“Want to do a line of coke? My treat.”
I left the room, closing the door quietly. I felt like slamming it, but what would be the point?
I went down to the living room. I was hungry and I needed a glass of wine. There were only five or six people left. Sufi sat next to Glen on one of the sofas. I didn’t recognize anybody else. I crossed to the buffet table that had been set up on the far side of the room. The Chicano maid, Alicia, was rearranging a platter of shrimp, consolidating hors d’oeuvres so the plates wouldn’t look all ratty and half eaten. God, there was a lot to this business of being rich. It had never occurred to me. I thought you just invited people over and turned ‘em loose, but I could see now that entertaining requires all kinds of subtle monitoring.
I filled a plate and picked up a fresh glass of wine. I chose a seat close enough to the others so I wouldn’t seem rude, but far enough away so I wouldn’t have to talk to anyone. I have a shy streak that surfaces in situations like this. I’d rather have chatted with some hooker down on lower State Street than try to exchange pleasantries with this crew. What could we possibly have discussed? They were talking about long-term paper. I took a bite of salmon mousse and tried to keep an interested look on my face, like maybe I had a lot of long-term paper I was hoping to unloaad. Such a nuisance, that shit, isn’t it?
I felt a light touch on my arm and glanced over to see Sufi Daniels easing into the chair next to mine.
“Glen tells me Bobby was very fond of you,” she said.
“I hope so. I liked him.”
Sufi stared at me. I kept eating because I couldn’t think what else to say. She was wearing an odd outfit; a long black dress of some silky material with a matching jacket over it. I assumed it was meant to disguise her misshapen form with its slightly hunched back, but it made her look as if she were about to perform with some big philharmonic orchestra. Her hair was the same lank, pale mess it had been when I met her the first time and her makeup was inexpert. She couldn’t have been more different from Glen Callahan. Her manner was faintly patronizing, like she was just on the verge of slipping me a couple of bucks for my services. I might have been short with her, but there was always the chance that she had Bobby’s little red book.
“How do you know Glen?” I asked, taking a sip of wine. I set the glass down on the floor near my chair and forked up some cold shrimp in a spicy sauce. Sufis gaze flicked over to Glen and then back.
“We met in school.”
“You’ve been friends a long time.”
“Yes, we have.”
I nodded, swallowing. “You must have been around when Bobby was born,” I remarked, just to keep things going.
“Yes.”
Shit, this is fun, I thought. “Were you close to him?”
“I liked him, but I can’t say we were close. Why?”
I retrieved my wine and took a sip. “He gave someone a little red book. I’m trying to figure out who.”
“What sort of book?”
I shrugged. “Addresses, telephone numbers. Small, bound in red leather, from what he said.”
She suddenly began to blink at me. “You’re not still investigating,” she said. It wasn’t a question. It was a statement tinged with disbelief
“Why not?”
“Well, the boy is dead. What difference could any of it possibly make?”
“If he was murdered, it makes a difference to me,” I said.
“If he was murdered, it’s a matter for the police.”
I smiled. “The cops around here love my help.”
Sufi looked over at Glen, lowering her voice. “I’m sure she wouldn’t want this pursued.”
“She didn’t hire me. Bobby did. Anyway, why do you care?”
She seemed to catch the danger in my tone, but it didn’t worry her much. She smiled thinly, still superior.
“Of course. I didn’t mean to interfere,” she murmured. “I just wasn’t sure what your plans were and I didn’t want Glen upset.”
I was supposed to make comforting noises back to her, but I just sat there and stared. A bit of color rose in her cheeks.
“Well. It’s been nice seeing you again.” She got up and wandered over to one of the remaining guests, engaging in conversation with a pointed turning of her back. I shrugged to myself. I wasn’t sure what she’d been up to. I didn’t care either, unless it pertained to the case. I glanced over at her, speculating.
Soon after, almost at a signal, people started getting into their good-bye behavior. Glen stood by the archway to the living room, being hugged, having her hands pressed in sympathy. Everyone said the same thing. “You know we love you, sweetie. Now you let us know if we can do anything. “
She said “I will” and got hugged again.
Sufi was the one who actually walked them to the door.
I was on the verge of following when Glen caught my eye. “I’d like to talk to you if you can stay on for a while.”
“Sure,” I said. I realized for the first time that I hadn’t seen Derek for hours. “Where’s Derek?”
“Taking Kitty back to St. Terry’s.” She sank into one of the couches, slouching down so she could rest her head on the back. “Would you like a drink?”
“Actually, I could use one. Shall I fix you one while I’m at it?”
“God, I’d love it. There’s a liquor cabinet in my den if we’re low out here. Make it Scotch. Lots of ice, please.”
I crossed the hall and went into the den, fetching an old-fashioned glass and the bottle of Cutty Sark. When I reached the living room again, Sufi was back and the house was mantled in that dull quiet that follows too much noise.
There was an ice bucket on the end of the buffet table and I plopped a couple of cubes into the glass with a set of those sterling-silver ice tongs that look somehow like dinosaur claws. It made me feel sophisticated, like I was in a 1940s movie wearing a suit with shoulder pads and stockings with a line up the back.
“You must be exhausted,” Sufi was murmuring. “Why don’t I get you into bed before I take off?”
Glen smiled wearily. “No, that’s all right. You go ahead.”
Sufi had no other choice but to bend down and give Glen a buss and then find her purse. I handed Glen the glass with ice, pouring Scotch into it. Sufi made her final farewells and then left the room with a cautionary look at me. A few moments later, I heard the front door shut.
I pulled a chair over and sat down, propping my feet up on the couch, cataloguing my current state. The small of my back ached, my left arm ached. I finished off the wine in my glass and added Cutty Sark.
Glen took a long swallow of hers. “I saw you talking to Jim. What did he have to say?”
“He thinks Bobby had a seizure and that’s why he ran off the road. Some kind of epilepsy from his head injuries in the first accident.”
“Meaning what?”
“Well, as far as I’m concerned, it means if that accident was really a murder attempt, it finally paid dividends.’”
Her face was blank. She dropped her gaze. “What will you do now?”
“Hey, listen. I still have money left from the retainer Bobby gave me. I’ll work ‘til I find out who killed him.”
She met my eyes and the look she gave me was curious. “Why would you do that?”
“To settle accounts. I believe in clearing the ledger, don’t you?”
“Oh yes,” she said.
We stared at each other for a moment and then she raised her glass. I lifted mine and we drank.
When Derek came in, the two of them went upstairs and, with Glen’s permission, I spent the next three hours in a fruitless search of her den and Kitty’s room. Then I let myself out and went home.
Chapter 14
By Monday morning at eight o’clock I was in the gym again, working out. I felt like I’d been to the moon and back. Without even thinking about it, I looked for Bobby, realizing a millisecond later that he was gone and wasn’t ever going to be there again. It didn’t sit well with me. Missing someone is a vague, unpleasant sensation, like gnawing anxiety. It isn’t as concrete as grief, but it’s just as pervasive and there’s no escaping it. I kept moving, working out hard, as though physical pain might blot out its emotional counterpart. I filled every minute with activity and I suppose it worked. In some ways, it’s like rubbing Ben-Gay on a sore back. You want to believe it’s doing you some good, but you can’t think why it would. It’s better than nothing, but it’s no cure.