“Do you know Winston Boyko?”
No. Detective Palumbo was here about someone else. He was here about Winston.
“What?” I said.
“Do you know Winston Boyko?”
Okay. What were my options here? No, I don’t wasn’t one of them. After all, there were a number of people who could swear just the opposite — Darlene, Tim Ward, and half the sixth floor.
“Yes.”
Detective Palumbo was scribbling something in his little notebook that he’d produced almost magically out of his coat, scribbling away and seemingly waiting for me to embellish a little.
(A detective comes to see you and asks you if you know this obscure mailroom employee and you say . . . what is it? Yes. That’s it. No curiosity about why?)
“Why do you want to know, Detective?”
“He’s missing,” Detective Palumbo said.
A lot better than He's been found dead. I could cry all I wanted about this unexpected interrogation, but a Winston missing was better than a Winston found.
“Really?” I said.
Detective Palumbo had a red mark on the bridge of his nose. Contacts? A slight nick on his chin where he’d cut himself shaving? I checked out his face as if it might hold a few answers for me. For instance, what he thought I knew.
“For over two weeks,” Palumbo said.
“Hmmm . . .” I was down to monosyllabic responses now, being as my brain was off somewhere else furiously constructing alibis.
“When was the last time you saw him?” Detective Palumbo asked.
Good question. Maybe even a trick question, like who was the last left-handed batter to win the American League MVP award? Everyone says Yastrzemski, everyone, but it’s a trick — it’s really Vida Blue, left-handed wunderkind pitcher for the Oakland As. The kind of question Winston would have loved, too.
When did you last see him?
“Gee, I don’t know,” I finally said. “A few weeks ago, I think.”
“Uh-huh,” Palumbo said, still scribbling. “What exactly was your relationship, Mr. Schine?”
What did that mean? Wasn't relationship the kind of word you used for people who had one? Lucinda and me, for instance. If Palumbo was asking me what kind of relationship Lucinda and I had, I would’ve said brief. I would’ve said sex and violence, and you can forget the sex.
“He works here,” I said. “He delivers my mail.”
“Yeah,” Palumbo said. “That’s it?”
“Yes.”
“Uh-huh.” Palumbo was staring at the picture of my family.
“So I guess you’re interviewing. . .everyone?” I asked, hoped.
“Everyone?”
“You know, everyone who works here?”
“No,” Palumbo said, “not everyone.”
I could’ve asked him, Why me, then? I could’ve asked him that, but I was afraid of the answer I might get back, so I didn’t. Even though I was wondering if Palumbo was expecting me to ask him that.
“So . . . is there anything else I can — ” I began, but was interrupted.
“Whenwas that again? The last time you saw him?” Palumbo asked, pencil poised and waiting — and I was reminded of an image from one of those British costume dramas that continuously turn up on Bravo: the Crown’s executioner holding the ax above his head, only awaiting the signal to strike.
“I don’t remember, exactly,” I said. “Two weeks ago, I guess.”
I guess. Couldn't hold someone to a guess, could you? Couldn’t drag them downtown and haul them before the court on a wrong guess.
“Two weeks ago? When he delivered your mail?”
“Yes.”
“Did you ever get together with Mr. Boyko, you know, socially?”
Yes, once in a bar. But it was business.
“No.”
“Did Mr. Boyko ever talk to you about himself?”
“How do you mean?”
“Did Mr. Boyko ever talk about himself? To you?”
“No, not really. About mail . . . you know.”
“Mail?”
“Deliveries. Where I wanted something sent. Things like that.”
“Uh-huh. That’s it?”
“Pretty much. Yes.”
“Well, what else?”
“Excuse me?”
“You said pretty much. What else did he talk to you about?”
“Sports. We talked about sports.”
“Mr. Boyko is a sports fan, then?”
“I guess. Kind of. We’re both Yankee fans,” trying hard to keep in the present tense when I was talking about Winston — not so easy, when I could picture him lying stiffly at the foot of the mound of garbage.
“That’s all, then. You talked about mail and sometimes about the Yankees?”
“Yes. As far as I can remember.”
“That’s it?”
“Yes.”
“Would you know how Winston came into ten thousand dollars, Mr. Shine?”
“What?”You heard him.
“Mr. Boyko had ten thousand dollars in his apartment. I was wondering if you had any idea how he got it.”
“No. Of course not. How would I . . . ?” I was wondering something: if the police were allowed to check with David Lerner Brokerage and see how much stock I’d sold. It wouldn’t look good, would it? It would look, okay, suspicious. But then, why would they suspect me of giving ten thousand dollars to Winston? I was panicking for no good reason.
“There were some computers stolen from your agency. One from this floor.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Did you ever see Mr. Boyko up here when he wasn’t supposed to be?”
Computers. Palumbo was asking me about computers. Of course. Winston the thief. Winston the ex-con. He was talking to me because he suspected Winston had gotten that money from stealing some computers. He needed witnesses. Winston had stolen some computers and he’d made some money and taken off.
“Now that you mention it, I did see him up here one night when I was working late.”
“Where, exactly?”
“Just around, you know. In the hall here.”
“Was there any reason for him to be up on this floor after work?”
“Not that I can think of. I thought it was kind of strange at the time.” I was killing him again, I thought. First when he was alive and now when he wasn’t.
“Did you challenge him about that? Ask him what he was doing there?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. I just didn’t. He was down the hall — I was in my office. I really didn’t know if he was supposed to be here or not.”
“All right, Mr. Schine.” Palumbo shut his notebook and placed it back into his hip pocket. “I think that’s all I have for you today. Thank you for taking the time to talk to me.”
“You’re welcome,” I said, even as I wondered about that word. Today.
“I hope you find him.”
“So do I. You know, Mr. Boyko was pretty good about seeing his parole officer. He hadn’t missed a meeting. Not one. You did know he’d been in prison, right?”
“I think I may have heard something about that. Yeah, sure. Is that who told you he was missing? His parole officer?”
“No,” Palumbo said. Then he looked straight into my eyes, the way lovers do when they want you to acknowledge the sincerity of their feelings.