“I heard about your niece.”
It’d been in the papers and on the news, at least part of the story. Ex-con who threatened a marshal was under arrest for murdering her doorman, breaking into her apartment and attacking her niece. Nothing about Colombia or the clandestine photograph, his artwork. No hint of the involvement of a certain Special Forces officer.
“Wendy will be okay,” Juliet said. “What do you know about my doorman?”
George lifted the collar of his expensive shirt, airing himself. “It’s hot in here. How can you drink coffee?”
“It was a bad choice. The coffee’s lousy. Want to order something cold? Look at you, you’re drenched in sweat.” She studied him a moment. “You’re not scared, are you?”
“Hell, no.”
“Because if you are—we can protect you.”
He shook his head. “I’m not going that route. If I need protection, I’ll hire my own.” He waved a waiter over and ordered a pitcher of iced tea, unsweetened, then looked at Juliet and shrugged. “I’ve got to start somewhere to slim down.”
“Juan the doorman,” Juliet said. “Anything you can tell me?”
“I didn’t know him, but I hear he wasn’t from New York.”
“Where was he from?”
George lifted his massive shoulders and let them fall. “I don’t have anything definitive. Maybe Miami, maybe Texas.”
“There’s a big difference between Miami and Texas.”
“Picky, picky. He was American, or so I hear. He and Bobby Tatro got hooked up after Tatro was released from prison. Looks like that was a mistake.” George paused for the waiter to deliver his pitcher of tea, pour a glass and withdraw. “Your doorman wasn’t the worst of the worst.”
“You say that about everybody.”
“I like most people. That’s why I’m funny.” But he didn’t smile. “I didn’t know about any doorman when we met last time. Not until yesterday.”
“I understand, George. Just give me whatever you have.”
“Your doorman was a vigilante-justice type, too. At least, that’s what I’m hearing.”
“When we met last time, you said Tatro had hooked up with that type. Believe me, if he did, it wasn’t out of any sense of conviction. Not from what I saw yesterday. He had his own agenda.”
“You,” George said.
Juliet didn’t respond.
“He doesn’t like you. Holds a grudge. You knew that, right?”
Juliet nodded. “Yes, I knew.”
George’s eyes flickered with regret. “My people tell me he relished thinking he could pounce on you anytime he picked. He’d watch you come and go.”
“For how long?” Juliet asked, keeping her voice steady.
“He started right after he got out of prison. Kept it up for a week or so, or so I’ve heard. Then lightning struck, so to speak.”
The bartender, about half George’s size, brought an insulated coffee urn and refilled Juliet’s mug. The coffee smelled decent, fresh. After the bartender trudged off, George held his iced tea glass up to the light, grimaced, then took a long drink. Juliet smiled at him. “You’re a big guy, George. How do you manage all the cleaning?”
“I have a good crew now. I just manage them.”
“No kidding.”
He gave a self-satisfied shrug. “As I’ve told you, I make more money running a private cleaning service than you do as a federal agent, Deputy Longstreet.”
Juliet settled back in her chair, not as put off by the nasty odors and atmosphere of the place as she had been. George was easy to talk to, a man with a genuine affection for people. He never discussed what had turned him around, and she never asked.
“Tell me about the lightning striking,” she said.
“Bobby Tatro ran into a turncoat, somebody the vigilantes were after. That’s how he got mixed up with them.”
“What do you mean, a turncoat?”
“A traitor.”
“As in—”
“Treason. This guy turned on his country. Even creeps like Tatro don’t like traitors.”
Juliet had no idea what to make of George’s story. He had an active imagination, and he wasn’t always right. She tried the coffee. This pot was hot, strong and reasonably fresh. “George, what are you talking about? Some traitor walks up to my building while Tatro’s stalking me—” She shook her head in disbelief. “Come on.”
“I’m just repeating what I’ve heard. You’ve got it about right. This traitor showed up at your building one day while Tatro was getting off on spying on you without your knowledge.”
“Was Juan the doorman then?”
“Afterward.” Her incredulity must have showed in her face, because George frowned at her. “I don’t make up these things. I just tell you what I hear.”
She drank more of her coffee, wondering if this time the caffeine would give her the jitters, since everything else in her life seemed to be changing. “Go on, then. How did Tatro find out this guy was a traitor? Someone must have told him. Who?”
“No idea.”
“Not our mysterious doorman?”