George O’Hara—his real name, although he himself said he didn’t have a drop of Irish blood in him—didn’t seem to care as he sat across from her. Dark and hugely overweight, O’Hara was a one-time felon who’d pulled himself together after his release from prison and made a fresh start. He cleaned bars during the day and performed comedy at night. On occasion, he provided Juliet with information. He was selective in what he told her; he had no great desire to tell her anything. But he accepted that some people simply needed to be off the streets.
Juliet fingered the handle on her coffee mug. “What do you tell people who ask about me?”
“I tell them you think I’m funny. You do, don’t you?”
She’d seen his act once. “You’re very funny.”
“Like my federal agent jokes?”
“I’m material,” she said. “That’s what you tell anyone who asks about me, isn’t it?”
He leaned his bulk about a quarter inch closer to her, the best he could do in the cramped quarters. “Nobody asks.”
“How’s the cleaning?”
“Pays more in three months than you earn in a year as a marshal.”
No doubt it did. “You don’t clean this place, do you?”
George seemed offended. “It wouldn’t smell like pee if I cleaned it.”
Juliet breathed in through her teeth. That morning, she’d gone kayaking in a pristine Vermont lake. “The cigar smoke’s getting to my sinuses,” she said, then looked out at the crowd of loud, happy drunks, a third of whom were as overweight as O’Hara. Without turning to him, she went on. “I need anything you can give me on Bobby Tatro.”
She’d given George a heads-up. Her mention of Tatro wasn’t out of the blue. George sat back, his chair groaning under him, and when she finally shifted her attention back to him, he sighed. “Word is he’s out of the country.”
“Where?”
“South America.”
“That’s a whole continent, George. Can you be more specific?”
He shook his head. “He’s hooked up with some vigilante-justice types. He’s going to save the world.”
“Good. It’ll keep him busy.”
She picked and prodded some more, but it was all O’Hara had to offer. He promised to keep his ears open—he prided himself on his listening skills. He said they helped make him a better comic. He wasn’t after just the content of what other people were saying, but the rhythm of their speech, its syntax and cadences. Juliet had suggested he put together a class for her fellow deputies, and he’d almost choked on his tongue laughing at the idea.
But he wasn’t laughing now. “Nobody likes this guy Tatro.”
“Smart.”
“What does he want with you?”
“Nothing, I hope.”
“You put him away?”
“I caught him after he was convicted in a federal court and didn’t turn up to serve his sentence.”
“Ended his party.”
“I found him in a Wal-Mart parking lot. It wasn’t much of a party.”
O’Hara held up his beer glass to the dim light. “Those aren’t my fingerprints,” he said, frowning, then set the glass back down on the dark wood table. “How’s your Special Forces guy?”
“I have no idea. And he’s not ‘my’ Special Forces guy.” Juliet paid for their drinks and got to her feet. “You know how to reach me?”
“You gave me your cell-phone number, apartment phone, apartment address, office phone, page number, personal e-mail, office e-mail—”
“I didn’t give you my apartment address.”
“Oops. Forgot that one didn’t come from you.” He didn’t seem particularly worried or apologetic.
“If you hear anything, let me know. Do not underestimate this guy. Even if he is a free man, Bobby Tatro is one very bad actor. If you run into him, don’t approach him. Don’t even think my name.”
George’s expressive eyes—a warm, deep brown—showed concern mixed with outright fear, but not for himself, Juliet realized. For her. But he simply said good-night and thanked her for the beer, ordering another as she made her way through the crowd and back outside. She took the subway back to her borrowed apartment on the Upper West Side, making a point to smile at Juan, the new doorman—Ethan’s success at sneaking into the building had been the last straw for the old one.
On the elevator, she spoke briefly to a middle-aged couple who seemed self-conscious around her. It took her a few seconds to realize it was probably her badge; she doubted they ran into many federal agents. They were pleasant, artsy types who lived on a higher floor in a bigger, fancier apartment than hers.
Freda, her theater friend, would be back in just a matter of weeks, but Juliet hadn’t done a thing to find a new apartment. Even a less desirable street on the Upper West Side would be tough on her salary, assuming she could find something.
She flopped on her futon couch, listening to the familiar, soothing gurgle of her four fish tanks. Why four, she didn’t know. She didn’t even know why she had one fish tank. And her plants—the place was a jungle. But a lady slipper orchid she’d bought at the New York Orchid Show at the World Trade Center, before 9/11, was in bloom, and that pleased her.
Her cell phone rang. She debated not answering it but rolled off the couch and headed down the hall to her small bedroom. She grabbed her phone off the dresser and took a quick glance at the readout: private. No help there.