Cavallo covers her mouth, peering at me over her fingertips. “That’s awful.”
“The repetition,” I say, “I couldn’t keep doing it. So for two days almost, until she finally got her memory back, I kept it to myself. She’d ask what had happened, and I’d lie to her. Our daughter’s death, it became my secret. And when she finally did remember, when I knew she wouldn’t ask again, God help me I was actually glad. Because I’d never have to tell her again, your daughter is dead. And I hated myself for feeling that.”
The bill paid and the story told, I stagger outside, dazed by emotion and blinded by the light, fumbling for the sunglasses I must have forgotten in the car.
On the curb, after a long pause, I ask for the favor I mentioned before. I need help digging some dirt on Tony Salazar.
“If you don’t want to help,” I tell her, “I’ll understand.”
“It’s not that.” She brushes a stray curl from her eyes. “I’m just a little overwhelmed. And to be honest, it makes me uncomfortable not doing things by the book.”
“Wanda said you were a little uptight.”
“I’m not. But keeping tabs on a fellow cop…”
“These guys aren’t fellow anything. And listen, I still believe there’s some kind of link.”
She puts her arm up between us, like she’s checking the distance. “You don’t have to say that, March. I already told you I’d do it. It’s that or waste my time sitting through briefings on white slavery. I’ll do what I can.”
“In your free time?” I ask, cracking a smile. “Your fiancé won’t be too happy about that.”
She looks wanly at the engagement ring, its sparkle washed out by the sun. “My fiancé’s in Iraq, March. He doesn’t care what hours I work.”
“I didn’t know.”
“What can I say?” She starts toward her car, shrugging in profile. “Noboby’s written a book about it yet.”
I’m still sitting behind the wheel of my own vehicle, soaking up air-conditioning and pondering the turn of events with Cavallo, when my phone starts ringing. Brad Templeton sounds breathless on the other end of the line.
“I don’t want to talk to you right now,” I say. “Your book is a thorn in my side.”
“That’s fine. I’m just touching base with all the dirt I dug up on those names you gave me, but if you’re not interested – ”
“I’m interested. Forgive my uncharacteristic rudeness.”
He chuckles. “It wasn’t easy, my friend, because you had me looking in the wrong direction with all that Internal Affairs stuff. There’s nothing there. But what I did find is a lot juicier. Did you know your friend Keller filed incorporation papers for a private security firm earlier this year?”
“Do tell.”
“He’s connected, I’ll give him that. The corporate officers are a who’s who. Looks like he had some backers with deep pockets.”
“Had? As in, doesn’t have anymore?”
“That’s where it gets interesting,” he says. “Remember that guy Chad Macneil?”
The name is familiar, but I have to reach back all the way to last week’s headlines to make the connection. “The financial planner?”
“The guy who went missing, that’s right. Sunning himself on the beaches of South America, or so the story goes.”
“What about him?”
“He’s on the papers, too. The treasurer.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I’m not. And the crazy thing is, I’m not so sure the investors realize it. I had a chat with one by phone – don’t worry, I didn’t tip my hand – and he seemed oblivious.”
“Are you saying Macneil stole the money out of the corporation?”
He laughs. “It’s a private company, March. I don’t know how I’d find something like that out. But don’t you think it’s an intriguing possibility?”
Yes, I do. Thomson reached out with the promise he could name shooters in the Morales case. Morales was, among other things, a money man – Lorenz even floated the ludicrous idea that since there were no drugs in the house, maybe the crew that hit it had come for the money. Now that notion doesn’t seem quite so ludicrous anymore. Not if Keller’s treasurer, when he absconded, took the company’s capital with him.
In fact, a lot of things suddenly start looking like they might connect. Mitch Geiger’s rogue crew jacking dealers left and right, showing no respect for the territorial boundaries. The tactical know-how of the shooters at the Morales scene, with Castro’s theory about the flanking maneuver outside the bathroom window. It would explain how Thomson could be so certain about naming the bad guys. Maybe he knew them. Maybe he was there. Something like that, it could easily eat away at the conscience of a supposedly reformed man.
“Anything else for me?” I ask.
“That’s it. Now, what have you got for me?”
“All in good time, Brad. Just keep digging for now.”
After I get him off the phone, I check my messages and find that the elusive Vance Balinski has gotten in touch. He sounds nervous, either because he’s not accustomed to leaving voicemail for a homicide detective, or because he knows what’s in the box Thomson gave him. According to the message, he’s on his way to the Morgan St. Café right now, dropping the package off at the counter. I can pick it up there anytime.
I check my watch. If I drive recklessly, I might just get there before he leaves.
CHAPTER 21
Just inside the door, Vance Balinski crouches on a café chair, head ducked between his knees, attended by a semicircle of alarmed women including the one who’d worked the counter on my last visit. Everyone turns when I call his name, a few even jump. He straightens, casting around blindly for the sound of my voice, eyes clenched tight, a wadded towel pressed to his nose. When he takes it away, the fabric glistens with fresh blood. Blond curls frame his punching bag of a face, perfect as a wig fitted after the fact. One eye opens, the blue cornea bright in a red sea of burst vessels.
“You cops,” he says, choking on the words. “Never around when you’re needed.”
After confirming with the shell-shocked women that the police have been called, I crouch down for a closer look at Balinski’s injuries. In addition to the facial trauma, his rib cage has been kicked to shards, so bad that he winces with every labored breath.
“Who did this to you?” I ask.
“Some Mexicans.”
“What did they look like?”
He coughs a plug of bile into the towel. “They looked like Mexicans.”
“What about the box,” I ask, already knowing the answer.
He shakes his head. “That’s what they wanted.”
Between coughing fits and interruptions from well-intentioned bystanders trying to get him to lie down or drink some water, he manages to communicate the gist of the story. He pulled up outside the Morgan St. Café, popped his trunk to retrieve the box Thomson had given him, then heard footsteps rushing up. Before he could turn, they were already on him, hammering away with their tattooed fists. He flailed defensively, slipping backward into the trunk, only to be pulled out by the ankles. Twisting on the concrete, balled in the fetal position, he endured a flurry of bootheels until a stray steel-capped toe connected with his chin, knocking him out. He awakened in the hot dark confines of his own trunk, using the glow-in-the-dark release lever to get out.
“Funny,” he says, showing me what could pass for a child’s juice-stained teeth. “I never thought that release lever would actually come in handy.”
The Mexicans were gone, and so was the box. He tipped himself onto the pavement and managed to get inside, where his mangled appearance rendered him momentarily unrecognizable in spite of his being a regular.
Losing that box is enough to make me want to kick Balinski, too. Given his injuries, I’m forced to restrain myself in the questioning, keeping the tone civil if not solicitous, but I can’t seem to keep the incredulity out of my voice.