“If you think you’re stronger than Anton, you’re even dumber than I thought you were.”
I laughed. “Not possible. But the feds are hot on his trail. He’s not long for this world. If you know anything, the least thing that could tip off the FBI to—oh, I don’t know—how he killed his wife or some other murder we’ve never heard of, you wouldn’t have to come forward, you wouldn’t have to talk about your dad and the drugs and all that ancient history. Just a tip that would send an investigator in the right direction. Once Anton’s out of the picture, the rest of his goons will melt like this snow is going to one of these days. And I’d run interference. I’d leak the tip and wouldn’t reveal you as a source.”
“How do I know I can trust you?” she asked.
“You don’t. You can only go with your gut. And what you’ve seen of me. That I took a beating from Rodney and didn’t stop my investigation. That I did the best I could for Clara Guaman and Chad Vishneski.”
“You took a beating from Rodney?” She was suspicious.
Once again, I showed off my discolored abdomen, although, ten days out, the bruises had faded to a dull yellow.
“Didn’t you wonder tonight how I knew about the messages they were sending through your body? After Rodney jumped me and tried to kick me into submission, I managed to leave him unconscious on the street. And then I persuaded two of his team to talk to me.”
It sounded more impressive that way, leaving out Tim Radke’s and Marty Jepson’s help, and my pure dumb luck when Rodney slipped on my vomit.
“If you rat me out and Anton gets wind of it, I’ll send him after you,” she warned me.
“I’m not afraid of the big bad wolf,” I lied. “Any thoughts on how he might have offed his wife?”
She held her breath, shut her eyes, ready to jump off the high dive. “Acid. It’s how he made a helicopter go down when I was in high school. He put acid on wires running from the master switch to the solenoid, and it ate through the insulation about twenty minutes after the chopper took off. Anton was laughing about it on the phone one night during one of his horrid parties. Zina and I were hiding behind the couch, where his pals couldn’t see us. As soon as he left the room, we ran like hell. Even Zina didn’t want Anton to know she’d heard something like that.”
“Acid on the wire from the master switch to the solenoid? How’d you know what that was?”
She shook her head. “I didn’t. I asked my dad. I didn’t tell him why I wanted to know—I let him think it was for a physics project at school. Even so, he might have guessed. He was a smart guy, my dad, but he died thinking I was selling drugs.”
“He loved you,” I ventured. “He certainly would have forgiven you.”
“I was so stupid,” she whispered. “So greedy. I wanted the stuff that all those rich brats had—their horses, their clothes, and when I started hanging around with Zina, Anton, he saw my greed. I made it so easy for him. So goddamned fucking easy. ‘Is not taking candy from baby,’ he said. ‘Is giving baby candy and giving you power.’ I loved it. I’ve always loved power. It was only later, when I was in too deep, that I saw he had all the power.”
The story was almost more than I could bear. Anton’s vileness, using his own daughter and her friend as a private brothel—Scalia and MacLean, casually murdering Nadia Guaman to keep her sister’s destruction a secret—I didn’t think I could continue living in a world with people like this in it.
And Karen, her adolescence shaped by Anton. No wonder she kept people at a distance.
My feelings must have shown in my face because she said, “Don’t go feeling sorry for me. I hate that worse than anything. Tell your cop friend about the solenoid. If Anton really goes to prison, then, yes, I’d like to come home, be Francine Pindero again. If you want to send me any news about it, e-mail [email protected].”
Vesta emerged from her crate at the back of the cellar, surprising both of us—we’d been so intent on our talk that we’d forgotten her. She put her arm around the Body Artist.
“Come on, Buckley,” she said. “Or Frannie. Maybe I’m a fool, but I’m taking you home with me.”
I turned off the space heater and followed the two of them up the stairs. When I got to the top, Tim and Marty were holding the Artist. I told them we were done—she could vanish into whatever shadows she chose.
55
There Is Some Justice in This World, Just Not Enough
Marty Jepson and Tim Radke were heading to Plotzky’s to join their other friends for a drink or six and wanted me to join them.
“Chad’s off the hook,” Tim Radke said. “You were awesome, Vic. Wish you’d been with our squad in Iraq.”