her in. “But I don’t exactly see how finding out his real name, which it looks like he hasn’t used for most of his life, would help us find him.”
“Good question. I don’t really know either, but it can’t hurt.” Suddenly worn out, Alix covered her mouth with the back of her hand to stifle a yawn. “I don’t know about you, but I’m heading up. I’m bushed.”
Chris shook her head as if she couldn’t believe it. “Alix, it’s a quarter after nine. My ninety-one-year-old grandmother used to stay up later than that. You are absolutely the earliest-to-bed person I know.”
“Yes, and I’m also the earliest-to-rise person you know. I bet I get half a day’s work done before you even manage to crawl to the kitchen for your first cup of coffee.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised. Ah me, I am so glad my workaholic days are a thing of the past. Well, goodnight.”
“Good night,” Alix said, but she continued to sit there, her eyes unfocused.
Chris peered at her with that curious, head-tilted look of hers. “Alix, are you okay? Is there something wrong?”
“What? Yes, sure, I’m okay. Well, I’m concerned about Tiny, of course—”
“Right, and so am I, but there’s something more than that that’s eating at you. You were distracted all through dinner, and even now—”
“I was? I thought I was pretty sharp.”
“I suppose, but I know you better than you do. Oh, hell, I don’t mean to pry, but you’re starting to worry me, so if there’s anything you want to—”
“No, honestly,” Alix said, “there’s nothing. Well, nothing other than that I can’t make those Golden Oldies we were listening to at Lori’s stop running through my head. ‘These boots are made for walkin’,’” she sang through clenched teeth, “‘and that’s just what they’ll do . . .’”
Chris laughed and gave up. “Yeah, sure, that could be it. All right, kiddo. I’ll shut up about it. You go ahead and head up. I think I’ll grab another cuppa down here and do a little web-surfing. See you in the morning.”
“Good. Seven-thirty sharp, right? You won’t be late? I know it’s early, but we won’t have all that much time before the flight.”
“But of course,” Chris said, as if surprised by the admonition. “You know me.”
Alix, at the elevator, stifled the flip response this so patently called for. “Thanks for everything, Chris,” she said warmly. “You were great today.”
Chris shrugged this off as she pulled down the lever on the coffee urn. “’Night, Alix.”
“’Night, Chris.”
But as the elevator doors closed, Alix could still hear Chris’s voice: “‘These boots are made for walkin’ . . .’” she was singing. “Dammit, now you’ve done it to me!”
There had been no chance to unpack, so Alix opened her suitcase, shook out the creases in the clothes she’d wear the next day—she was feeling too lazy to iron them; maybe in the morning—and hung them up in hopes that gravity would do the job for her, then attended to her end-of-day toilette and got ready for sleep.
She was in a strange mood as she tossed the surfei
t of pillows and bolsters onto an easy chair—and then onto a second, when the first one overflowed. Between Geoff and Chris—and probably Ted now—it seemed she no longer had any private thoughts. They were all too sharp for her. Chris had seen right through the show of good spirits and lively conversation she’d put on (or thought she’d put on) during dinner. She did indeed have something on her mind, and it had nothing to do with who Tiny Abbatista was or wasn’t. It was that last question she’d raised at the Legion of Honor:
How had Tiny come by that damn panel? (Funny—yesterday it was a treasured possession. Today it was a “damn panel.”)
She hadn’t brought it up again at dinner because she was in a peculiar and uncharacteristic mood. She didn’t want to have a logical discussion about it, or to be talked into or out of anything, or to be agreed with or contradicted; she just wanted to keep her stew of feelings to herself. And at the moment, the ingredients that had risen to the top and were bubbling away weren’t worry, or puzzlement, or anxiety; they were an unhappy mix of anger, resentment, and, above all, a sense of having been deceived.
For how could Tiny have gotten hold of it? She had come up with three possible scenarios and she didn’t like any of them. The most likely one was the one she wanted least to think about: that he had stolen the panel from some church and cut that piece out of it himself; that her beloved Uncle Beni, with his deep and oh-so-sincere (and oh-so-often-expressed) appreciation for the Old Masters, had callously destroyed an irreplaceable work of art by a gifted sixteenth-century painter. It was more than deception, it was betrayal, and it was almost too much for her to deal with.
Of course, it was also possible that not Tiny but someone else, some gang, probably, had committed the original theft and that, one way or another, Tiny had gotten the panel from them. As far as Alix was concerned, that didn’t make a lot of difference. She could forgive a past that involved art theft (why not? She’d already talked herself into forgiving forgery, or as near as made no difference), but the willful destruction of art? No. Never. In her world it was the unforgiveable sin.
The Trouble with Mirrors (An Alix London Mystery Book 4) Page 15
