I tapped the screen. “They show me owning an old TransAm, which was totaled a few years back. I signed over the title when I sold it for scrap. Makes you wonder how reliable their research is, doesn’t it?”
He clicked a key to bring up his screen saver and leaned back in his chair to look at me.
“What evidence?”
“I just told you, they’re listing the TransAm among my assets, when—”
“What evidence that Chad Vishneski didn’t murder that Mexican gal?”
“You’re sort of following this story, aren’t you? You know the name of the guy who’s been arrested, but, like LifeStory, you’re relying on poor sources. No Mexicans were killed.”
He opened a new window on his computer and called up the news reports on the shooting. “Nadia Guaman. Mexican gal. Killed outside some nightclub.”
“Nadia Guaman, woman, American. And you know darned well where she was killed because Rodney was there, so surely he told you about it. And a few nights ago he drove one of your cars to the club. If anything happens to Rivka Darling or Karen Buckley, or even me, Rodney will definitely be the first person the police will question. And then they’ll talk to you because you own the car he drives, and then they’ll talk to Anton Kystarnik because you lease your office from him.”
I was making up the last item—it just seemed like a reasonable assumption. Since Widermayer actually looked as startled as possible for a boiled egg, it must have been accurate.
“Tell me about the evidence. Then I’ll know whether it’s worth talking to Rodney.”
“My clients pay for confidentiality.”
“In other words, you’ve got a big fat zero.”
“I’ve been around too long to let someone goad me into revealing confidential information. I’ll tell you, in exchange for another fat zero, that the police are taking my results very seriously.” No one ever said it was wrong to lie to Anton Kystarnik’s accountant.
Widermayer pretended to yawn. I sat on the cheap deal credenza that held his tax and law books. It wobbled a bit, and I wondered if it might give way beneath me, but I liked the way it distracted his attention.
“Olympia Koilada,” I said. “Anton Kystarnik bailed her out, and now she lets Rodney run tame around her club. If—”
“Who told you that?”
I smiled. “Sources. Nadia Guaman was getting Chad Vishneski all wound up. When he started attacking her in the club, it created a stir, and the club got in the news. Anton can’t afford to have a spotlight on him these days. The feds are already paying too much attention to him. So he gets Rodney to shoot Nadia and frame Chad, and two problems are solved at the same time.”
Widermayer gave a derisive snort. “I thought you were a detective, not a fairy-tale writer.”
“It doesn’t matter if it’s a fairy tale as long as the state’s attorney and a jury believe it.”
I drew my feet up under me, despite the bulk of my boots, and the credenza gave kind of a squawk.
“Get off that,” Widermayer said sharply. “If you break it, you replace it.”
“Fifty bucks at Walmart. Not worth worrying about.”
“Olympia Koilada doesn’t figure in your fairy tale, I notice, but if she’s your client I’d advise her to be very, very careful.”
“Yeah,” I said, “why’s that?”
“She hasn’t kept her side of a bargain she made, and that means she’s not trustworthy.”
The credenza wobbled under my weight. Widermayer watched it and me with as much alarm as his large plate of a face could express. I hopped off: I didn’t want to impale my spine on a tax book.
“If Olympia shows up dead or beaten, or something, you and Anton will definitely be the first ports of call for the cops. Not to mention your boy Rodney.”
“Nothing to do with me,” Widermayer said.
I leaned over the desk and smiled into his face. “He’s using your car. The law tends to hold you responsible for little things like that.”
“If you’re threatening me, you’re wasting your breath.”
I straightened up. “I wouldn’t call it a threat, Mr. Widermayer. More like information.”
As I left his office, I looked back to smile at him. Not even his eggy face could conceal his expression this time, and it wasn’t one that proclaimed eternal love and devotion.
21
The Super-Rich and Their Fascinating Lives
When I got back to my car, I wrote down the names I’d seen on Widermayer’s assistant’s computer while they were still fresh in my mind: Bettina Lyzhneska, Konstantin Feder, Michael Durante, Ludwig Nastase. An Eastern European crew, except for Durante and Rodney.
There were only a dozen or so cars in the lot, mostly the nondescript Fords and Toyotas that people like Widermayer’s assistant might drive. I copied down their license plates, anyway. Maybe I could push on my relationship with Murray and find out who they were registered to.