Bad Blood (12 page)

At first she didn’t react. Then her face drained of color and her hand went slowly to her mouth. She stared at the candlesticks and tray resting on the crumpled paper as though
she
needed to count every vein in every leaf engraved on them.

She reached out a hand. I stopped it with mine. “Don’t touch them. There may be prints.”

She looked surprised, as though she’d forgotten I was there. She drew back her hand, shook her head slowly. “They were a wedding gift from Henri’s mother,” she half whispered. She looked away, hugged her chest. Her face was still pale but her voice was stronger as she said, “I deal with my memories in the way I can. I kept these, but I haven’t looked at them in thirty years.”

I drank my coffee, gave her time.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “You had to identify them. I didn’t realize it would be hard.”

“No,” she said, shaking her head again. “It’s all right. What do we do now?”

“Two things. We try to lift prints from these, and we try to find the blond girl who fenced them.”

“What if she’s not from around here?”

“I have a feeling she is. She could have gotten more for things like these in New York, or even Albany or Boston; if she’s not local, why fence them here?” I put my mug down. “You know, both finding the girl and identifying the prints would be a lot easier if you’d report this to the police.”

She flushed angrily. “And when they found her and my paintings, the whole world would know who I am.”

“If this girl or anyone else has any idea what the paintings are, the whole world will know soon anyway,” I pointed out.

“Maybe she hasn’t. Or maybe it won’t occur to her that I made them, just because I had them.” She stood abruptly, paced the room, her hands in her back pockets. The dog, curled in the chair, lifted his head and followed her movements. She stared out the window for a time; then she turned again to face me. “It’s important,” she said. “Maybe it’s not rational. But I’m past apologizing for it. It’s why I hired you in the first place. If you can’t do it the way I want it done, I don’t need you.”

The music had stopped, leaving nothing in the air but the fragrance of cinnamon and coffee and the weight of Eve Colgate’s anger.

“I’m working for you,” I said. “We’ll do it however you want. But I’ve got to give you the choices the way I see them.”

She nodded, said nothing.

I rewrapped the silver. “I’ll send these to New York. There’s a lab I use on Long Island that can pull the prints.” I stood. “Can I use your phone?”

Lydia’s machine answered my call. Well, that was okay; the machine liked me better than Lydia’s mother did. Right now, maybe better than Lydia did. I told her to expect a package on an afternoon Greyhound out of Cobleskill, and that I’d call again and tell her when it was due. Then I called Antonelli’s.

Tony’s voice sounded hoarse and tired.

“How’re you doing?” I asked him.

“Sick as hell. You?”

“I feel great. Maybe you should switch to bourbon.”

He grunted. “Can’t afford it.”

“I’ll come over and buy you a bottle. You open?”

“What’s the difference? Wasn’t open last night. Didn’t stop you.”

“True. You heard from Jimmy?”

Silence. Then, “No. Brinkman called an hour ago, asked me the same thing. He ain’t called me, he ain’t gonna call me. Why the hell should he?”

“He’s in trouble. You’re his brother.”

“Hell with that. I’m through with that.”

“Tony—”

“Don’t preach to me, Smith. I got no time for it.”

This time it was I who was silent. “I’ll be over later,” I finally said.

“Yeah,” Tony said. “Whatever. Listen, you got a call. If you’re gonna keep givin’ out this number, you better tell people it ain’t my job to know where you are when you ain’t here. An’ tell ’em it don’t help to try an’ impress me with who the hell they are, ’cause I don’t give a damn who the hell they are.”

“You tell them,” I said. “You sound like you enjoy it. Who called? MacGregor?”

“That trooper? Nah. One of your big-time pals. Lifestyles of the rich an’ famous.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Mark Sanderson.”

I frowned into the phone. “Mark Sanderson? Appleseed Baby Foods? I don’t know him.”

“Well, now’s your chance. He left a number. Want it?”

I found a scrap of paper in my wallet. “Yeah, go ahead.” He read it off to me. “Did he say what he wanted?”

“To me? I’m just the hired help.”

“Okay, Tony, thanks. Listen, there’s something else. Two things. Last night you were telling me about Jimmy’s girl. Do you remember? Alice. You said something about pies. What did you mean?”

“Oh, Christ, Smith, what do you care?”

“Look, Tony, I know what you think, that Jimmy killed that guy. I think you’re wrong. And even if he did, he can’t hide forever. In the end it’ll make things worse. I want to talk to him. Maybe I can help.”

“Maybe he ain’t around. Maybe he already beat it, Mexico or someplace. Maybe you helped enough.”

“Maybe.”

Neither of us said anything. I heard footsteps from the floor above, looked around to find I was alone.

Tony gave a tired sigh. “Alice Brown. I don’t know where she lives. Not around here.”

“What about the pies?”

“When they started comin’ around, she started bringin’ me pies, or cakes. Couple at a time. Fancy stuff. She said she made them. I served them here. They were good.” He paused. “She’s a sweet kid, Smith. Only met her three or four times, but I liked her. Don’t know how she got tied up with Jimmy.”

“And you wouldn’t know where to find her?”

“No.”

“Do MacGregor and Brinkman know about her?”

“I didn’t tell ’em.”

“Good. Here’s the other thing. I’m looking for a girl, long blond hair, small, pretty. She may be a friend of Jimmy’s. Does she sound familiar?”

“No, but I ain’t met his friends, except the ones he gets arrested with. What’s she got to do with it?”

“Nothing. A friend of mine asked me to find her. It’s something completely different.”

“Eve Colgate. I knew you was workin’ for her.”

“Not your problem, Tony.”

“Shit.
You
tellin’
me
to mind my own business?”

“I get your point. I’ll be over later, okay? If you do hear from Jimmy, try to talk him out of anything stupid.”

“Spent half my fuckin’ life tryin’ to talk him outta stupid things. I’m no good at it.”

“Try again. He might listen this time.”

We hung up. Eve Colgate was still upstairs, giving me privacy while I used her house as a public phone booth.

I looked at the number Tony had given me for Mark Sanderson, started to dial it, but stopped. I called the state troopers instead.

“D Unit. Sergeant Whiteside.” It was the same officer I’d spoken to yesterday.

“Ron MacGregor, please.”

“Hold on.”

Thirty seconds of electronic silence; then, “MacGregor.”

“It’s Bill Smith. You get any sleep lately?”

“You kidding?”

“Well, I’m glad to know country cops work as hard as city cops. Can I have my gun back?”

“Yeah. Come get it.”

“What killed Wally Gould?”

“He was shot.”

“Oh, come on, Mac. Is it a secret?”

“What interest you got in this investigation, Smith?”

“I’m a friend of Tony’s and Jimmy’s. As long as Jimmy’s a suspect, I’m interested.”

“That’s it?”

“Why, he’s not?”

“Yeah, he is. You know where to find him?”

“No.”

“Would you tell me if you did?”

I thought about it. “I’d tell you I knew. I’m not sure I’d tell you where he was.”

“Wait, let me get this straight. You want information from me on an ongoing police investigation, but you’re not sure you’d turn over my chief suspect if you had him?”

“I’m not sure I wouldn’t. What killed Wally Gould?”

He paused. “Three close-range shots from a nine-millimeter.”

“When?”

“About four A.M.”

“You found it?”

“The gun? Not yet.”

“Well, I have two you can look at.”

“Two what?”

“Nine-millimeters.”

MacGregor exploded. “Goddammit, Smith! If you’ve been holding out on me again I’ll lock you up!”

“I didn’t hold out on you about the keys and I’m not now. I took a pair of Ruger nine-millimeters off two of Grice’s monkeys yesterday.” I told MacGregor the rest of the story, my conversation with Grice, the green
house
, Otis and Ted. He didn’t ask what I’d been doing on the potholed road by Breakabeen and I didn’t tell him.

I also didn’t tell him that Otis and Ted had picked me up at the Park View while I was talking to Ellie Warren. I wasn’t paid to give him ideas.

“So Grice doesn’t know where Jimmy is,” he said thoughtfully when I was through. “And he’s willing to pay a lot to find out.”

“Maybe not,” I said. “I imagine it’s one of those fees I’d have a hard time collecting.”

“You could be right. You want us to pick them up?”

“Who, Otis and Ted? Don’t bother. Everybody’d deny it and I’m sure everybody’s got a nifty alibi.”

“Yeah, probably. We had Grice down here this morning on the Gould killing.”

“Let me guess. At the time Gould was shot, Grice was drinking tea with his congressman and the Bishop of Buffalo.”

MacGregor answered that with a grunt. “What do you think he wants Jimmy for?”

“Grice? I think the same as you, Mac. Grice knows something about Gould’s death and he’s looking for a fall guy.”

“Is that what I think? What else do I think?”

I left that alone. “I’ll be by this afternoon to pick up my gun.”

“If you have evidence to turn over, you’d damn well better make it this morning. Now.”

“An hour.”

“Half an hour. If not, in thirty-one minutes I’ll have every unit in the county looking for you.”

“I’ll be there.”

Now it was time to call Mark Sanderson.

“I’m sorry.” Mark Sanderson’s secretary’s voice was so carefully modulated and inflected that I regretted not being a radio producer calling to offer her her big break. “Mr. Sanderson is unavailable. Perhaps I can help you?”

“I don’t think I’m the one who needs help, but I could be wrong. Mr. Sanderson called me; I’m returning his call.”

“Oh, I see. In that case, please hold the line a moment.”

I did, passing that moment and some others listening to watery Muzak through the phone. I heard footsteps again from upstairs, the sound of doors opening and closing.

“Mr. Smith?” the modulated voice returned. “Mr. Sanderson will be right with you.”

A few more bars of Muzak, and then a man’s voice, deep but not booming, calm but with an edge somewhere behind it. “Mark Sanderson.”

That left me to introduce myself, which was silly, since we both knew he knew who I was. But it was his court, his rules. “Bill Smith, Mr. Sanderson. I understand you’ve been trying to get in touch with me.”

“Smith. Yes. I expected you to call before this; I left that message some time ago. I want you to come by here right away.”

This was a man who didn’t waste words. In fact he didn’t use quite enough of them for my taste.

“Mr. Sanderson, we don’t know each other.”

“We will. I intend to engage your services.”

No one said I had to make it easy for him. “As what?”

That threw him off his stride. There was silence; then, in the voice you’d use to explain to a gardener the difference between roses and ragweed, he said, “I understand you’re a detective. I have a job for you.”

“I don’t come up here to work, Mr. Sanderson. I can give you the name of a good investigator out of Albany, if you’d like.”

“No,” he said, struggling to hide his impatience, and losing. “It’s you I want. You in particular. How soon can you get here?”

From the newspaper photograph I remembered him as a broad-shouldered man with a receding hairline that emphasized the roundness of his face. I imagined that round face frowning now behind a heavy oak desk in a corner office with a picture-window view.

I asked, “Can you give me more of an idea what we’re talking about talking about?”

“Not over the phone. We’re wasting time, Smith. Where are you? At the bar where I left the message?”

“No. And how did you know to reach me there?”

“I was told you had no phone, but that the bar would take a message. I was also told there was a good chance you’d be there, whatever time I called,” he added nastily. “I’ll expect you in half an hour.”

“I have to be over by Bramanville in half an hour.” I looked at my watch, thought some unsatisfying thoughts. “I’ll get over to you as soon after that as I can.”

“Look, Smith—”

“No, you look, Sanderson. You want me. In particular. I don’t want your job, but you’re not listening when I say no, and I’m just curious enough to come over and hear you out before I say it again. If that’s not good enough, call someone else.”

Through what sounded like clenched teeth he said, “All right. I don’t suppose it will make that much difference, in the end.” He hung up without saying good-bye.

9

SCHOHARIE WAS A
detour off the route between Bramanville and Cobleskill, but I thought it was a detour worth making. I’d dropped the Rugers with MacGregor, picked up my Colt, exchanged some small talk about civilians interfering in police work. I’d tried out the golden blond girl on him.

“Sounds like half the kids at Consolidated East. You got a picture?”

I shook my head. “She doesn’t ring a bell, part of Jimmy Antonelli’s crowd?”

“Not with me.”

An idea came to me. “You think your girls might know her?”

“I doubt it. My girls go to school in Albany. Adirondack Prep.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Yeah.” MacGregor sighed. “This is a dead-end place, Smith. Kids got no future here. The boys join the service and the girls get pregnant.” He picked up a pencil, bounced it on the desk. “How long you been coming up here?”

“Eighteen years.”

He nodded. “Those days, you could make a good living around here. Farming; or the young guys from town, they
worked
at the quarry. Now the quarry’s down to one pit. And that one’s almost played out now, did you know that?”