"Who else was there?" I ask him.
"Two guys. The taller one had shiny hair, like, down to his butt. The other one, the baldy, he had one eye and—"
"Whoa, boss. One eye?"
"He wore a black patch, Jack. It was sorta hard to miss. I asked him what happened and he said he was in a car crash last week."
"Big no-neck guy? Earrings?"
"That's the one," says Evan. "She called him Jerry. The patch was on his right eye, if that makes a difference."
I jot this down not because it's an invaluable detail, but because it makes Evan's day. He got the goon's name right, too; I remember it from the funeral at St. Stephen's.
"His forehead was all lumpy and bruised," Evan says, "like somebody pounded him with a hockey stick."
Emma is giving me a narrow look and I can't help but grin. Now it's official: Cleo Rio's bodyguard was my burglar. And I put out his eye with a dead lizard! Perhaps one day I'll be flooded with remorse.
"What else did you see?" Emma asks Evan.
"Hang on." He reaches into a back pocket and takes out his own notebook. "When I got back to my car I wrote down everything so I wouldn't forget. Let's see—they had Eminem on the CD player. The TV was on, too. Jerry was watching wrestling."
"Half-watching," I quip, avoiding Emma's gaze.
Evan continues skimming his notes, flipping pages. "Cleo was walking around in her bra, like I told you. I figured they were getting dressed to go out. The guy with the mermaid hair was hogging a blow dryer in one of the bathrooms."
"Was anything going on?" Emma asks.
"You mean like fooling around? Not in front of me," Evan says. "Cleo looked a lot different than on the video. No lipstick and really frail, like a ghost—but still she's way hot."
Emma smiles patiently. I ask the kid if he happened to notice a Toshiba laptop with a Grateful Dead decal, or possibly an Epson CPU in pieces on Cleo's dining room table. He saw nothing of the kind, of course. My stolen portable and Janet's missing computer are probably in a landfill by now, having failed to yield any goodies.
"But the guy with the hair," Evan says, "I did hear him talking to Jerry about a program. He said he was waiting for an upgrade."
"Aren't we all."
"An upgrade for his 'Pro Twos'"—Evan, squinting at his scribbles—"whatever that is."
"Pro Tools. It's a music-mixing program. The guy claims to be a record producer."
"Yeah? What's he done?"
"Exaggerate, mostly."
"Hey, I almost forgot." The kid slaps a takeout menu on the table. Emma and I move closer to examine it. Under the table she gives one of my kneecaps a naughty pinch.
"Cleo's autograph!" Evan exults.
"Nice work."
"Can I have it back when you're done?"
"We'll see." I pocket the deli menu. "How about some more donuts?"
Emma gets up. "I've got a budget meeting upstairs. Jack, we'll talk later." Then, to Evan: "You did a great job."
"Thanks. I just hope I didn't miss anything."
And as soon as Emma is gone, Evan asks why I didn't want her to know the real reason I sent him to the widow's penthouse on Silver Beach.
"Because she'd just get nervous," I say, "and there's no cause for that. So tell me: Where'd you leave it?"
Evan grins. "In the bag with the coleslaw."
"That's beautiful."
"While I was waiting for you to call back," he says, "that's when Cleo decided to keep the food. She got a major jones for that meatball sub. But then she took another phone call and the long-haired guy went off with the blow dryer, and Jerry was icing down his face. So for a couple minutes I'm standing there all alone—that's when I took it out of my jacket and slipped it in the deli bag."
"Quick thinking."
"Then you phoned back and said it was okay to give her the food, which was a major relief since that's where I'd already hidden it," Evan says. "Can I tell you something? She scared me, Jack."
"Cleo?"
"You should've heard her talkin' to Jerry when she got off that other call."
"Was she mad?"
"Mainly just... cold. Her voice, man, I can't describe it. She's like, 'Do it. Get it done and no goddamn excuses this time.' Cold as ice, Jack. 'All these fuckups, Jerry, I'm over it.' Stuff like that. He's a big sonofabitch, too, and he's like, 'Yes, Ms. Rio. Right away, Ms. Rio.' Like a little kid standing in the principal's office. Tm sorry, Ms. Rio. I'll get right on it.' Really creeped me out."
"What were they talking about?" I ask Evan.
"No idea," he says. "But I was shakin' big-time when I handed her the coleslaw. And waiting for that elevator, Jack, I thought I was gonna wet my pants."
"You're a champ, Evan. First-rate job."
"Thanks." He leans closer and drops his voice. "When she was autographing the menu, she rubbed one of her boobs against me. On purpose, Jack, I swear to God!"
"And you're sure you don't want to be a reporter when you grow up?"
Evan's response is muffled by the donut he's cramming into his cheeks. "So, you promised to tell me. What was on that CD?"
"Just music."
"Come on, man. Who?"
"Her husband."
What I gave young Evan for covert delivery to Cleo Rio's apartment was the compact disc containing the first rough cut of "Cindy's Oyster." On the shiny face of the disc I used a red Sharpie to write a time, a date and a phone number.
"Oh wow," says Evan. "Her dead husband's music?"
Lunchtime. Emma's stuck in another meeting, so I take the Mustang and light out for Beckerville. Turning the corner of Janet's street, I feel my palms go clammy on the steering wheel. In my mind I've worked up this visual loop of Janet answering the door in her SWAT-team getup; tugging off her hood and smiling because it's me at the door...
But that's not how it goes.
Janet's Miata is gone from the driveway, and there's no sign of life at the house. The front door has been repaired—new locks, the works—but nobody answers when I knock and ring the buzzer. The blackout shades on the front windows have been lowered to the sills, making it impossible to peek inside. Casually I stroll to the rear of the house. In rny cheap necktie and buttoned-down shirt, I could be taken by a glancing neighbor for a city code inspector or possibly a meter reader for the electric company. Here again, my notebook serves as a nifty prop.
The back door is also locked, so I commence a minor felony. I remove two of the jalousie panes and lay them gingerly on the lawn. From my shirt pocket I take a small box cutter, lethally sharp, and slice a gash in the screen. Reaching inside, I twist the knob and lean on the door. The crime is consummated by stepping into Janet's home, which has been tidied up though not reoccupied. Armed with the unsheathed cutter, I hurry to the living room where I intend to excise a swatch of blood-stained carpeting. This will be matched against the blood on a used tampon that I'm praying is still in the bathroom wastebasket, where I saw it two days ago when Emma and I were here.
I'm assuming the worst—that the blood on the carpet belongs to Jimmy Stoma's sister—but it's important to know for certain. My plan for comparing the two samples is to solicit the off-duty services of good old Pete at the Medical Examiner's Office. He began a torrid affair with Karen, his assistant, shortly after she and I called it quits. For some reason Pete is convinced that he was the cause of our breakup. Naturally I've done nothing to disabuse my pathologist friend of this numbskull notion or relieve his misplaced guilt, knowing that someday I'd need a favor.
The carpeting parts like custard under the wicked blade, and I seal a wafer-sized piece in a Baggie. The tampon is retrieved and likewise secured—fortunately, whoever cleaned up Janet's house neglected to haul out the trash. Having completed my b-and-e in less than five minutes, I exit by the back door, pausing only to reset the jalousies. I drive directly to the county morgue, where Karen greets me with that creepy formality reserved for past sex partners. Pete, on the other hand, pumps my hand, gives me a hug
and says he'll be happy to work up the blood specimens on the sly. He doesn't even ask where they came from, that's how eager he is to make amends.
"This is your lunch? No wonder you look so skinny." Carla took an early break from the drugstore photo counter to meet me at the yogurt shop.
"I've been busy," I tell her.
"Too busy to call?"
"It's one thing after another with this story."
"Ah ha!" she says. "Blackjack is getting laid again, isn't he?"
How on earth do they know? It's truly baffling.
"No comment," is my mealy reply.
"Well, it's about damn time." Carla stretches across the table and tweaks my nose. "Who's the lucky girl? Tell me everything, Jack. She give head?"
"Jesus, Carla!"
"Reason I ask, I'm thinkin' of having my tongue pierced."
"Stop right there." I raise both hands.
"All I want to know is, would it make a difference in the b.j. department? My girlfriend Rae, she says the guys go crazy. She's got a half-carat ruby on a platinum post."
"And that doesn't interfere with her tuba lessons?"
"Come on, Jack, tell me."
"I paid a visit to your mother. How pathetic is that."
"Oh, I know. I got the whole story," Carla says.
"And you were right. She's pretty darn happy."
"Toldya."
"Would I be even mildly amused to hear the wedding arrangements?"
"First you've gotta tell me"—Carla pauses to lap up the last smudge of her boysenberry yogurt—"what happened Saturday night with you and Loreal. After you split from the club."
"Not much. I tailed him to some redneck dive and pretended to interview him about Cleo Rio's new album."
"You mean CD," says Carla. "An album is where you keep your photographs, Jack. Speakin' of which, I got some juicy ones if you're up for it. Amateur bondage!"
"No thanks. I turned pro last year."
"So, about Messr. Loreal—tell me more, tell me more... "
"Schmuck city, Carla, I checked him out. All these groups he says he produced, it's bullshit. He's just a studio rat. When Sugar Ray wants a Pellegrino or Snoop Doggy needs an Altoid, this is the guy they send to the mini-mart."
"You're saying he didn't produce the Wallflowers?"
"I'm saying he's lucky to produce a decent fart."
"Then why is Cleo with him?"
"Probably because he comes cheap. He thinks Jimmy's widow is his big break," I say. "So then, regarding the nuptials of Ms. Anne Candilla... ?"
"Simple ceremony, Jack. I'm the maid of honor. The best man is Derek's brother Nigel. We're to call him 'Nige.' "
"Will it be at a church or a KOA campground, in honor of the groom's distinguished past?"
"Neither," says Carla. "A private home somewhere down on Miami Beach. Hibiscus Island, I think. My mother has reluctantly agreed to allow bagpipes."
"And the vows?"
"Traditional," she says. "Derek wanted to write his own, but Mom thinks she talked him out of it."
"Thus averting disaster."
"Afterwards the newlyweds are off to Ireland, and then to sunny Prague."
"Ugh-oh."
"Not to wreck your day, Jack, but they're making a miniseries from The Falconer's Mistress. Derek's gonna punch up the script."
"It's only fair," I say with level calm.
"Boy, you must be getting some. I haven't see you in such a good mood since that big-haired Karen chick was polishing your knob."
"Carla, are you poaching from Emily Dickinson again?"
"You know what I'm talkin' about."
Now I remember what I wanted to ask her. "The other night, did anything happen after I left the club?"
"Yeah. Two Japanese businessmen offered me four hundred bucks for a friction dance. They were incredibly lost."
"No, I meant with Cleo."
"She tried to score some X off me in the ladies' room, but that's about it. Hey, I really gotta get back to work."
"Tell your mom I wish her the best. I mean that, too."
"I know you do." She scoots out of the booth and slings a mailbag-sized purse over her shoulder. "Sure you aren't up for some dirty snapshots? There's this one blond cow, she's got some wrangler tied naked to a barber's chair with a string of Christmas lights." In a whisper she adds: "The lady who brought in the film, she's a big shot with the Junior League."
"Very tempting," I say to Carla, "but I'll pass."
Naughtily she cocks an eyebrow. "Jack, you old hound. She must be a hottie, this new babe of yours."
" 'Hope is the thing with feathers, that perches in the soul.'"
"Whatever," says Carla, sticking out her tongue.
To avoid working on MacArthur Polk's obituary, I busy myself in the newsroom by scrolling up the many bylines of Emma's father on the International Herald Tribune's database. He is, as she told me, a topflight reporter. Among other big stories, he covered the fall of Suharto in Indonesia, the bombing of the U.S. Embassy in Nairobi, and the investigation into the automobile crash that killed Princess Diana and her boyfriend. Painfully I realize the disparity between my career arc and that of Emma's father is so vast as to render insignificant the four-year gap in our ages. He's batting cleanup in the big leagues, I'm riding the bench in the minors. Anticipating the withering onset of a depression, I abruptly click off the Herald Tribune site and return full bore to Jimmy Storm patrol.
The obliging archives of the Palm Beach Post reveal that the Sea Urchins, the chief beneficiary of Jimmy's estate, is an old and well-regarded charity that sponsors children's marine camps in Key Largo, the Bahamas and the Caribbean. The kids are of elementary-school age, and come from impoverished neighborhoods throughout the United States and Canada. The seven stories on file contain no hint of scandals or misdeeds connected to the program. A recent feature piece about prominent Sea Urchins boosters includes a quote from a "James B. Stomartie" that I assume to be Jimmy, surname misspelled. "Every kid, no matter how poor, deserves a chance to dive into an ocean at least once in his life," he said.
Janet's brother wasn't a complicated man, and his bequest was born of uncomplicated motives. He probably figured that a glimpse of the undersea world would do for those kids what it did for him. Cleo might be fuming about the terms of her husband's will but she'd be an idiot to challenge it now. The headlines alone would annihilate her career (Pop Star Widow Sues to Claim Kiddie Charity's Loot). As
Janet said, if Cleo wanted Jimmy's money, she'd have been better off divorcing him than killing him. If she did murder him, it surely was over something else.
I hope to learn much more when, at noon sharp the day after tomorrow, the phone should ring in a booth at the end of the Silver Beach fishing pier. Maybe it'll be Cleo calling, maybe somebody in her posse.
Or maybe the phone won't ring at all, and then I'm stuck again. Maybe she never found the "Cindy's Oyster" disc with the phone number. What if she's allergic to coleslaw, and tossed the bag in the garbage?
"Jack."
It's Emma, sneaking up on me like in the old days. Only now, instead of acting officious, she seems rattled and hesitant.
"Do you have a credit card?" she says. "Because I haven't figured out how to get the paper to pay for this yet. But I will, don't worry. I'm waiting to corner Abkazion between the five- and six o'clock news meetings."
"Pay for what? "I ask.
"A plane ticket to Los Angeles. Here, look." She hands me a printout of a short piece from the Associated Press. Before I can begin to read it, Emma blurts: "Tito Negraponte was shot last night."
"No shit," I hear myself saying. "You were right... "
"He's not dead. They've got him listed as serious at Cedars-Sinai. You want to take a crack at an interview?"
I'm dumbstruck. "You mean it? You want me to get on an airplane and go chasing a story, just like a real reporter?"
Emma reaches out lightly to touch my arm, as if she's brushing away a fleck of lint. "Y
ou've got to promise you'll be careful."
Already I'm groping in my desk for extra notebooks and pens. "Emma, you were right. You were absolutely right!"
"Sure looks that way."
"Somebody's killing off the Slut Puppies!" Then I clutch her pale startled face and smooch her lustily on the forehead, right there in the newsroom in front of God, the assistant city editors, everybody.