Dopplegangster

by Laura Resnick

  “Oh, I don’t care about that.” He waved away my apology. “I mean, I know why you said it.”

  “You do?”

  “Sure. A place full of heavily armed wiseguys pinching you, hitting on you, and getting too pushy after they’ve had a few drinks?” He shrugged. “A cop boyfriend probably comes in handy pretty often at Stella’s.”

  I nodded. “In a nutshell.”

  “And since I don’t want those guys pinching you, hitting on you, and so on,” he added, “I’m glad you told them about me.”

  “Oh.” I smiled. “Okay.”

  He smiled, too, then sat down at my kitchen table, half of which was in my living room. That’s a Manhattan apartment for you.

  After a moment, though, his expression turned serious. “We have to talk about last night.”

  I slid into the chair next to him. “I told you exactly what I saw. I’m not lying to you.”

  “Then I need to find out what you’re leaving out.”

  “Here we go,” I muttered.

  He reached over to me, slid his hand into my hair, and gently pulled my head closer to his. “Look, I shouldn’t even be here. And I definitely shouldn’t have just spent three hours in your bed.”

  “We didn’t do anything,” I reminded him.

  He kissed me. All of a sudden, without preamble. His mouth was hot, and his tongue was silky, and it was a really long, intense, leading-straight-to-steamy-sex kind of kiss. He needed a shave, but his jaw was just rough enough to feel sexy, not uncomfortable.

  When he was finally done, I was dizzy and couldn’t speak or move or catch my breath. I just sat there waiting for him to do it again. I think I whimpered a little.

  “I didn’t do anything,” he whispered, breathing hard, “because I was just too damn tired.”

  “How can you kiss a woman like that . . .” I panted for air, “. . . right after talking to your mother?”

  He blinked. “Okay, when you put it that way, I suddenly feel too tired again.”

  “Forget I mentioned it.” I leaned forward to kiss him again.

  “No, listen to me,” he whispered, putting his hands on my face to make me hold still.

  “Ow.” I winced. “Nelli’s scratches.”

  “Oh!” He brushed his fingertips over my cheek, feather light, to soothe my skin. “Sorry.”

  “You could kiss it and make it better,” I suggested.

  He shook his head. “We have to talk.”

  “I don’t feel like talking,” I said pointedly.

  “Neither do I.” He shied away from my mouth again, his eyes heavy-lidded and his breath still coming fast. “But we have to.”

  “You’re the one who—”

  “I know.” His puff of laughter brushed across my face. “I was just making a point. It backfired on me, though.”

  “Hmph.” I sat back in my chair. “Okay, fine. Have it your way. Let’s talk.”

  “We need to go over . . .” He paused, looking distracted, then said, “Wait. First, just tell me. Why is your face blue?”

  “Oh, I forgot about that!” I looked down at my blue arm. “Wow, I must be hot, if you can kiss me like that when my face is blue.”

  “Well, as you may remember, you were green all over the first time I ever saw you. I guess I find you sexy in different colors.”

  We had met the night Lopez questioned the cast of Sorcerer! backstage after Golly Gee disappeared; I was in lots of body make-up and hardly any costume as a green forest nymph.

  He asked, “So how did you get so blue today?”

  I considered the ramifications of lying and decided to just tell him the truth.

  7

  “Nelli scared Lucky,” I said. “Lucky shot up Max’s place. Some weird blue stuff in a beaker fell on me.”

  It seemed simple enough.

  But when Lopez planted his elbows on the table and buried his face in his hands, I decided that maybe honesty wasn’t the best policy after all.

  “What were you doing with Lucky Battistuzzi this morning?” he asked, head still in hands. “No, wait, that’s not my first question. My first question is, what was Lucky doing at Max’s? No, wait—” He lifted his head and scowled at me. “What were you doing at Max’s?”

  “On a scale of one to ten,” I said, “how important are these questions?”

  “What?” he snapped.

  “I mean, what did you come here this morning to talk to me about?”

  He looked dumbfounded. “You drop a bombshell like that—telling me you spent the morning watching a notorious Gambello hit man shooting up the home of a guy who you know I think is crazy and probably a danger to you—”

  “Max isn’t crazy,” I said patiently. “And he’s certainly not dangerous.”

  “—and you expect me to remember what I came here to talk about?”

  “It’s been a weird twenty-four hours,” I admitted.

  “Esther.” He seemed at a loss for words.

  “I didn’t realize the truth would upset you this much,” I said.

  “Max is bad enough,” he said in appalled tones, “but Lucky Battistuzzi? Don’t you realize how dangerous it is to hang out with him?”

  “Don’t worry, I took away his gun,” I said, thinking this would soothe my concerned suitor.

  Lopez’s eyes bulged. “You took away Lucky Battistuzzi’s gun?”

  “Actually, I guess Max took it away,” I said, recalling the spell which had briefly transformed it into a winged bat. I decided not to mention the details. “But I hid it. So Lucky doesn’t have it anymore.

  “He has plenty more of them,” Lopez said tersely. He shook his head as if trying to clear it. “Why were you with him in the first place?”

  “He wanted to know what I could remember about Charlie’s death.”

  “You shouldn’t be talking to him about that!” Lopez exploded. “It’s a police matter!”

  “I know,” I said, “but Lucky and Charlie were . . . Well, I guess ‘friends’ would be a wild exaggeration.”

  “For all you know, Lucky was questioning you on behalf of the killer!” Lopez said in exasperation. “To see if they need to get rid of you!”

  “You think Lucky is involved in Charlie’s death?”

  “Actually, I think the Corvinos killed Charlie,” he said irritably. “I think they’ve probably just fired the first shot in a brand new war with the Gambello family. But right now, that’s only a theory, Esther. Without more facts, I have to keep in mind the possibility that Lucky could be involved and might have a motive to eliminate you!”

  “That did occur to me,” I admitted.

  “And you met with him anyhow?” Lopez shouted.

  “Only after I decided it was safe!”

  “What convinced you it was safe?” he demanded.

  At the moment, I couldn’t actually remember. So I said, “The point is, it was safe, and—”

  “No, the point is you should not be running off to meet with wiseguys at Max’s place!” A horrible expression crossed his face. “Oh, my God. Wait a minute. You’re saying . . . Max is involved in this?”

  “Um . . .” This wasn’t going well. I stared silently at Lopez, wondering what to say now.

  Looking like he wanted to shout at me again, he closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. “What is it about Max, Esther? Why do you hang out with him?”

  Despite feeling very conscious of the need to stay far, far away from the fact that I had helped Max kill Hieronymus, I said, “He saved my life. Max is odd, I admit, but he’s got his reasons. And he’s someone I trust. Someone I can count on.”

  Still looking like his head hurt, Lopez said, “Look, I know that you . . . hear a different drummer. And I like that about you.”

  “I hear a ‘but’ coming.”

  “But this is dangerous, Esther. It’s also skirting the edge of the law. I don’t think you’re stupid or a thrill seeker.” He made a vague gesture and shook his head. “But you don’t know what you’re
getting into, hanging out with guys like Lucky and Max.”

  I was startled into laughter. Lopez’s dark expression made it clear that my levity only confirmed his fears. But hearing Max and Lucky lumped into the same category struck me as comical.

  “You’re being naive,” Lopez said.

  I again tried to think of what to say. Lucky wanted to find Charlie’s killer before the cops did so he could whack him. Of course Lopez would oppose my helping with that, and I agreed with him. I hadn’t initially intended to help. But Chubby Charlie had seen his perfect double before dying and had talked about a curse. No one could figure out how the murder had been committed, and Max had a theory about a doppelgänger. So I suspected this crime might be something that a smart cop like Lopez just wasn’t equipped to solve.

  It was the sort of situation I would have thought was insane before getting to know Max and the nature of his work. And I had a fair idea of how insane it would sound to Lopez if I tried to explain it. So I just stared at him in silence, wondering what to say.

  “I want to take you into protective custody,” he said firmly, putting his hand over mine. “I’m afraid your life is in danger.”

  “From Lucky?” I shook my head.

  “More likely from the Corvinos.” He added, “But it’s not as if the Gambellos appreciate witnesses, even in a case where the victim is one of their own.”

  I thought about it. If Max was right about the doppelgänger, I doubted the cops were equipped to protect me. And if Max was indeed right, then the assassin, whether a Corvino mobster or someone else, was no ordinary hoodlum who’d whack me on nervous impulse, as Lucky had initially implied and as Lopez obviously feared.

  So I said, “If I agreed I was in potential danger—”

  “Esther . . .” He looked impatient, realizing I intended to refuse.

  “—I’d go along with this. But . . .”

  The strange logistics of the homicide made me suspect Max was right.

  And if Max was wrong, well, I hadn’t seen anything revelatory last night—but I had seen enough movies to suspect protective custody would be unpleasant and not even all that protective.

  “I don’t think it’s the best thing for me,” I said.

  “Esther, you’re—”

  “I’ll reserve the right to change my mind.” Just in case Lopez was right. “How’s that?”

  “Not good enough,” he said.

  “But it’s the only answer I’m going to give you,” I said. “At least for now. So let’s not keep arguing about it.”

  He looked like he really wanted to argue, but he evidently realized it wouldn’t accomplish anything. So he said, “All right. I’ll let it go for now. But you keep your cell phone with you at all times, and you keep my number on speed dial. Promise me.”

  “Okay.” I nodded. “That’s a good plan. I promise.” When he didn’t say anything else, just sat there looking glum, I asked, “So that’s the talk? I mean, it’s what you came here to say?”

  “Huh? Oh. No. Not entirely.”

  I sighed. “Well?”

  “I want to go over everything you saw last night. Until I figure out what the missing piece is.”

  I groaned as I folded my arms on the table and rested my head on them.

  “We need to do this,” he said, sounding tired again. “Right now, you’re suspected of obstruction, at the very least. And my captain would ream me a new one just for coming here to talk to you alone, never mind sleeping with you.”

  “We didn’t do any—”

  “It doesn’t matter. I can’t be involved with someone who’s a suspect in an open investigation.”

  That statement certainly had a sobering effect. We’d been in this situation before. During his investigation of Golly Gee and the other disappearees.

  “Then why did you even come here this morning?” I grumbled.

  “Because I don’t want this thing to go bad for you.” After a moment, he added, “Or for us—you and me, I mean.”

  With my head still on my arms, I waited for him to continue.

  He said, “Napoli wants to get a material witness warrant for you.”

  “What?” I sat up. “Why? All he has to do is ask me to come in again. I haven’t refused to answer his questions.”

  “He says you did. He says you refused to keep talking last night and you walked out.”

  “Well, of course I did! At the time, I mean. It was late, I was tired, and he was just saying the same idiotic, accusatory crap over and over!”

  “That’s what cops do. We wear you down until we get the whole story.”

  “He had it,” I insisted. “I was fed up. That doesn’t mean I’m an uncooperative witness! Even a saint would have walked out by then. Napoli’s a jerk.”

  “He’s good cop, though.”

  “He’s a jerk.”

  “Okay, I don’t like him either,” Lopez admitted. “Not that he’d be heartbroken by that, since I think he loathes me. And I’ve only been assigned to his team since yesterday,” he added morosely. “So the new job’s off to a rocky start.”

  “Look, I’m sorry last night was embarrassing for you. I am. But it’s not my fault,” I said. “I didn’t plan to witness a mob hit!”

  “I know,” he said soothingly. “But now we have to straighten this out before it gets any more complicated.”

  “I told you everything I saw.”

  “Then I need to figure out what you haven’t remembered or don’t realize was significant. That’s why Napoli was going over and over this until you wanted to throttle him. He was trying to decide whether you were lying or just not remembering something.”

  “Well, all he did was piss me off.”

  “As long as he thinks you may be lying, we’ve got a problem, Esther,” Lopez said.

  “And what do you think?”

  “Like I’ve already told Napoli two dozen times, I think that seeing someone killed right in front of you really shook you up,” he said. “So there’s something important that you just don’t recall yet.”

  I frowned again. “Like what?”

  “I’m not sure. But the crime scene doesn’t add up. Not at all.”

  “I know. Napoli said so. While accusing me of lying.”

  “Someone must have moved something. Or changed something. Or lied about something.”

  “I haven’t li—”

  “I believe you,” he assured me. “Okay? But I think what happened was traumatic for you, so what you’re saying isn’t accurate, it’s just what you can remember right now.”

  “Well, I can’t argue about it being traumatic,” I admitted with a shudder as I remembered watching Charlie die.

  “The only thing we know for sure,” Lopez said, “is that the shot fired through the window couldn’t have killed Charlie. Based on where he was sitting and where he fell, the trajectory is impossible. But that’s still the only shot we can account for.”

  “It’s the only one I heard,” I insisted.

  “I’m sorry to do this to you, Esther, but we have to go over it again. And again. Until I figure out what your memory is leaving out.”

  “I am so tired of talking about this,” I told him.

  “I know,” he said gently. “But it’s important.”

  I sighed and looked at the ceiling. “And I guess my only way of avoiding another dance with Napoli is if you bring him something that satisfies him.”

  “That’s right.”

  I eyed Lopez. “But then you’d have to tell him you were here.”

  “Yeah, but if he realizes I was here to question you effectively, he’ll get over it. And he’ll get off your back. Mine, too.” He shrugged. “Everybody wins. And then I can do something in your bed more fun than sleeping without worrying about a conflict of interest or a breach of ethics or getting suspended.”

  “Oh.” I blinked. “Okay.” I sat up a little. “When you put it that way, I guess I can muster up the energy to talk about last night. Again.”
<
br />   He smiled. “Glad you see it my way.”

  Unfortunately, though, it didn’t do any good. I was positive that my consistent description of Charlie’s murder was complete and accurate; Lopez was positive it wasn’t, but none of his questions produced any new information or potential leads.

  After almost an hour of this, he rubbed his hands over his unshaven face and then sat staring silently into thin air, frowning as he considered the puzzle.

  Wondering if I should risk bringing up Max’s theory, I tested the waters by asking, “What about Charlie’s fears that he’d been cursed?”

  “Huh?” Lopez looked startled, almost as if he’d forgotten I was in the room. “Oh. All that babbling about seeing his perfect double and being marked for death?”

  “Yes. Do you think there could be something to that?”

  “I think it sounds like he was off his meds,” Lopez said absently.

  “What?”

  He looked at me. “Charlie was bipolar. It sounds to me like he was having a weird manic episode. That’s what Napoli thinks, too.”

  “Bipolar?” I was startled. “Charlie was manic-depressive?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Lucky said Charlie had always been strange. Moody.” I now remembered that when I’d told Lucky that Charlie had sounded crazy right before he died, the old gangster had replied that it wouldn’t be the first time. “But he never mentioned bipolar disorder.”

  Lopez was still frowning in thought as he replied, “I doubt Lucky knows. It’s the sort of thing Charlie would keep secret. Not good for business. Not socially acceptable among his cronies.”

  “If he kept it a secret, then how do you know?”

  “Hmm? Oh. About a decade ago, Charlie did time for income tax evasion.” Lopez shook his head in disgust. “He probably committed enough violent felonies to get sentenced to two hundred years in maximum security. But the only thing anyone ever caught him at was cheating on his taxes.” He shrugged. “So Charlie’s medical condition wound up on his summer camp forms.”

  “His what?”

  “Uh, all his records from the detention facility he was in for nonviolent criminals,” Lopez clarified. “Which is how we know he was manic-depressive. And if he went off his medication recently . . .”