“Hold, please.”
The vague hush of electronic limbo. Then, “Zolot.”
“Hi,” said Peter. “I want to ask you about Martha Skinner.”
“I can’t comment on an open investigation. Call the press office.” Zolot’s voice was flat and fading out toward the end, the receiver already headed back to the cradle.
“Wait,” said Peter. “I’m not a reporter. My name is Peter. I have some information. I’d like to talk.”
“I can’t comment on an open investigation,” Detective Zolot said again. But there was a different quality to the statement, a kind of attentive caution.
“Actually,” said Peter, “I’m not really calling about Martha Skinner. It’s about someone else. A friend of mine.”
A pause. Peter could hear the noise of a busy office on the other end of the phone. People talking, the sound of hard-soled shoes on a wood floor. The distinctive sound of an old file cabinet drawer as it opened and closed.
“You know Sobelman’s? Burger joint by Marquette?”
“No.”
“Nineteenth and Saint Paul. Just south of the freeway, west of the river. Fifteen minutes.”
“I’ll find it,” said Peter.
But the phone was already dead.
—
Sobelman’s was in a restored corner building just south and west of downtown, between a packinghouse and a dry ice warehouse.
Peter could tell from the outside that the white static wasn’t going to like it. Not enough windows. So he stood on the sidewalk, drinking in the smell of hamburgers that seeped through the closed door.
Good thing Mingus was locked in the back of the truck.
He turned to peer through the glass, wondering if the cop had beat him there. Then he heard a voice behind him, almost in his ear.
“You must be Peter.” Detective Zolot’s voice.
Peter moved to turn, but a meaty hand landed on his shoulder, and another encircled his elbow in a practiced grip. “Inside, pal. Past the bar.”
The hand pushed him through the swinging door and kept him moving forward. Peter didn’t resist. The voice in his ear said, “Don’t worry, pal, I’m a police detective. We’re just going someplace quiet.”
It smelled even better inside. The place was full of happy eaters chowing on giant burgers, drinking Bloody Marys and beer. The clamor of conversation and the clatter of tableware were friendly and loud, the kind of place Peter used to like. Now he felt the walls close in, too many people and too few exits, with no sight lines to outside. He felt the clamps on his chest and sweat popping on his forehead.
“Someplace quiet” turned out to be the men’s room. Zolot was a head taller than Peter, with the barely suppressed violence of an offensive lineman retired too early. Hair uncombed, jowls unshaven, a grizzly bear in the small space. But he moved with surprising grace as he frisked Peter expertly, missing nothing, all without a word. He glanced through Peter’s wallet, noted Peter’s flushed skin and shallow breath, then seamlessly turned Peter out of the men’s room and down the hall to a service exit and out into the cold.
“Fuck’s the matter with you?” he asked.
“I’m fine,” said Peter. “I’d just rather be outside.”
“We’re outside,” said Zolot, heading west on Saint Paul, the hand back on Peter’s elbow. “So talk already.”
Peter shook off the hand. “Tell me what you had on Jonathan Skinner and why you gave up.”
It was a guess, but it felt right. And Zolot’s silence confirmed it. They kept walking as Zolot stewed. Peter could feel the contained heat coming off the man, even in the crisp November air.
Finally Zolot spoke. “You said this was about someone else, pal. Tell me about the someone else.”
“A friend of mine got killed,” said Peter. “He had one of Skinner’s company pens in his things. My friend was no investor, he worked as a part-time bartender. But it turned out that he had serious money hidden away, in cash. I can’t find any other source for that money. Skinner’s the only connection to it I can think of. I had a meeting with him—”
Zolot stopped walking. “You met with Skinner?”
“I told him I was an investor,” said Peter. “I mentioned the cash and he got very strange. I’m guessing Skinner had something to do with my friend’s death. And I’m looking for something to grab hold of.”
Zolot stared into Peter’s face. “What was he like, when things got strange?” The force of his attention was intense. Peter wouldn’t want to be a suspect of any crime Zolot was investigating.
“You met him,” asked Peter. “Charming as hell, right? A million-dollar smile. Like you’re his favorite person in the world. But when I mentioned the money it all fell away, just for a few seconds. Like a snake trying to decide if you were food. Then he threatened me and left as fast as he could.”
Zolot grunted and kicked at a rock on the sidewalk. Turned and started walking again. Peter walked beside him.