James Swain - Gift sense

"What?" his son said, growing belligerent. "Why don't you help her? She's your friend."

"Because you messed up her life," Valentine barked. "It's called cause and effect. You make a mess, you clean it up. That's the way the world works. Irresponsible little pricks like you are what throws everything out of whack."

"That's right," Gerry said, "blame me for the world's problems."

"You'd better do as I tell you."

"Or what?"

The words left his mouth before he had a chance to catch them. "Or I'll never talk to you for as long as I live."

Gerry coughed. "You mean that?"

Valentine cleared his throat. He'd stepped over the imaginary line that he and Gerry had drawn in the sand a long time ago. They'd been sparring since his son was a teenager-over twenty years-and they'd always remained somewhat civil, until now.

"Yeah," Valentine replied. "I do."

"Jesus Christ," Gerry said.

There was a long silence. Finally his son spoke.

"All right, Pop. You win."

Another silence. Again, it was his son who broke it.

"I'm on the next plane."

"You better be," his father replied.

Valentine was hanging up when there was a knock at his door. Through the peephole he spied Bill Higgins cradling a cardboard box in his arms. He ushered his friend into the suite.

"Wow," Higgins said. "This is some setup. Is Nick comping you?"

"Of course he's comping me," Valentine said.

"You know what they say," Higgins said. "There are a lot of free things in this town, only nobody can afford them." Taking the lid off the box, he dumped its contents onto the dining-room table. "I stopped by Longo's office and got the evidence. He asked me to bring everything back tomorrow, the case still being open."

Higgins pulled up a chair and together they sorted through the evidence. Valentine remained standing, still reeling from his conversation with Gerry. It would be just like his son not to come through. And that would be it, the end of the line. Somehow, he'd always imagined a reconciliation between them, the years of butting heads finally put to rest, the bond between them stronger than it had ever been. Deep down, that was what he had always wanted.

Higgins gave him a funny look. "You okay?"

"I've felt better," Valentine replied. "What have we got?"

"Usual crap. The wiretaps are worth listening to."

From the box Higgins removed a cassette tape and popped it into the tape player he'd brought with him. "We caught Fontaine leaving a message on Nola's answering machine. Call came from a joint called Brother's Lounge. What you're about to hear is Nola trying to call him back and having an acrimonious conversation with the bartender."

Higgins hit Play and they listened to an agitated Nola Briggs calling Brother's Lounge and asking the bartender for Fontaine.

"Sounds like Fontaine was harassing her," Valentine said.

"It does, doesn't it?" Higgins said.

"Anyone talk to the bartender?"

"Yeah. He says Fontaine was a regular until last week."

"You give him a polygraph?"

Higgins scratched the late-afternoon stubble on his chin. "No. But that's not a bad idea, come to think of it."

"Mind if I talk to him first?"

"Go ahead. Only you've got to share with me whatever he tells you."

"Share's my middle name," Valentine said.

"Good," Higgins said. "Then maybe you'd like to tell me what happened at Sherry Solomon's place earlier."

Valentine felt something catch in his throat. Sherry had called Longo and lodged a complaint, and Longo had called Higgins. The question was, who were the police going to believe, a snitch or an ex-cop?

"Nothing much," he lied. "Why?"

"She said you leaned on her. Is that true?"

"I was just poking around."

"Do it again, and Longo will bust you."

"Sorry."

They sorted through the rest of the tagged evidence. Most of it was junk, scraps of paper, scribbled phone messages, the usual bills. In the bottom of the box, Valentine found Nola's diary. He started reading. Every day had an entry, even if it was only a sentence long.

"Anyone study this?" he asked.

"One of Longo's detectives went through it," Higgins replied. "He found seven entries Nola wrote during her trip to Mexico. It's the same story she told us at the station."

"You're saying she's telling the truth."

"The evidence sure looks that way. You still think she's guilty?"

"I sure do," Valentine said.

"You're in the minority, you know."

"I usually am."

The last envelope was tagged with a question mark. In it Valentine found two twisted metal coat hangers.

"Cops found those in a closet," Higgins explained.

"Mind if I straighten them out?"

"Be my guest."

Valentine straightened the hangers out. Both were three feet long and bent in the same spots, with a curved fish hook on one end. They reminded him of the contraptions people used to open locked cars, only he was certain that was not what they were intended for.

Standing, he held one hanger at chest height so the curved end was pointing at the ceiling. He moved the hanger up and down, using the hook to move an imaginary object above his head. The first piece of the puzzle fell into place, and he felt a sense of relief. He'd been right about Nola from the start. She despised Nick, so much that she hadn't replaced the shag carpeting in her house. It had served as a reminder, all these years.

"So what do you think?" Higgins said.

Valentine folded up the hangers and handed them back to him.

"Beats me," he replied.

Twenty minutes later, Higgins left, taking the box of evidence with him. Valentine was chaining the door when the phone rang.

"Why did you poison Sherry's dog?" Nick shouted at him.

"I didn't poison Sherry's dog," he replied stiffly.

"Don't bullshit a bullshitter," his employer retorted. "It ain't healthy."

"I kicked the little floor mop in the mouth."

"Why'd you do that?"

"Sherry sicced him on me."

"Oh," Nick said, backing down. "She does that sometimes when she's in a pissy mood."

"How sweet. Did she move in?"

"Yeah, and I moved out," Nick said. "You and I are neighbors."

Valentine was standing by the picture window in his living room just as the Mirage's volcano spit a mammoth fireball into the pinkish sky. Without thinking, he said, "You're staying at the Mirage?"

"Fuck the Mirage, you stupid Jersey asshole," Nick bellowed. "I'm staying down the hall, room 1201. We're neighbors, as in next door." One of the luxuries of being the boss was not having to watch your tongue.

"Sorry. What happened?"

"None of your fucking business," Nick said testily. "I called because I wanted to hear how your day went."

"Well," Valentine said, "I started out-"

"Not over the phone!"

"Sorry. I'll be right over."

Nick's suite was unlocked and Valentine entered without knocking. The living room was a throwback to the glorious seventies, the walls covered with splashy LeRoy Niemans, the furnishings sparkling chrome and glass. He crossed the tiled floor and noticed a boxy RCA television set propped against the wall. It did not fit in with the cheesy decor, and he noticed a brass plaque screwed into the top. On May 4, 1972, Elvis Presley had stayed in the suite, distinguishing himself by putting a bullet through the TV. The plaque did not say why.

Valentine found Nick sitting at the dining room table while a doctor attended to a puncture wound on his hand. The doctor removed a needle from his bag and swabbed Nick's forearm with alcohol.

"This is going to sting," the doctor warned.

"Great," Nick said, clenching his teeth as the booster was jammed in. To Valentine, he said, "What kind of guy kicks a little dog?"

"One who doesn't want to get bit."