Buzz Killer

by Tom Straw

  A middle-aged man with a crimson face from his private workout trudged up the cement steps to the sidewalk from the Tone With Spatone studio. Below, the door under the stoop was open and the personal trainer, a good match to his Department of Corrections mug shot, called out, “Keep pounding back that water, Norris, you got that?” Norris, too wasted to speak, lofted his refillable sports bottle in reply. That’s when Cody squeezed past him, skipping steps down to the little patio. “Sorry, boss, we’re appointment only, and I’m done for the night.” Cody continued toward the door anyway, and when Wild descended behind him, Spatone sized up both and code-switched from small businessman to ex-con. “’S-up.”

  “A little conversation, Amador. You can make time.”

  “You proby? You look it, but I don’t know you.”

  Cody spoke before Wild could disabuse Spatone of his parole officer assumption. “Time to get acquainted. Inside or outside, your call.” Spatone clocked the sidewalk where his client pretended to hydrate, while eavesdropping. The trainer stepped back to let them inside.

  “Nice,” said Cody, scanning Spatone’s converted apartment. The dining room had become a reception area with plastic chairs and a water cooler. Instead of a sofa and coffee table, the living room was furnished with racks of free weights, Swedish balls, incline benches, and a resistance station with chinning bars. Hardly Equinox, but it covered the basics.

  “I’m guessing you’re not here for a tour. You gonna make me piss in a cup, what?”

  Wild said, “We’re not with the Probation Department, Mr. Spatone.” Frustration showed all over Cody. He would have to live with that; her default wasn’t duplicity.

  “What, then? NYPD? I wanna see credentials.” When nobody moved, Spatone snagged Cody to give him the boot. The instant he put a hand on him, Cody twisted, locked the ex-con’s arm in a hold, hooked a leg around the back of his knee, and dropped him face-first onto the rubberized tiles. It all happened so lightning quick, Spatone had no time to do anything but curse as Cody goosenecked his wrist back by the thumb in a power restraint.

  “These are my credentials, asshole.”

  “Cody . . .” Wild implored him with a look to let him go, which he ignored.

  Spatone spit a loose hair he’d picked up off the floor and said, “It’s cool, OK? You break my thumb, how’m I gonna work?”

  “Do we have an understanding that you’re not going to get stupid?”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  “Promise, Amador? Because I refuse to wrinkle my good suit over you.” The man didn’t answer, just let his body go slack in submission. Cody released his hold and took a step back, keeping watch as the trainer got to his feet.

  “So if you’re not cops, what?” He shook some feeling back to his hand. His eyes darted to a cabinet, lingered there, and came back to them.

  “I’m an attorney.” Pointedly, Wild stepped in front of Cody, making clear her unhappiness with the takedown.

  “Guess what. You’re going to fucking need one for yourself when I sue your asses.”

  “You’re not suing anyone, know why?” Cody sidled over to the cabinet where Spatone had been stealing glances. “If I open this, I’d better find Chia Bars in here. Because if you’re an ex-con with a firearm, guess where your next gym class is going to be held.”

  Taken down again, he flopped on one of his plastic chairs and rested his elbows on his knees. “What’s this about?”

  “We just want to ask you a few questions,” she said.

  “Whatcha got?” More docile now, Spatone gave no clue that he had done time. Sweet faced with a close-cut faux-hawk, he seemed the gym rat you’d feel comfortable asking to spot you. He had a short body and a square build, the kind you could imagine going all Pete Rose, if he let himself.

  “I’m a public defender. I represent Jackson Hall.” Wild assessed him for a reaction and saw the stoicism familiar to her with prisoners. “He’s been charged with the murder of someone I know you are familiar with. Rúben Pinto.”

  “Still waiting on a question.”

  “I got one,” said Cody. “Where were you when he got killed?”

  “Not killing him’s where I was. Shit man, I don’t even know when he bought it.” Macie gave him the date and approximate time. “Have to check my bookings, but I was probably here listening to some CPA grunt.”

  “Check,” said Cody. “We’ve got time.”

  Spatone went to his desk beside Macie and got his cell phone. After some scrolling he said, “Yep. Was here.”

  “Show me. And I want the client’s name and contact info.” Cody stepped close enough to surf the screen. The ex-con looked at his calendar again and frowned.

  “Huh. Guess I was mistaken. I didn’t have a booking then.”

  “Bad news for you,” he said.

  “Why? You think I’d do my cell boy? Fuck that.”

  “If you could prove where you were, that would be helpful,” offered Macie. “Nobody’s accusing you, but I do have an account that you and Mr. Pinto had been fighting lately.”

  “Who told you that? Bitch who threw him out? Like she’s who you should be dogging. Or Hall. I know he’s your client, and everything, but there was some ugly shit there. Man.”

  “Ugly how? I want to know.” Wild opened her notebook to signal she meant it. They’d already had corroboration about Jackson Hall’s threats, maybe she could learn what was behind them.

  “Your man was all up in Rú’s shit, accusing him of skimming the take from a crew they worked.” He paused. Not the brightest man, Spatone realized he may have carelessly outed them as thieves. He sat back down. “But I don’t know anything solid about them stealing, you see.”

  “Relax,” said Cody. “We know they weren’t exactly volunteering at the food bank.”

  “Yeah, well, Hall, he’s the type’s got this stick up his ass. And he was ripshit, calling my crime boy out for disrespecting the crew by stashing on the side before the cut.”

  “Did he?” asked Cody.

  “How’d I know? I’m an honest working man.”

  “I also heard you were unhappy with Mr. Pinto for getting my client on the break-in team instead of you.”

  “Cilla. Know what she is? Shit disturber.” He wagged a forefinger in the direction of her notebook. “You write that down.”

  “You have a lot to say about Pinto’s ex,” said Wild. “If I showed your picture to her neighbors, would they ID you as the guy who tossed her apartment?”

  “You could be talking Chinese, lady. I can’t understand a word,” replied Spatone. But he rubbed his eyes to hide them.

  “Tell me about this crew.” Cody hooked a chair and sat knee-to-knee with Spatone. “Names.”

  He was not only dumb, but a poor actor. Spatone made a meal of trying to look like he was searching deep memories. “Don’t really know. Pinto and Hall, they kind of kept it tight.”

  Cody pretended he didn’t hear that. “All right, so there’s Rúben Pinto, Jackson Hall . . . Still waiting on you, Amador.”

  “Couldn’t tell you.”

  “Looking for bachelor number three. Who’s the crew chief? A name.”

  “Got me.”

  Wild opened the Photos app to her copy of Woody’s Polaroid and handed her iPhone to Cody. “Visual aid that might help you.” He held the image up. “We’ve got a Jackson. We’ve got a Rúben. Who do we have here?” Spatone gave the picture, maybe, a nanosecond of review and shrugged. Then sat back, crossing his arms.

  Cody turned aside to Wild. “I’ve seen better acting from Yorkies pretending they didn’t poo on the rug.” He handed back her cell and returned his attention to Spatone. “You sticking with that?” Spatone stared at his lap. Cody took out his own phone. “One more. Recognize this guy?”

  Unlike the other shot, he examined the screen grab of Borodin carefully. “Nope. Never saw this dude before. Should I know him?”

  “Be glad you don’t,” said Cody as he stood. “If your memory unclogs, here’
s how to reach me.” He let his business card flutter onto Spatone’s lap.

  “I’m sure it won’t.”

  “Then all I can say is, enjoy your snap inspections from proby.” Then he and Wild let themselves out.

  Macie lit into him as soon as they reached the sidewalk. “I need to tell you right now: You pull another abusive stunt like that, I am reporting you.”

  Taken aback, Cody held his palms out to her. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Stunt? Abusive?”

  “And deceitful.” She held back while an elderly gent ambled by leading an old miniature schnauzer with its leash fouled under a foreleg. As they shuffled on, Wild realized she was standing on the exact spot where Borodin had tried to trunk stuff her. She continued in a lower voice. “Can we, ah, talk someplace else?”

  “I love it that you call this talking.” When she didn’t register the slightest amusement, he blurted, “Dinner! And cocktails. We should definitely unwind and smooth off the edges. Besides, since you treated me to a conciliatory lunch, I owe you. What do you think of Isabella’s?” he asked, suggesting the place she had intended to take herself before she ended up getting attacked.

  ♢ ♢ ♢

  The evening was mild enough that all the patio seats on Columbus were filled, so they took a table inside. Over her sidecar and his Jameson old-fashioned, things mellowed a bit, but Macie still needed to unload. So she did, just using her inside voice this time, taking him to task for strong-arming Spatone in his own place, not to mention pretending first to be a probation officer, then a cop. “If you don’t get me arrested, the bar association would sure take a dim view of continuing to license me, even as an accessory.”

  When she’d had her say, he responded, “Can we talk real world here?”

  “Are you seriously going to try to defend this?”

  “I’ll try. How serious I am depends on how soon the Jameson kicks in. Let me begin by saying this is not my universal approach. We had a chance at a hot lead, and he was going to shut us out if I didn’t go street with him. A firm leash jerk is a language guys like Mr. Amador Spatone understand. May I remind you he’s a criminal?”

  “Cody, I work with criminals all day. And night. They have rights. Some are even decent people.”

  “Oh, please.” He tipped his rocks glass. “Could you do another?” She nodded and he signaled for a fresh round.

  “Want to know what it comes down to for me, more than anything else?” she said. “I have a hard time with hotheaded behavior. Plain and simple, it’s a real red flag. And—Mr. Cody—especially upsetting because I’ve never seen that as part of who you are. You’re ballsy, and I kind of like that. But you’re a finesse guy. I like that even more.” The new drinks arrived. When the server left, she continued her thought. “So what I need to ask is whether this is part of your total package, or is something just up your butt today?”

  He swirled the cubes and set the swizzle stick on the napkin beside his glass. “All right, you want it?” He lifted his glass then set it back down. “The reason I don’t have that ID on the crew chief isn’t because of the shitty Polaroid or that the tatt is only a partial. The Real Time Crime Center has done much more with far less. . . . We struck out because I struck out.” This time he did go for a sip. “I called it in, and the desk detective I got was not a friendly, let’s just say. No, let’s call it out. I got dissed. By a guy I’ve known for years. Not closely, but we crossed paths often enough on the job, right? And I’ve even dealt with him successfully a time or two since I left the force. Today? A fucking wall of ice. He not only won’t run the mystery man or his tattoo through the db, I get this lecture about abusing department resources. So you want to know what was up my butt—so far that it went up a mile and did a barrel roll? That. That is what was up my butt, counselor.”

  “I am so sorry.” And she meant it. A couple of hours ago she was asking a former Internal Affairs detective to sniff around about Cody. Now, seeing him angry, hurt, and embarrassed, her heart went out to him. For the first time, Macie saw behind his wiseacre insouciance. Maybe Gunnar Cody had emerged from his NYPD departure more wounded than he let on.

  “I don’t need that.” He flicked the air with his fingers, chasing away her sympathy as if fanning a gnat. “I’m just giving you a fair answer to a fair question.” Cody made a study of his ice cubes like they would tell him something if he stared long enough. “You know,” he said, “you spend your life thinking you’re made of stronger stuff. You go through your shit storms and shake it off. Onto the next. Then, out of nowhere, some anal-retentive gatekeeper slams the door, raises the drawbridge, and then takes a piss on you from the ramparts because you’re defrocked. You are outside, and outside you shall stay.” The server appeared to take their food order, read the mood, and retreated. “Can I tell you something, Macie? I never thought anything could feel worse than the day I lost my badge. But today, today did.” Of course, she very much wanted to know how he had lost it, but opted for patience. He was opening up to her in pieces on his own, and Macie didn’t want him to feel cross-examined and shut down.

  After they ordered their meals, she rested a hand on his arm. “Is this OK? You’re not going to put me on the floor in a thumb lock, are you?”

  “Uh, no.”

  “I can only imagine what all this brought back to you today, but I would say this. Don’t empower those people. I see it in my office all the time. You’ve got to release yourself from the smalls and the unworthy.”

  She doubted that she had changed his life, but Macie’s words came from her heart and were anything but pro forma. He had opened up to her in a way that exposed a vulnerability she never had anticipated. It was especially profound coming from a man she’d known only a few days. As they enjoyed their meal in newfound peace, he apologized for going ass-kick on Spatone. In balance, she acknowledged her hypersensitivity to cops coercing suspects. Macie even allowed that, maybe, there were a few gray areas. Back to Orwell and rough men who keep vigilance. “I just don’t like to be around when it happens,” she said. “Hate it, hate it.”

  “For the record, I am not a hothead. My approach to Spatone was calculated. Pure technique.”

  “Is this supposed to make me feel warm and fuzzy?”

  “I mention it because you said hotheadedness was a red flag. Your words.” He thought a moment and added, “I like you. I don’t want red flags on my ass.”

  “Same,” she said, hoping her smile masked the twinge about releasing Whittinghill to run a check on him. But he saw it.

  “Am I hitting a nerve? Wave me off if this is too personal, but red flags come from experience.”

  He had shown his belly to her, but rather than confess about Whittinghill, Wild decided to share her own intimate sore spot. She told him about Paris: the engagement getaway that ended the engagement. “Second night of a romantic week in Paris. We’d spent the day wandering Luxembourg Gardens and the Musée D’Orsay. We got a perfect table at Allard.”

  “The Alain Ducasse spot on the Left Bank.”

  “So you know it. We were being treated like royals—he’s William, I’m Kate. The champagne is flowing, the meals are served. He gets their signature dish, the duck with olives. It’s perfectly medium rare, a shade of terra cotta set against the green olives. It’s what you see on a Bon Appétit cover. I get out my cell phone to take a picture of his plate, and he slaps it out of my hand.” Cody’s eyebrows popped. She nodded, affirming. “Not a ‘please, don’t’ or an ‘I’d rather you didn’t, honey.’ Swatted the phone out of my hand, right onto the table beside us.”

  “May I say? Holy shit.”

  “You may. I was stunned. The whole restaurant was stunned. When I could finally talk, I said, ‘What did you just do?’ And he says, ‘Are we here to eat or take pictures?’ I left. Just walked. He followed me, but I got a taxi back to the hotel. I won’t get into it all—I’ve probably overshared already—but he shows up with flowers, an apology, lame explanations; all of it after I’d just finished throwin
g up. He calls me too sensitive, I chuck his bouquet in the trash, he gives me a shove. Not a smack, mind you, but a hard shove. I got on the first plane I could book.” Wild held up her hand and wiggled her fingers. “You’ll note the diamond has left the building.”

  “How long ago?”

  “Not enough.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, which is just about all that could be said. But then he gestured to his plate. “Listen, I’m just about done with my branzino, but if you’re hot to do an Instagram . . . no prob.” It was simply the perfect thing to say. Her laugh erupted so suddenly she covered her mouth with her napkin in embarrassment. She put her other hand on his arm again and, this time, left it there.

  “Never thought I’d ever be able to laugh about that, Gunnar.”

  The sound of her calling him by his first name for the first time brought his eyes up to meet hers. The intimate stillness between them was broken by a man’s voice.

  “I understand you’re looking for me.”

  They both turned to see who was speaking. There was no mistaking the man from the Polaroid, sitting at the table beside them.

  C H A P T E R • 20

  * * *

  While Macie sat speechless, Gunnar hardly blinked. “I’m sorry,” he said, “do we know each other?” The man didn’t react. He possessed one of those neutral faces Wild usually saw on guys waiting for wheat grass shots at Liquiteria—all patience and ease and quiet confidence. Late thirties, he was lean like a competitive cyclist, but with the clean, polished head of a swimmer. But there was something off about him. Something about those deep-set blue lasers, which were so alert and assessing. Then it hit her—no eyebrows. Macie had known people in her life who suffered from alopecia, but, from his clean bearing, she took him to be a shaver.

  Gunnar’s forearm tensed under her hand and she tightened her grip, a silent plea not to go street in the bistro, please. He relaxed and appraised the crew chief, who had situated himself with Macie between them so Gunnar would need to climb around to reach him. Meanwhile he’d left himself a clear path to the exit. A shaver and a planner.