“My dad was a cop and a good honest man. And so were his friends. Some of them are still on the force.”
I thought of Frank Siekevitz. My dad trained him. The three of us used to go to baseball games together. Siekevitz wept at my dad’s funeral and vowed in a tribute that made others cry to remain true to Tony’s principles. Now he was backing away from me because Global Entertainment had leaned on him.
Maybe that was what was really keeping me from taking my story to my dad’s oldest friend on the force. I was afraid deep down that Bobby Mallory would turn away, too. Not bought—no one could buy him—but any man with six children and a dozen grandchildren is vulnerable. Of course, everyone has a hostage to fortune. If someone kidnapped Lotty, or threatened to hurt her—
“Where are you, Vic?” Morrell asked.
I jumped at his voice. “In a place where I feel terrified and alone. That’s why I called you. I need an ally, and I need one who doesn’t have an easy lever to pry him apart. Unless—do you have children or lovers?”
He blinked. “Are you asking me to risk myself for you because I’m alone in the world and no one cares if I die? Why should I do that?”
I felt my cheeks stain crimson. “No reason I can think of. Unless you think I could teach you something useful, like how to jump off a building onto a moving freight train.”
“Probably not a skill I can use: most of the places I’m fleeing don’t have buildings high enough to jump from. Anyway, don’t you do financial investigations? Why were you jumping onto a train?”
I gave him as complete a rundown of the past two weeks as I could manage. He interrupted with the occasional question, but for the most part he sat quietly, chin in hand, dark eyes watching me.
“That’s why I’m eager to talk to Nicola Aguinaldo’s mother,” I finished. “I need someone who can tell me who her daughter would run to—or from. Nicola worked for Robert Baladine, and he’s definitely on the visiting team. Would she have gone to him and ended up being beaten or kicked for showing up? It matters terribly that her body’s disappeared, and I’d like to know that Abuelita Mercedes really didn’t bury it without an autopsy.”
Morrell put a warning hand on my arm; I hadn’t noticed the waiter hovering nearby. I ordered a double espresso and a little gorgonzola–pear pizza. Riding the rods Saturday night had taken away my appetite. I certainly didn’t feel like drinking. No Philip Marlowe I, downing a pint of rye every time I got injured.
When the waiter had left I said, “When Nicola died she was wearing not a dress but a long T–shirt, a Mad Virgin T–shirt. I think Lucian Frenada made it, and that doesn’t make a lot of sense to me, either. How did she get it after making her break from Coolis? They can wear civilian clothes in jail, but not that kind of flimsy minidress.”
After the waiter brought our food, Morrell asked me what had happened to make me think someone might be monitoring my apartment. “The last time we talked you weren’t very forthcoming. Now you’re rattled and want to make me an accessory, if not an ally.”
I grimaced. “You weren’t Chatty Cathy, either. I was willing to let it go because I thought I could get information on Aguinaldo some other way. But I haven’t been able to, and anyway, so much is going on I can’t seem to focus on any one problem. And then, when I got back from an out–of–town assignment this past Saturday, I found that someone was trying to frame me in a major way.”
I went into more detail about the dope I’d found in my office and the chaos I’d seen at Special–T Uniforms. “I haven’t been able to get hold of Frenada since the phone call—which presumably didn’t come from him at all. I did go to see Lacey Dowell today—which sent her hotfoot to Global’s lawyer, instead.”
When I finished, Morrell nodded to himself several times, as if digesting what I’d told him. “Abuelita Mercedes really doesn’t have her daughter’s body. If her assailant got the body released, it’s probably been buried or cremated by now: I don’t think we can expect to find it.”
I agreed. “The jobs are county patronage; it would be easy for a man whose clout owed Baladine or Poilevy a favor to misdirect a body if that was required. I did talk to Vishnikov the other day, and he said he’d check to see whether the body was still there but had been mislabeled. Maybe if my pals know Vishnikov is mounting a major investigation, they’ll tip their hands. But the person I’d most like to talk to is Abuelita Mercedes. I would dearly love to ask her about her daughter’s acquaintances.”