David Duffy - Last to Fold

“You be the snoop.” The Irish accent was thick as peat. It’s often pleasant to listen to. Not on this guy.

“I’m Turbo, if you’re Lachlan.”

“Don’t like fookin’ snoops. Don’t like fookin’ snoops who’re late.”

“Talk to the MTA.”

“Let’s go. Gotta get back to Midtown. Traffic sucks today.”

I was going to ask when traffic didn’t suck, but he might try to answer. I followed him to the door, where he nodded at the doorman and went straight to the elevator on the north side of the building. We rode to the fifteenth floor. A long hallway with lots of doors. He went to the one marked F and used two keys to unlock it. I followed him inside. The air was stale and warm.

“Look around, snoop. But make it quick. I gotta get—”

“You told me. Go ahead. I’ll lock up when I leave.”

He shook his flat face at that idea, shut the door, and leaned against the frame, arms folded. They were half as wide as he was. I tried to ignore that and focus on the apartment.

We stood in what passed for a foyer but was really one end of the living room. Windows at the far end looked east; I could see the river and Queens beyond. Galley kitchen to my right. A short hallway to the left leading to two bedrooms and a bath. I started with the living room, which was furnished traditionally with lots of chintz and flowered fabric. Everything placed just so. Dad had hired a decorator. The kitchen held all the basic appliances but little else. In the fridge, I found a half-drunk bottle of Perrier, some orange juice, a few staples, and two jars of organic peanut butter. That was mildly interesting, but I had no idea why.

Five-by-Five followed me down the hall to the bedrooms. Her room was simple and feminine—queen bed with lots of pillows, dressing table, pair of chairs, TV, closets. A few fancy outfits, but more jeans and tops than anything else. The bathroom had less makeup than I expected until I told myself I had no way of knowing what to expect.

Flat-screen TV, upholstered chair, and desk in the other room. A few books, more magazines— Back Stage, Variety, Vanity Fair, and something called Stage Directions . A scribbled note on the desk—“You should have left me with Lena.” No signature. From Eva? To Eva? Eva to whomever she thought would come looking for her? Five-by-Five reached for the paper, but I picked it up first and put it in my pocket.

“That ain’t yours, snoop.”

“I’m here to find Eva, remember? This might be a clue.”

I think he gave me a nasty look, but it was hard to tell. His normal look was nasty enough.

No datebook, address book, or checkbook. I hit REDIAL on the telephone and got a drugstore. No answering machine. Probably used the phone company’s service. The signal light on the iMac flashed slowly, indicating the computer was asleep. I clicked the mouse, and it came to life.

I almost missed it. The screen flashed, and the digital clock in the upper right corner reset to the current time, 4:52. Before that, it read 11:44. I opened the e-mail program. A slew of unread messages. None opened today. I felt Five-by-Five’s breath on my neck as I brought up the Safari browser and clicked on “History.”

I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised—if she’d been hanging out with Ratko, he would have taught her a trick or two. From the way Eva worked her away around UnderTable.com, she’d learned her lessons well.

“Move it, snoop. You’re gonna make me late.”

I was tempted to point out that under the circumstances, his tardiness was the least of his employer’s problems. I went back to the entryway, where I’d left the case I’d brought from the office. Five-by-Five limped behind. Four-room apartment—he wasn’t letting me out of his sight. I took an Apple laptop and FireWire cable from the case and plugged the latter into Eva’s computer. I shut down the machine, started it again, and began the transfer of its contents.

“Hey, you can’t do that!” Five-by-Five said. I ignored him on the grounds he had no idea what I was doing.

A big left hand reached for the laptop. I caught the wrist and twisted counterclockwise until I’d turned his body half around and he grunted with pain. His breath wreaked of tobacco.

“We work for the same guy,” I said. “Call him.”

I let go of the wrist and handed him the phone. He ignored it, took a cell phone from his pocket, and went out to the hall. He came back and handed it to me.

“He wants to talk to you.”

“Lachlan tells me you’re doing something with Eva’s computer,” Mulholland said.

“Copying the contents of its hard drive.”

“Is that necessary?”

“Lachlan and I can stay here all afternoon while I do a manual search. Or I can take the contents back to my office, where I have software that’ll do it in an hour. I’m working on the assumption time’s of the essence.”

There was a pause before he said, “Lachlan can be overprotective, but he means well.” I doubted that, at least toward me. “If you put him back on the line, I’ll tell him to stay out of your way.”

“Did you call your wife?”

Another pause. “We’ll discuss that when you get here.”

I handed the phone back to Five-by-Five. He returned to the hall. When I finished, he was waiting by the front door, slit-eyes narrower than before, pulled-back lips curled in a sneer. The odds on bonding didn’t look good.

Neither of us said anything as he locked up and we rode the elevator to the lobby. Outside, he didn’t offer me a lift. He lighted a cigarette and blew smoke in my direction.

“We had a fookin’ snoop in the village I come from. One day he woke up with his balls in the blender—while they was still attached.”

“Hammett was right.”

He looked me up and down. “What the fook does that mean, snoop? Who’s Hammett?”

“‘The cheaper the crook, the gaudier the patter.’”

He looked me up and down again. “Who you callin’ crook? Who’s this fookin’ Hammett?”

“Nobody you know.”

He looked me over one more time, blew more smoke, and dropped the butt at my feet. He climbed into the limousine and pulled away. I exhaled slowly when the car turned into Seventy-first Street. I checked the office for messages. Nothing. As I put away the phone, the Maybach swung back into the driveway from Seventieth Street and drove slowly past. Five-by-Five watched me through the open window. Time to go. The poststorm heat was suffocating. Despite that, I shivered and headed back to Sixty-eighth Street.

She called as I walked through the cool corridors under Rockefeller Center after another slow subway ride across town. The subterranean halls always seem like they belong in some other city, not New York, where life is on the street—four seasons a year—today, however, they were full of commuters, tourists, and others just escaping the heat. Where had she got my number? I was going to have to talk to Bernie.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” she said.

“Following your husband’s instructions, for the moment. I haven’t told him about you yet. Have you informed him about me?”

“I told him I don’t want you anywhere near my family. I’m telling you the same thing. Stay the fuck away from me. Stay away from Eva. Stay away from him. You’ve done enough damage.”

I’d done damage? I almost told her all the things Ratko had phished off her computer, but there would be a more productive time for that. Instead, I said, “I got Eva out of a nasty situation last night. I could have handed her over to the police. I could have left her for Lachko to find. I’d accept a thank-you, but I’m unlikely to get one. Your husband called me today, when she ran from the hospital. He asked me to find her. I’m on my way to see him now. I’ll just pick up my fee and tell him you said beat it, if that’s what you want. Have a nice day.”