Peter Spiegelman - Red Cat

“Uh-huh.”

“And when I asked about Stephanie, he pretty much hung up on me.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You know I’ve worked with painful clients before- worse than David, if you can believe it- and I manage them fine, but he’s not doing himself any favors here. And of course it makes me wonder, and worry.”

“You want me to talk to him?”

“He needs to get past this angry denial crap soon. God forbid the cops call and we still aren’t straight about where he was that Tuesday, or about what your sister-in-law knows.”

“I’ll talk to him,” I said. For all the good it would do. Shit.

My appetite was shot, but I ate my soup anyway, and thought about my brother and his angry denial crap. I didn’t see him getting past angry anytime soon: he had too much to spare, deep wells of the stuff, and it was too dependable. Anger anchored David, and organized his world, and it gave him comfort somehow- though from what I didn’t know.

Denial was something new, though, and it spoke of an irrationality I wouldn’t have expected from him. David had always fancied himself a realist- pragmatic, unsentimental, and supremely logical; tough-minded, he liked to think. Refusing to answer your lawyer’s questions didn’t fit that picture. But then, what about this case fit any picture of David that I’d ever had? A wind was kicking up outside, and little funnels of snow spun up from the rooftops. I watched them rise and vanish in the air.

I put my soup bowl in the dishwasher and called Thomas Vickers. A frail-sounding woman answered and took my name and put me on hold. Vickers came on the line five minutes later. I started to introduce myself and he stopped me.

“I know who you are,” he said. “You’re a PI.” His voice was soft and raspy and it came from somewhere in Nassau County.

“I’m calling about Holly Cade,” I said, “or maybe you know her better as Cassandra Z.”

“What makes you think I know her at all?”

“Maybe the fact that you were at Krug Visual a while ago, looking for her, and that you were seen at her apartment last month.”

“Looking isn’t the same as finding.”

“Did you find her?”

“I’m not clear on how it’s any of your business.”

“Would you rather it be cop business?”

Vickers made a coughing sound that might have been a laugh. “So much for romance.”

“I don’t want to waste anybody’s time. Should we get together?”

“I need to make a call,” he said. “Give me your number.” I did and Vickers rang off.

I spent the next couple of hours not calling my brother, and thinking about what I’d say when I finally did. I picked up the phone a half-dozen times and put it down again, and while I wasn’t calling him, I tried the 9:3 °Club. I was surprised when someone answered.

The man’s voice was reedy and annoyed. “Sure we’re open tonightwhy not? Half my staff is stuck here, what the hell else should I do?”

“Is Jamie working tonight?”

“No, she’s in Wednesdays and Thursdays.”

She? “I’m talking about the Jamie who’s a guy- a big guy- and works the door sometimes.”

The man was quiet for what seemed a long while. When he spoke again, his voice was rushed and nervous. “Must be another place you’re thinking of,” he said. “No Jamie here.” And then he was gone.

I put the phone down and wondered. It was possible that Krug had been mistaken about where Jamie worked, but the man on the phone hadn’t been confused, he’d been tense. I recalled the tattoos on Babyface’s hands, and what Krug had said about Jamie having perhaps been in prison. If that was true, it might explain the tension: places with liquor licenses- places like the 9:3 °Club- weren’t supposed to hire convicted felons.

The apartment door opened and Clare came in. Snow dusted her long black coat and glistened in her pale hair. Her cheeks were red and her gray eyes were shining. She handed me a brown plastic sack and pulled off her gloves and whisked snowflakes from her sleeves. There was an overnight bag slung on her shoulder, and a larger bag rolling behind her on its own set of wheels. I wondered where her husband was, and how long he’d be snowbound, but I decided not to ask.

Clare laughed. “Well, they got it right this time,” she said. “It’s starting to blow out there.” I looked in the plastic sack. The smell of cilantro wafted up from the takeout containers.

“Thai?” I asked. Clare smiled and nodded. “Where’d you find a place that was open?”

“This is the center of the fucking universe, pal, haven’t you heard?” She unbuttoned her coat. “Put that stuff in the fridge and take a bath with me. We’ll see how those bruises are coming along.”

It was six o’clock and dark when the phone rang. Clare stirred and muttered something, and I rolled out of bed to get it. It was David. His voice was at once sleepy and combative, and it took a while for me to realize he was drunk.

“I talked to your pal Metz today.”

“You should think of him as your lawyer, David, not as my pal.”

“If I think of him that way, I’m not too impressed. In fact, I’m thinking he’s more sizzle than steak, and maybe I should get somebody else.”

“What did he do that was so unimpressive?”

“As far as I can tell, he hasn’t done anything at all. I still don’t know for sure who Mermaid-girl is, and your pal couldn’t seem to find out from the cops.”

“Find out what? The police haven’t identified her yet, for chrissakes- something for which you should be supremely grateful.”

“So he doesn’t know who she is, but he still wants me to go talk to the cops? How fucked up is that?”

“Be serious, David: how many women do you think are walking around with that tattoo on their legs?”

“How do I know? And why should I fucking bet my life on the chance that there was only one?”

“If it’s not her, then all it costs you is a little embarrassment in front of a few cops. If it is her, then-”

“A little embarrassment? How do you know what’s big and what’s little? You don’t give a shit what people think, you never have, so don’t lecture me, Johnny.”

“I don’t lecture drunks. I learned it was a waste of time when I was a cop.”

David laughed nastily. “It took till then? Shit, I figured it out listening to Mom lecture Dad.”

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Where were you the Tuesday before last, David?”

“Your fucking pal was after me about this too. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“We have to talk about it. Where were you?”

“Where was I when?”

“Don’t fuck around, David.”

“Where the hell do you think I was? I was at work, for chrissakes, just like every fucking day. You should try it some time.”

“What time did you get in?”

“Probably the usual time- seven, seven-fifteen the latest.”

“What does ‘probably’ mean?”

“I got in at the usual time- okay?”

“You came direct from your apartment?”

“Of course I did.”

“And you were in the office all day?”

“What’s all day? I had meetings, I had a lunch- I was in and out.”

“What time did you leave?”

“I don’t know- six, six-thirty.”

“You went right home from there?”

“Sure.”

“Is that the same as yes?”

“Yes, I went right home.”

“And then?”

“And then nothing. I had dinner; I read some reports; I went to bed.”

“You didn’t go out?”

“I told you: I ate; I read; I slept.”

“Was Stephanie with you?”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“Was she there with you the whole time?”

“I’m not talking about-”