“She’s off talking to the doctor someplace. She’ll probably be back in a bit.”
I glanced through the half-open door, saw a pair of hands that looked like they were inside enormous white oven mitts. Half of Sandler’s face was shielded by the privacy curtain, but the half that was visible was covered in bandages, except for one eye, which was closed.
“Jesus Christ,” I said. “What did they do to him?” The cop kept his lip shut. “Just off the record, what the hell happened to him?”
The cop considered whether to speak, then said, “Someone put this guy’s face and hands into a goddamn fucking deep fryer. It’s a wonder he’s still alive. When they get the bandages off his face and he has a look in the mirror, he’ll be sorry he survived.”
“Is he able to talk at all?”
“Be a lot easier if he had lips. They haven’t been able to get much out of him so far.”
“Who’s in charge of the investigation?” I said. “I need to talk to him, or her, or whoever it is.” I didn’t have much doubt who was behind this, and I was more than happy to tell all.
The cop dictated a name and number, which I scribbled into my notebook. I thanked him and headed back to my car. Driving home, I dialed the number he’d given me.
“Hi. This is Detective Herlich. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you.”
“Yeah, hi, my name is Zack Walker and I think I can tell you what happened to Brian Sandler. Look, I’m heading home, I’ll give you that number.” Which I did, and broke off.
Sandler’s instincts were right. His boss, Ellinger, must have suspected Sandler was up to something after he’d dropped by his office and asked all those questions. And then, and I was guessing here but it all seemed to make sense, Ellinger put in a call to the Gorkins, who brought Sandler in for a visit with the deep fryer.
I imagined Mrs. Gorkin and her girls must have had a few questions for him before they dunked him into the sizzling grease. Like what he was up to, whether he was going to play along, whether he was going to the police.
Whether he was going to the media.
Shit.
I decided that when I got home, I would put in a call to Lawrence Jones. Get a few tips on how to watch my back. Maybe drop enough hints, act frightened enough, that he’d come over and babysit me until I told Detective Herlich everything I knew about the Gorkins and Sandler. Herlich was welcome to hear the audio file as well. Wouldn’t take long, once he had all of that, I figured, before arrest warrants would be sworn out for the Gorkins, they’d be in custody, and I could let Lawrence go home and listen to his jazz collection or surprise philandering husbands in motel rooms.
I parked Trixie’s car in our driveway, got out my keys as I mounted the front porch steps, and opened the front door.
The twins were on me in an instant.
I spotted the one on the stairs first, and would have turned to run, but her clone had been hiding behind the door and slammed it shut once I stepped inside. She came up behind me and encircled me in her meaty, pasty white arms while the other one came at me like I was in a bullring waving a red flag.
I tightened the muscles in my stomach when I saw the fist coming, but I am not exactly a hundred-crunches-a-day kind of guy, and when she drove her hand into me I turned into a rag doll. The one holding me let go and I dropped to the floor, desperately trying to catch my breath.
“Oh God oh God oh God,” I said.
It took a moment before I was able to breathe again, but even once I had air going in and out of my lungs, I didn’t have the strength to get back up. I rolled over onto my back and saw that the twins had now been joined by their mother, who looked down contemptuously at me.
“Where is file?” she asked me.
“Give me a sec,” I said, still gasping. “I can barely breathe.”
“Give him minute, Momma,” said one of the twins.
I had a moment now to take them all in. The three of them standing there, looking like a trio of line-backers without the helmets. All short and squat and one of them getting on a bit in years, but no less threatening than the other two. Mrs. Gorkin, gray hair brushed back, hooknosed, a bit of hair on her upper lip, wore a drab dress that would have showed its grease stains to more advantage if it weren’t black.
The twins, both around five feet, about four hundred pounds between them, had short, bristly blonde hair. They were both in jeans, one in a red sweater, the other in blue.
I sat up, waved a finger at the twins. “So, who’s who here?”
The one in the red sweater said, “I am Ludmilla.”
The one in the blue sweater said, “I am Gavrilla.”