TWENTY-TWO
THE FIRE WOULDN’T CATCH. That’s how I was able to make him. The slight smile on my face as I left the Devlin’s house had turned to a frown of displeasure the closer I neared Elm Street. I was thinking of all the dead ends I had encountered thus far, the latest memories of Trina that would pervade my thoughts when I went back inside Nevada’s place, and my unsettled business with Siobhan Rubalcaba. In all honesty, Siobhan was foremost on my mind. I strained for an approach I could use with her, but none of my lifetime of rough experiences had prepared me for the disdain of a woman. My greatest fear wasn’t that Siobhan would hate me, but instead that she would be completely ambivalent.
I was stuck at a traffic light, pondering the situation with Siobhan, when the light must’ve flashed green without my noticing it. A discourteous horn sounded behind me. Rather than hurry to drive on, I looked in the rearview mirror. Instead of the car directly behind me, my gaze settled on a little beater two cars back in the next lane.
The fire wouldn’t catch. The driver, the same dead-eyed kid who I’d caught watching me on Elm Street the other day, one I’d dismissed at hand as just a drug-addled thug with a head full of burnt out brain cells, was so engaged with his faulty Zippo lighter, frustratingly trying to get it to set flame to his cigarette, he didn’t notice my recognition. Breathing evenly, I let up off the brake and rolled through the intersection. My mind was immediately in overdrive. Could Dead Eyes’ presence behind me actually be a coincidence? But even before he shadowed my next two turns I knew it wasn’t.
So how should I approach this? I decided to continue on to Elm, park, and let him initiate the next move. He hadn’t been particularly stealth when I spotted him watching me the other day, and, judging by his poor tail now, he was no better prepared today. Who was he? And why was he so interested in my comings and goings? Was there some link here to Nevada? Questions abounded, and I continued driving as I considered them all. There was a strong possibility Dead Eyes would try to gun me down the moment I stepped from Chris Hall’s Accord. Remembering the vacuum in his eyes from the other day I had no doubt he was more than capable of an emotionless murder. Did I really want to leave myself vulnerable to a street drive-by? Or would it be better to corrupt whatever plans he had for me by testing his knowledge of Newark’s Byzantine street plans?
I’ve always had a defiant spirit, so daring him to shoot me in broad daylight quickly forged itself as a strategy. I reached Elm Street, and amazingly found a parking spot available without having to circle the block several times. I backed the Accord into the spot and was preparing to turn the key in the ignition when I noticed Dead Eyes slow at the mouth of the street, watch me from that distance for a moment, then complete an illegal U-turn and head back in the other direction.
I smiled and kept the car running, moving from the space after a quick pause of consideration, reversing our previous roles as I became the hunter of Dead Eyes rather than his prey. I pulled down the sun visor and put on a pair of dark sunglasses I’d discovered in the glove box. There are rules of engagement when it comes to tailing a subject in a vehicle, but it all comes down to two basic principles: don’t get too close; and don’t get too far behind, either.
I caught up with him after only a block, and focused my eyes on his brake lights and tires. Most drivers give a “tell” before they make a turn or switch lanes. A tap on the brakes to slow for a turn, the wheels hedging one way or another a moment before a turn is actually executed. I wouldn’t have any problem keeping Dead Eyes in my sights, even in congested Newark traffic, if I could uncover the rhythm of his driving and mimic it.
As it turned out, I didn’t require very much surveillance skill. Dead Eyes never once looked in his rearview mirror. And he stayed on the same stretch for the majority of his drive. I fell even farther back as he eased off the highway and settled in a maze of deceptively quiet residential streets. We passed houses where I knew nearly naked women were camped out in the basements weighing relatively pure cocaine on fish scales. Dead Eyes flashed his brake lights, slowing to double-park in front of a stately Colonial. I did as he’d done when following me, pulling to a stop at the mouth of the street to watch him. He slid from behind the wheel and moved toward the house. A group of cookie-cutter street thugs were congregated on the porch.
I recognized two of them from the restaurant with Uncle John.
Interesting, I thought, smiling at this latest wrinkle.
Dead Eyes greeted them all with either fist pounds or one-arm hugs. They settled into a conversation, and after a brief moment the treats came out. Long forty-ounce cans of malt liquor sheathed in crumpled brown paper bags and cigars that had been almost completely gutted and filled instead with marijuana.
I waited just long enough for Uncle John to step through the darkened doorway to outside on the porch.
Then I reversed course.
“SHE MENTIONED A BROTHER?” I had been headed back to Elm Street, still puzzling over Dead Eyes and his connection to Uncle John, as well as what it all meant to the larger picture of Nevada’s disappearance, when an unknown number had lit the screen of my cell phone.
“Yes, she did,” Cynthia Devlin said. “I’m just remembering that when we talked Nevada alluded to the fact that some trouble was dogging her brother. She was quite upset about it, as I recall.”
“Nevada is an only child,” I said, careful to keep my words in the present tense.
“Really? You’re certain of this, Shell?”
“Positive.”
“Oh, my,” she said. “An only child? I don’t believe I’ve remembered our chat incorrectly, but you would certainly know that sort of detail. I am sorry to have bothered you with this. I was only trying to be helpful.”
“You’re no bother,” I said. “You’ve been very helpful, Mrs. Devlin. I appreciate this.”
“You’re being polite. And, please, I’ve told you, it’s Cynthia,” she said, pausing before adding, “This is going to sound like a complete come-on, particularly after I’ve called you with erroneous information, but Wallace and I would be delighted to have you out to the house again.”
“Wallace would?” I said.
“He was quietly impressed by both your appreciation and understanding of art. And I have been equally understanding of his…little misstep. We’re fine, and so he is able to look at your visit with a bit more clarity.”
That was excellent, but her recollection gnawed at me. “And Nevada said something about a brother to you?” I asked again.
“Too busy chasing down leads to bother yourself with foolish old women and their philandering husbands?” She chuckled and waited for my response. When I did not give one she added, “I’m certain now the talk of a brother was an artful redirect. She was a pleasant woman but I’m afraid I fell victim to the romance of it all. Confronting your cheating spouse’s mistress. It sounds dramatic and invigorating and it was. But somewhere along the journey Nevada led me down a briar path of lies and I was too intoxicated to even realize it.”
“Join the club,” I said. “You’re definitely not the first. And I’m certain you won’t be the last.”
“Absolutely,” she said, playing along. “When you find the young lady, let her know that I’m not pleased with her subterfuge.”
“You want me to actually use that word? Subterfuge?”
“What can I say? I’m married to a professor,” she said.
“And yet you have all the brains in the family. Go figure.”
She laughed in a way that can only be described as sexual. “Call if you don’t visit,” she said. “Can you do that at least, Shell?”
“I appreciate your effort, Mrs. Devlin. If you think of anything else…”
“Noncommittal,” she said. I could tell by her tone that she was smirking. “I’m afraid that just adds to your charisma, Shell. Sigh.”
She actually said “sigh”.
“I’ve enjoyed talking to you, Mrs. Devlin. I mean that.”
�
��Shell, I simply must demand that you call me Cynthia. And I do hope this is the last time I will have to admonish you.”
“Cynthia,” I said.
“Much better,” she said. “Oh, my. I sound motherly, don’t I?”
“Women have always been a thorny area for me,” I explained. “I’ve been involved with some that were absolutely stunning. Unfortunately, that didn’t always inform my devotion. But for the record, Wallace is a fool if he doesn’t recognize how blessed he is.”
She actually did sigh now. “This has certainly been a day of revelation,” she said wistfully.
“It has,” I agreed, not realizing the understatement in the words, or all the mysteries the day would soon solve.
TWENTY-THREE
NO ONE ANSWERED THE door at the Rubalcaba house. Interestingly, I took that to mean that I should sit on the steps out front and wait. The sun was still shining bright, the air heavy with the smell of mass transit exhaust and neighborhood food vendors. Off in the distance a car backfired. Up close, a khaki-colored moth made itself a home on the black rail beside me. Instead of counting sheep or the number of customers who went into the cigar place on the corner, I thought of Uncle John and Cynthia Devlin. Uncle John had one of his thugs shadowing me and Nevada had mentioned a brother I knew she didn’t have. What did it all mean?
Just up the street a large yellow moving van came to a rest with half of its carriage up on the sidewalk. A gaggle of empty-handed workers jumped out and huddled around the rear of the van. A middle-aged man with a weak chin emerged from the brownstone nearest them and spoke to one of the workers for a bit and then started to pace up and down the sidewalk, a cell phone pressed to his ear. Several of the movers shook their heads, and the one the man from the brownstone had spoken with shouted at him with a hand gesture rather than words.
I watched that unfolding drama until a car pulled up in front of the Rubalcaba house. It was a dark, late-model sedan with the requisite tinted windows. The frame was peppered with pigeon shit but when the passenger door eased open, a soft and beautiful melody floated out. I made out a few of the words. Corazon. Amor. Estoy. Spanish music.
Siobhan gently closed the car door behind her and moved toward me without even a slight hitch in her step. As was the case the first time we’d met, she had an art portfolio case under one arm.
“Step aside, Shell,” she said once she reached the porch.
“I probably deserve that.”
“Definitely,” she said. “Now, step aside.”
“Who’s your friend?” I asked, nodding toward the traveling sedan as it neared the corner. I hadn’t gotten a good look but the driver’s profile was decidedly masculine.
“You want to move this conversation in that direction, Shell? Seriously?”
“I have no right to ask,” I admitted.
“Move aside,” she said.
I sighed. “Did you know that less than a week ago two Eye-talian greaseballs worked me over real good, tied me up, and tossed me in the Passaic to drown?”
“That goes down as the worst apology in history,” she said.
I smiled even though she did not. “Why don’t I keep it simple, then? I’m sorry.”
“Where’s Trina?” she asked, and just as quickly raised her hand and shook her head. “No, don’t even tell me.”
“She was just in town for the night. She has a place in Connecticut.”
“In town for the night,” she said in a whisper.
“I don’t know what I can say to make the situation less awkward and terrible.”
“Nothing you can say.”
“I’ve been thinking about it and…”
“I mean it, Shell,” she said, saving me. “You don’t have to say anything.”
“I hurt your feelings.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” she said, her nostrils flaring slightly.
“You don’t mean that.”
She bit her lip and looked away. “No, I guess I don’t.”
“I have a complicated relationship with Trina,” I offered.
That refocused her attention on me. Her eyes turned angry and the muscles of her jaw churned. “It didn’t seem that complicated to me. You seemed more than happy to end our evening and take up with her.”
“That’s what makes it complicated,” I said.
She shook her head. “I feel like a fool. I’m being emotional for no reason.”
“I’d like to think I’m a pretty good reason.”
“Could you be any more arrogant?”
“I like you,” I said.
“That sounds very fourth grade.”
“Bump that up to freshman year in high school and I’ll agree with you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You feel like a fool?” I said. “Well, I feel like a mixed up kid fighting hormones and insecurity. Like a freshman in high school, you understand?”
“Hormones and insecurity,” she whispered.
I smiled. “That was pretty good, wasn’t it? So can I be forgiven now?”
“You make me sick,” she said.
“My arrogance is telling me that’s not true.”
She readjusted the portfolio case under her arm.
“Any new sketches?” I asked, changing the subject.
She gripped the portfolio case until color rose up on her knuckles.
“Could I see?” I asked.
“Not in your life.”
“You mind taking this conversation inside? I feel too exposed out here.”
“Now you feel exposed? You’ve been waiting out here for how long?”
“Too long. Not that you weren’t worth the wait. But I shouldn’t be out in the open like this. Pure stupidity on my part.”
“Abuela wouldn’t want you inside.”
“You know I meant my place, Siobhan. Besides, your Abuela isn’t here anyway. She went away for a few days.”
Her eyes widened. “How did you know that?”
“I know lots of things,” I said. “Come over to my place and we can talk some more.”
“I wouldn’t want to get comfortable only to be kicked out again.”
“I didn’t kick you out, Siobhan.”
“Sure you did, Shell. You may not have actually said ‘get out’, but you might as well have.”
I stood up. “I never apologize to anyone. Ever. That’s a fact. And I’m not telling you this to gain any points or anything of that sort. It’s not a fact that I am particularly proud of. That said, some interesting things have happened and I wanted to discuss them with you. You know where I’m at if you change your mind. If not…Again, I’m sorry.”
I moved around her and crossed the street. By some miracle, I did not look back.
SHE CAME A FEW hours later. “How did you know my Abuela was away? And what interesting things have happened?” she asked when I answered the door. She’d changed into a skirt that fell to just above her knees and a form-fitting T-shirt. Flattering clothes. But then again, almost anything would flatter her figure.
“Why don’t you come inside?” I said.
She hesitated before stepping across the threshold. “I won’t stay long.”
“Long enough to eat?”
“No.”
“I was hoping we could move forward, Siobhan.”
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
“With an attitude still.”
“I’ll just leave, then.”
“Stay,” I said in a tone I can’t argue wasn’t pleading. Somehow my hand had found the crook of her elbow. My touch was firm but tender.
“Would you release me, please?”
“Please stay and eat. We have a lot to discuss.”
She sighed. “What do you have?”
“Egg salad sandwiches.”
“Running low on ideas?”
“I make the egg salad with Thousand Island dressing instead of mayo.”
“Pulling out all the stops to win me over.”
�
�The recipe was one of my father’s favorites,” I said, a catch in my voice. “One of the first recipes he shared with me. He grew up in severe poverty. Survived that. Vietnam. Ditto. Then, when I was in fifth grade, my mother was stricken with some kind of infection and lost her sight. My father took over all of the house duties. He enjoyed cooking for my mother the most. And I learned to enjoy it, too.”
Her eyes softened. “Shell, I—”
“So let me tell you the newest haps,” I said, cutting her off.
She looked into my eyes for a moment and then nodded. “Go ahead.”
I moved to the kitchen with her on my heels. “Punch okay with your sandwich?”
“Whatever’s fine.”
A moment later we were seated at the table. “I mentioned the young boy I saw in the neighborhood? The one I thought was watching me and looked like the boy that I caught dealing drugs to your cousin?”
“You did.”
“I spotted him shadowing me by car this time. He followed me all the way home and then reversed course. So I turned the tables and followed him.”
“Elm Street is home now?”
I cleared my throat. “This is the interesting part. I followed him to a house where he gathered with a group of thugs.”
“Interesting,” she said with a touch of skepticism.
“Uncle John was one of them.”
She stopped chewing her sandwich. “Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“But what does it mean?”
“Uncle John’s obviously in this.”
“Will that help with…finding Nevada?”
“Time for me to apply some pressure and find out.”
“You might want to be careful with that, Shell. The man’s dangerous.”
“You’ve forgotten who I am?”
She colored slightly, and offered up a tight smile. “I guess I have. I never think of you in that way.”
I made a conscious decision not to comment on that. “Also, Professor Devlin’s wife called me,” I said. “She remembered a detail from her conversation with Nevada.”
Triage: A Thriller (Shell Series) Page 23
