Mirror Image

by Dennis Palumbo

  “He’s an even bigger shot now,” I prompted her.

  “Yeah, I seen him on TV once or twice. Got himself rich and famous.” Claire spat into the wash bucket. “That don’t mean he gives a damn about Banford. He ain’t done nothin’ for us with all that money. Bastard just left and never looked back.”

  “Well, things got pretty hot for him here.”

  Claire leaned against the mop handle and looked off.

  “Yeah, I remember all the rumors. Hard to believe he didn’t know what his kids were doin’ after the lights went out. But in the end, the County took the kids away from him anyway. Just to be on the safe side, I guess.”

  We exchanged frank looks. A helluva world.

  I thanked her for her time, and made my way back to Eddie’s office. He was back standing behind the counter.

  “I found what you wanted,” he said. “But you’re not gonna be happy about it.”

  He showed me two thin files, from the Foster Parent Division of Somerset County Social Services. I looked at the names neatly typed on the tabs of each folder.

  Kevin Alexander Wingfield.

  Karen Carlyle Wingfield.

  Kevin’s middle name didn’t mean anything to me, but I recognized Karen’s immediately. Carlyle was her mother’s maiden name. It was still common practice in these small towns to use a maiden name as a middle one.

  I flipped open both files on the counter. It took only moments to discover the meaning of Eddie’s cryptic comment.

  “Kevin’s foster parents are both dead,” I said, not raising my eyes from the files.

  “Yep.” Eddie leaned over, so that our heads almost touched. “And the other ones—Karen’s—see, they got divorced and the husband moved away. Left no forwarding address. The wife’s still here, though. At Rolling Hills.”

  He said the words very deliberately, as though I’d understand their meaning. I glanced up at him.

  “Nursing home,” he said, with an unpleasant smile. “You want the number?”

  Chapter Forty-five

  I went outside to make the call. After some prodding, I got the receptionist to put me through to the room where Mary Lees, Karen’s foster mother, was confined.

  “Hello?” A youngish, weary female voice.

  “Hello. My name’s Dr. Daniel Rinaldi. Is it possible for me to speak with Mary Lees?”

  Her tone sharpened. “I’m her daughter Joan. Are you from the insurance company? Because I already told that other man who called—”

  “No, I’m not with any insurance company. I’m working with the Pittsburgh Police, and we’re looking into—”

  “Oh, right. On the news. Kevin Wingfield.”

  “Yes. We got a call from his sister Karen. I know she’d been put under foster care with your parents some years back…”

  Suddenly, her words erupted into an angry torrent. “Look, who the hell do you think you are, bothering my mother about this? I was a kid myself when my parents took Karen in, and if they hadn’t needed the money—I mean, that little slut never gave Mother one moment’s peace. Or gratitude.”

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Lees, but—”

  “You know Karen even came on to my father? Not that he was any prize, after what he put Mother through the whole time they were married. Drinking, gambling…”

  “I understand, and I—”

  “The best day of my life was the day she ran away from home. The second best was the day he moved out. Figures he’d bail on Mother the moment she got sick and couldn’t take care of him anymore. Now there’s just me…”

  Her voice was a hoarse mixture of tears and rage. The bitter, parentified child, doomed to the role of caretaker. Faithful chronicler of her family’s woes. The one adult left standing.

  “Look, Ms. Lees,” I began carefully, “I don’t pretend to know about what your family’s gone through. And I don’t want to further burden you or your mother, but I did want to ask a few questions about—”

  “Questions? You mean you want to talk to Mother?”

  “If I could, yes…”

  “Well, you can’t. She can’t talk to you. She can’t talk to me. Or anyone. She’s got severe Alzheimer’s. Like a zombie. I sit here all day, holding her hand, and she just stares at me. With no idea who I am. None. God’s little booby-prize for me after all I’ve been through, everything I’ve done. So to hell with you, and to hell with your questions!”

  The line went dead.

  Chapter Forty-six

  Sam Weiss was unhappy.

  “You hear who they just signed to play me in the Handyman movie?” He stabbed angrily at his scrambled eggs. “Vincent Schuler.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “Never heard of him.”

  “Nobody’s ever heard of him! The director thought it’d be ‘interesting’ to go with an unknown in the part. Some schmuck they found doing dinner theater in Chicago.”

  “Might be a good idea.” I smiled behind my coffee cup. “Does he at least look like you?”

  “Who gives a shit what he looks like? Dowd gets Robert DeNiro, and I get what’s-his-name! I mean, Christ!”

  Sam went on like this for another few minutes, and I just let him. It was noon, and we were in a small café in Shadyside. I’d asked to meet him here, since my house was still staked out with media types. Though not as many as that first day. As Sam had predicted, I was losing my celebrity with each passing news cycle. Fine with me.

  Now, our table cleared of dishes, I told him about my trip to Banford the day before. After which, he sat back, arms folded across his Pink Floyd sweatshirt.

  “Pretty damn convenient, those files lost in a fire.”

  I shrugged. “It doesn’t get me any closer to Kevin’s killer. But it’s part of a package on Wingfield I’d love to dump in Sinclair’s lap.” I drained my cup. “Speaking of which, how’s your profile of my favorite DA coming?”

  “Great. Two interviews with him, and I’ve got nothing I couldn’t get from his press kit. Armor-plated, that guy.”

  “Oh yeah.” I got up, tossed some bills on the table. “Look, I’ve gotta go. I heard on the news this morning they’ve arraigned Nancy Mendors for Brooks Riley’s murder.”

  Sam rose too, zipping up his windbreaker. “I also heard she’s out already. Somebody just posted her bail.”

  ***

  Nancy sat on the edge of her sofa, swallowed up in a thick terrycloth bathrobe. Her dark hair was wet from the shower, and slicked back behind her ears.

  She’d answered the door that way, and led me into the living room, unmindful of the wet prints left by her bare feet on the carpet. Her slow, deliberate gait made me wonder if she’d tranked herself a little.

  The afternoon sun slanted wide and soft through the drawn curtains. I came in now from the kitchen, holding a mug of hot tea. Without a word I put it in her hand.

  “Thanks.” She inhaled the aroma of orange pekoe. “I mean, for everything. Referring me to Frank Puzzini. He’s a great lawyer. But then, making my bail…” She glanced down. “Jesus, Danny, I don’t know what to say.”

  I sat opposite her. “Don’t worry about it.”

  No need to mention the equity line of credit I’d taken out of my house to get the funds.

  “When the judge set the amount,” she went on, “I almost lost it. Puzzini argued that I didn’t have that kind of money, but I guess since it’s a homicide…”

  “The DA’s crazy if he thinks you killed Brooks.”

  “Maybe not. I wanted to kill him. The two-timing prick. Truth is, I was really mad at myself. For being so stupid. So needy.”

  “Whoa…”

  “I mean, I can’t believe it. I’ve actually turned into one of those…those women. Forty-ish and desperate. Just grateful for a date on Saturday night. So what if he’s got two kids, alimony payments and a beer gut? He’s male. Available. Maybe it’ll turn into something. Maybe…”

  She put down the mug on an end table.

  “With Brooks, it wasn’t like that. It
was fresh, and exciting. Then there’s his position as chief of psychiatry, so all my father issues get covered…”

  I took her hand. “Stop it, Nancy. Don’t try to be so smart about it. If he made you happy…”

  Her shoulders fell, bathrobe bunching like wings.

  “Naturally, after I’d pretty much fallen for him, I find out he’s sleeping around. When I confront him about it, he acts as if our relationship had always been casual. That I’d made it into something it wasn’t. He was right, of course, the lying bastard. But I still hated him for it.”

  Her hand slipped out of mine. “Anyway, I have to get ready in a few minutes. I’m meeting with Puzzini. To plan my defense.” Again, that rueful smile. “Any ideas?”

  “Sure. You didn’t do it. That’s your defense.”

  She looked as though she wanted to say something, then stopped herself. Slowly, she got to her feet. So did I.

  I touched her shoulder. “If you need anything…”

  Nancy shook her head. “I’ll be fine. Thanks…for being my friend.”

  I put my arms around her and felt her melt against my body. The smallness of her.

  As I went out the door, I saw her sit down again, staring with empty eyes at the tea cooling on the table.

  ***

  By three o’clock, the sun had warmed things up enough for me to open the rental car’s windows. Though flags snapping from poles by the river gave evidence of a still-brisk wind. Pure East Coast, football-town weather.

  Stuck in traffic near the Fort Pitt Bridge, I used the time to make calls. First, I checked with police impound, and learned they planned to release my car by five tonight.

  Then I tried Casey at work. To my surprise, she picked up. And tore into me.

  “Where the hell have you been? You think you can just disappear for a day without telling me—? Or anyone?”

  “You’re right. I’m sorry if you were worried.”

  “Why would I be worried? I mean, sure, you might be stuffed in a hole somewhere with an ice-pick in your chest, but why the hell should that concern me?! Besides, I can always get forensics to loan me that manikin, for old times’ sake. Shit, if it were anatomically correct, I’d have the whole damned show—!”

  I hated to interrupt when she was on such a roll, but there were things I needed to know.

  “Speaking of forensics, did they find anything?”

  “Yeah, I think we can safely say it was a death threat. Not that I give a damn.”

  I heard her let out a breath. Calming herself.

  “Other than that, nothing. They’re trying to match the paint used in the message. The usual pissing in the wind. Like with the murder weapon.”

  “The killer’s damn good at covering his tracks,” I said. “I wonder if he’s done it before.”

  “Who knows? But he’s bound to screw up eventually.”

  “Or not. Meanwhile, any leads on Karen Wingfield’s whereabouts?”

  “None. If she was telling the truth, she’s out of the country by now. I can’t say I blame her.”

  I maneuvered the interchange and headed downtown. I’d scheduled a meeting with Harvey Blalock in his office at three. I figured I’d just make it.

  “Speaking of which, how are you?” I said.

  “Still in the shitter with Lee, doing grunt work. I won’t get out of here till midnight.”

  “Midnight works for me. I’ll bring the Merlot.”

  Her voice grew tentative. “Uh, I don’t think so…”

  “You don’t want company?”

  “No, I don’t want Merlot. Bring champagne. And a bucket of ice.”

  “You don’t have ice cubes in the fridge?”

  “Yeah, but I’ll be using those on you. Guess how?”

  Then she hung up.

  ***

  Harvey Blalock was a thick-waisted, balding black man with an iron handshake and an easy smile. He moved adroitly in his tailored, three-piece suit through the corridors of his law firm, leading me back to the corner office. This high up, the windows on one wall looked out on the sloping streets of the North Side, and the rows of tenement houses.

  “So I never forget where I came from,” he explained, as he offered me a chair opposite his massive desk. Family photos were arrayed along the top, along with a Duquesne University mug holding pencils and pens.

  “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” I said.

  “No, it isn’t.” His look was frank. “Nobody sitting in that chair ever wants to be there. I imagine that’s true for many of your patients as well.”

  “At first, yes. Much of the time.” I glanced at some files on his desk blotter. “Is that me?”

  “So far. I have two of my best people researching the relevant case law. And I’ll need some names from you, too. Colleagues in the field—preferably not of your personal acquaintance—who can explain and support your treatment methods with Kevin Wingfield.”

  “I can get started on that.”

  “But I have to tell you, not ten minutes ago I learned something that may delay things for a while.”

  I sat forward. “What do you mean?”

  “I just heard from Wingfield’s attorneys that their chief expert witness will be unable to give his deposition at this time. Maybe not for the foreseeable future.”

  “Phil Camden? What happened?”

  “It seems Dr. Camden’s in the hospital. He’s had a heart attack.”

  Chapter Forty-seven

  The irony wasn’t lost on either of us. As he had done years ago, following the shooting that killed his daughter, now I was the one standing over a hospital bed.

  Swathed in blankets, hooked up to monitors displaying his vitals, Phil Camden looked cadaverous. His eyes, though still burning with life, were small, bitter.

  “The poets, as usual, are wrong.” Voice slurred by the sedative. “There’s nothing ennobling about suffering.”

  I leaned across the bed rails. “The nurse said I can only stay a minute. I just wanted to see how you are.”

  “Recuperating, you’ll be sorry to learn.” He cleared his throat. “And soon to be well enough to give testimony. So if you assumed your visit here was a death watch, I’m afraid you’re in for a disappointment.”

  “Damn, and I came all this way.”

  I poured water from the bedside carafe into a paper cup and put it to his lips. He glanced warily at me, then took a few sips.

  “So, Phil,” I said. “What is it exactly that keeps you going? It can’t just be your hatred of me.”

  “You’d be surprised. It’s a tonic.”

  We regarded each other for a long moment.

  Finally, I buttoned my coat. “Okay. For the record, I hope you live. But I sure as hell don’t know why.”

  “It’s obvious. Your self-ideal requires that you maintain empathy for me in my illness, even as I remain your enemy.” He took a breath. “A sorry humanism which will inevitably be your downfall.”

  With that, he turned his head away on the pillow.

  I just stood there, looking at my father-in-law’s back as he lay under the sheets. Until the silence grew oppressive, a communication in itself. A door closing.

  “Good-bye, Phil,” I said at last, and walked out of the room.

  ***

  On my way to pick up my car, I stopped at the 23rd precinct and went up to Lt. Frank Lucci’s office. He was just going off duty, so he wasn’t exactly thrilled when I asked to see the lab’s toxicology report on Richie Ellman.

  “Just came in,” he said, tossing me the file.

  He sat back in his chair. “Take your time, Doc. Why should I have a life?”

  “I appreciate it, Lieutenant. Just need a minute.”

  Lucci grunted something, then made a point of cleaning his nails with a penknife blade while I scanned the report.

  Pretty much what I expected. Fatal levels of industrial rat poison—much of it still undigested at the time of death. Evidence of psychotropic medication. Apparentl
y Richie took his morning dose of Adnorfex, plus the Ellavil Nancy had recently prescribed.

  “Mind if I make a copy of this?” I asked Lucci.

  “Suit yourself. Copy room’s down on three. But don’t rush—I like missin’ beer call every once in a while.”

  As I went out the door, I heard Lucci mutter, in a voice I was supposed to hear, “Consultant, my ass…”

  Always nice to make new friends.

  ***

  By six o’clock, I was pulling out of the police garage in my green Mustang. The interior smelled of chemicals, and had all the unmistakable signs of a thorough going-over. Seats in the wrong position, rear view mirror out of line. And not a single speck of dust.

  Above, the moon’s crescent had grown fat and yellow, looking like a Halloween decoration hanging against a black-patterned curtain of sky. Pittsburgh’s array of lights shone against the gloom of an ever-deepening fall.

  I maneuvered my way through dinner-time traffic and found a spot half a block from the Spent Cartridge.

  As I hoped, Polk was inside, sitting alone at the bar and knocking back what looked like his second boiler-maker.

  “Easy, big fella,” I said, as I took the stool next to him. Ignoring me, he very deliberately licked his lips before slamming the shot-glass down on the counter.

  “If you ain’t buyin’, get lost,” he said.

  I signaled to the bartender. “Line him up again,” I said. “And I’ll take whatever you got on draft.”

  Polk eyed me warily. “You gotta want something, Doc. What is it?”

  “Just the latest on your case against Nancy Mendors. I can’t believe the DA’s serious.”

  “Sure he is. We’re nowhere on the Wingfield murder, and Sinclair’s lookin’ like shit. He needs a quick win.”

  “That’s the way I read it, too.”

  “Besides,” Polk said, “I think she looks good for it. Her affair with Riley. Piss-poor alibi. Gun.”

  “Wrong caliber.”

  “What do juries know about caliber? She has knowledge of guns. Plus motive: a woman scorned. End of story.”