He shook his head. “You sound like dynamite right now, to be blunt. I don’t want you leading some menace to her doorstep. She fled her old apartment because someone was asking after her. Remember? You told me that yourself, and she confirms it.”
I ate a slice of my cold pizza. “What if they weren’t from INS or the state? What if they were the people who killed Nicola, come to make sure she hadn’t talked to her mother? No matter how much Abuelita Mercedes denied having heard from Nicola, they’d never believe her. Have you asked her yourself? If Nicola talked to her before she died, I mean?”
Morrell’s lips twisted in a half smile. “Bryant Vishnikov warned me that you’d wear me out if I got involved with you. No, I haven’t asked her that, and yes, I’ll make time to get back to Se?ora Mercedes in the next day or two.”
“Did Vishnikov tell you I’d consulted him about you as well? He didn’t give me a character reading, though.”
“Maybe there’s nothing people need to be warned about when they meet me,” he said with a sly smile.
“Or maybe too much to be covered in a single phrase. What does the C.L. stand for?”
“Good grief. Have you really been investigating me? I didn’t think any record still existed of those initials. My parents didn’t speak English, and they longed for America as for the promised land. They named me in the hopes I’d fit in when we finally got here and instead gave me something that got me beat up regularly. It would have hurt their feelings if I’d changed my name, so I use only my surname. Think of me as someone like Madonna or Prince.”
I imagined lying in bed with him, whispering “Morrell” instead of—what name could have been that embarrassing? Maybe they’d named him for name brands, like Clorox and Lysol. I blushed at my fantasy and hurried back to business.
The list of things that needed doing depressed me. I was like a tetherball, gyrating erratically from one side to another, depending on who was punching me. My physical stamina was limited and my emotional energy was not much greater.
“There’s one other thing I’d like to ask of you,” I said abruptly. “I don’t think it will wear you out, but who knows? I have a videotape of the police goons in my office. I’d like it taken to Cheviot Labs, to an engineer named Rieff who’s been doing some work on Aguinaldo’s dress for me. I was going to send it to him tomorrow, but I want copies made first. I’m too nervous about how much of my phone conversations may have been overheard. I’m thinking my assailant heard me talking to my client about my out–of–town trip and used the opportunity to plant drugs in my office. If they heard me leave a message for Rieff Saturday night they’ll go to him, or intercept me, or do something to keep the tape from him. The other thing is a copy of a report on Lucian Frenada’s finances. Global is going to slam him on—on Murray Ryerson’s show tomorrow night, but I have evidence that he’s not living in luxury off the drug business. I want a million photocopies so it’s public.”
“Fine.” Morrell held out a hand. “I’ll take care of those. What do you want me to do with the copies?”
“Of the videotape? One to my lawyer, the original to Rieff to see if he can pick up who Lemour was speaking to on his cell phone. One to Murray Ryerson. And the report on Frenada, that should go to all those people, and a bunch of reporters I know—I can make up a list for you.”
“How’d you videotape Lemour when he had you cuffed?”
“Carnifice Security isn’t the only high–tech player in the detective world.” I told him about the video glasses as I scribbled a media list on the back of an old parking receipt.
“I once helped photocopy details of torture conducted by the Brazil secret police,” Morrell said. “It was a project organized by the Archbishop of Rio. We had a terrifying time, sneaking into the office after hours to see the records, copying them, returning them without anyone getting caught out or squealing. We could have used glasses like those. You going to be okay getting home?” he added as the waiter brought a check. “You’d be welcome to stay with me—I’ve got a spare bedroom.”
It was appealing, the idea of not having to worry about who might be lying in wait outside my door. Besides, there was my fantasy, lying with his long fingers on my body—on my sore body, but maybe he had a lover of some sex and wouldn’t find an exhausted forty–plus detective sexy, anyway.
Lotty had almost been killed once, helping me in a crisis, and Mr. Contreras had been shot. Conrad had left me after a similar episode. I couldn’t bear to have one more person maimed on my account, even one I didn’t know well. I thanked him but turned my roaring Skylark south toward home.
26 If You Can’t Swim, Keep Away from Sharks