The Dead Room

Page 18

He was talking to the air, he told himself in disgust.
And yet, he felt more determined than ever. There was no logical reason for it, but he didn’t give a damn what the experts had said. Something about the accident scenario wasn’t right.
“You were too good a man,” he said softly. “Someone had to be after you.”
There was no whisper of approval. Nothing.
“Hey.”
He turned quickly. People didn’t come up on him by surprise often. He must have been very deep in thought.
Or too busy talking to himself.
“I had a feeling I might find you here,” she said.
He lifted a hand. “Sorry—talking to myself. I didn’t hear you coming.”
“I was watching your face. You don’t believe it was an accident.”
It was a statement, not a question.
“Maybe I have to find a reason,” he said.
“I know. I’ve thought the same thing. Anyway, shall we go?” she asked.
She was wearing perfume. An elusive, soft scent. Her hair was long and swinging free, shimmering in the light. She was a bit too thin, but even thin, she had a nice shape. Smiling at him from the doorway, she was a vision. He felt a stirring and quickly tamped it down. Matt’s girl. He had to be a friend, nothing more.
“What are you in the mood for?” he asked.
“Italian?”
“Sounds good to me. I know a great place in Little Italy, and my car is just around the corner. I was down here…looking around before I decided to stop by.”
Her smile faded for a moment. “You’re going to dig until you find the truth, aren’t you?”
“Actually,” he replied, “I’ve been hired to search for a missing girl right now.”
“Oh?”
“She disappeared down here.”
She frowned. “One of the prostitutes?”
“No. Come on. I’ll tell you about it over dinner.”
She smiled. “I don’t believe you. You’re going to dig.”
“Hey, you’re the one who digs for a living,” he reminded her.
“But…”
“I looked into the explosion. I grilled every friend, acquaintance and total stranger who was here or knew someone here. Well, except for you,” he added with a rueful grin. “There’s no way to prove anything. The only answer anyone came up with was the combination of the gas line and happenstance.”
She turned and started out, then hesitated and looked back, smiling. “I don’t believe you’re going to stop looking.”
“Okay, for the sake of argument, let’s say I’m not. But I’m Matt’s cousin, so I can’t help but think…well, I can’t stop. Can’t accept the obvious explanation. Because of him. That doesn’t mean I know anything. Now come on. They do a great francese at this place. Veal or chicken—take your pick.”
“Chicken. Can’t help it, I avoid veal.”
“Tell me you’re not a vegetarian.”
“Not unless chicken has become a vegetable.”
He laughed. He’d sure as hell walked right into that one. Strangely, it wasn’t at all awkward being with her. He liked her. He could see why Matt had loved her. But he had to remember that Matt had been engaged to her and tread carefully.
Joe. Good old Joe. The world’s best cousin, practically a brother. He’d tried so hard to touch him. He had to let Joe know that it was okay.
Except that it wasn’t okay. And he knew why, now that Joe had put it into words. It hadn’t been a freak accident. He’d been murdered.
Why? Who would have killed so many so callously, just to get to him?
Joe would figure it out. Good old Joe.
Good old flesh-and-blood Joe.
And Leslie.
Leslie, who had thought Joe was him. Did they really look that much alike? Or, rather, had they once resembled each other so much? Maybe. Those closest seldom saw it.
Joe…and Leslie.
They were just going to dinner. And Joe was a good guy. Not slimy. So…He had to let her go. Not that dinner meant that anything was going on, at least not right away.
Besides, maybe they needed time together to discover the truth that had eluded them all.
The living and the dead.
They managed to secure an outside table. The street was closed to traffic, and the weather was unbelievably balmy, a promise that summer was coming. Joe had known Rudolfo, the owner and host, for years, and he was complimentary to Leslie without being smarmy. They had a bottle of his best Chianti and an antipasto of cheeses, meats and marinated vegetables almost immediately, and Leslie proved that she was definitely hungry. They both ordered the chicken francese, and then she sat back, her head cocked at an angle, and smiled.
“So tell me about your case. Is it the girl whose picture was in the paper?”
“Yes. Genevieve O’Brien.”
“Do you think…?”
“That she’s alive?” he finished. “I don’t know. I certainly don’t believe she just took off without telling anyone. First things first—the police had done their homework. I went over it, and there’s absolutely no sign of her turning up anywhere else.”
Leslie considered that fact. “She’s rich, right?”
“None of her funds have been touched.”
“Scary,” she said. “And sad,” she murmured, lifting her wineglass and taking a sip. “I’m sure lots of people disappear and never show up again. I mean, think of the places people can dispose of bodies. Swamps, deserts…oceans.”
“This is New York City,” he said.
“Rivers, landfills, a city beneath the city.”
He frowned, realizing that he hadn’t really thought about that last possibility. He leaned back, staring at her. “Brilliant.”
“Maybe not,” she said. “I just happen to know that…well, there’s a city beneath the city. In a lot of neighborhoods, the way that the streets have been built up, you can be in a basement looking out at what once was street level. And then there are old foundations, old tunnels…all kinds of unknown underground places. Plus, even though the city’s mainly built on granite bedrock, loose earth shifts. I learned that looking for graves. In fact, in many old graveyards, the coffins have shifted until there’s actually nothing—or at least not the right something—beneath the headstones, and you’re walking on graves no matter where you go. Over time, when the earth is soft, when there’s rain, construction, vibrations from the subways…well, things shift.”
“Creepy,” he said.
She smiled, shaking her head. “Not if you’re in my line of work.”
Their food came. They chatted about the neighborhood for a while, about how so much of Little Italy was being absorbed by Chinatown, but that was New York for you, always changing. New groups of people came in on a daily basis. Some people liked it, some people continued to hate foreigners, even though they themselves had been the foreigners of a previous decade or century.
“This is a land of promise, but sometimes that scares people, so they ignore what bothers them, whatever messes up their pretty picture,” he said. “That’s one of the problems with the missing prostitutes. Getting people to care. A lot of the people have a tendency to think that women like that deserve what they get.”
“Jack the Ripper went after prostitutes, and it was one of the biggest scandals in Victorian London,” she pointed out.
“Because people were horrified by the gruesome brutality of the crimes. Here, people are just disappearing. No bodies, no horrifying details in the tabloids. And these days we’re far more accustomed to serial killers—and so far, no one’s even proved that we have one.”
“Do you think that Genevieve O’Brien’s disappearance is connected to the missing prostitutes?” she asked.
“The last person I’ve found who’ll admit to seeing her is a prostitute. She was trying to help a lot of the working girls. Actually, I’m surprised Robert hasn’t asked for your help yet. According to him, you have a gift for finding…people.”
She sighed, setting down her fork. “Robert told you that?”
“I read it. This evening’s paper has an article about you.”
Her eyes widened. “No.”
“Yes. You’re credited with waltzing in and immediately making an important discovery at the dig. The reporter brought out the fact that you’d homed right in on a missing homeless man a couple of years ago.”
She looked upset. “Damn.”
“Well, do you have a special gift?” he asked teasingly.
She wasn’t amused. In fact, she seemed to be even more irritated. “Logic,” she said briefly. “I was told the man’s habits and something about his past. He was found in an old subway tunnel. Simple deduction.”
She had suddenly grown almost hostile, but he asked his next question, anyway. “But even before that…you were known for having an instinct for finding graves.”
“A feel for history. Did you want coffee?”
The question was abrupt. He was intrigued, but he followed her lead and changed the subject. When Rudolfo came to ask how their dinner had been, Joe had a question for his old friend, too. “Rudolfo, could you use another waitress?”
Rudolfo looked back at him skeptically, then groaned.
“Well?”
“Actually, yes, I could use a waitress. A good one. A good girl.”
“Can I send someone around to see you?” he asked.
“Send her next week. Monday. If I like her, she’s hired. She’s got to be a good girl.”
“She will be, or I swear…I’ll wash dishes for a week.”
Rudolfo sniffed. “I have a very good dishwasher. The mechanical kind.”
Joe grinned. “Okay, so I’ll bus tables and man the steaming monster, how’s that?”
Rudolfo pointed a finger at him. “You will work for me. Like a green immigrant. I’ll work you hard.”