Breaking the Bank (27 page)

“We've got some more questions about your connection to Wedeen,” said Costello. “And also to Fred Giordano. Is it true that Fred introduced you to Wedeen?” She held a chewed blue ballpoint poised over a yellow legal pad.

“My lawyer,” said Mia, her tongue a fat, clumsy thing in her mouth. “I want my lawyer.”

“Where's he coming from?”

“Scarsdale.”

“Well, he's not going to be here anytime soon. It's still snowing out there. Have you looked?”

Mia followed her gaze out the window, where the snow continued to fall furiously, in swollen white flakes.

“I don't want to talk on record without my lawyer.”

“Okay,” Costello said, fiddling with her pen. “It's your choice. But then you'll have to stay until he gets here.”

“Stay where?” Mia asked, fighting the panic that threatened to shoot up from her stomach and right out of her mouth. She had already tossed her cookies once in front of this woman, and she really, but really, did not want to do it again.

“There's a holding cell downstairs,” Costello continued, as if mentioning the whereabouts of the ladies' room. “You can wait there.”

“Cell?” said Mia. “You're going to put me in a cell?”

“What were you expecting?” Costello said. “A five-star room at the Ritz?”

Mia rose from the chair and followed Roy, who seemed to have become, in this place, her shadow. She was frantically trying to weigh the alternatives—talk to Costello now, or cool her heels in a holding cell. The mere thought of the cell made her want to heave again, no matter who was around to see it. On the other hand, how was she going to explain the bill—the crazy, heaven-sent or Satan-spawned bill? She hadn't even explained it to the lawyer yet; they had been planning to meet this week. So unless she was ready to spill the whole story here and now, she knew what she had to do. Meekly, she followed Roy out of the office and into the hallway. Mia sensed the echo of the blond guy's curses; they were still hovering somewhere in the airwaves. Downstairs, they met Choi again.

“Forget the holding cell,” he said to Roy. “Why?”

“There's a leak. In both of them.”

“Leak?” said Mia. “Yeah, from the roof or somewhere in the wall,” said Roy, rubbing the back of his pink neck. “Happens every time it rains. Or snows.”

“So you can't put me in there?” Mia felt relief, warm and sweet, flood through her.

“Nope. Against regulations to put anyone in a leaky cell. We'd have
all kinds of negative shit to deal with if we did. Newspapers, TV, you name it.”

“So you mean I can wait upstairs? In that office where we were?” Roy looked at her almost pityingly. “Hell, no,” he said. “We're going to have to put you in one of the regular cells. You'll be more comfortable back there anyway.”

“I will?” The relief she'd felt only seconds ago was now like a buzzer concealed in a palm or a phony snake that popped out of a can—a stupid, practical joke.

“Yeah, there's like a toilet and sink in the back. And the bench is bigger. You can sleep if you want to.”

“Sleep?” Mia's voice was a squeak, and she thought of Mommy Mousie and her little mouse voice.

“Come on,” said Roy, who clearly thought he had provided enough information for the moment. “Unless you want to go back upstairs and talk to the detective.”

T
HE CELL WAS
a cubicle at the back of the building, one in a long row whose end Mia could not see. Roy was right; there was a sink, a toilet—no seat though—and a wooden bench covered in brown, peeling paint. On her way, she and Roy passed the blond guy, who jumped up as they walked by.

“Hey you!” he said, hands on the bars. Mia was surprised to see that they were beautiful hands—well shaped, clean, and very white. “I'm talking to you!” For a second Mia thought he meant her, then realized that of course he was talking to Roy, who ignored him as he took Mia to another cell and ushered her inside. “You let me out, donkey dick! When my people hear what you've done to me, you're dead meat, you hear me? You're burned toast, you're scummy water down the drain. You've over, man, do you hear me? So fucking over.” When Roy didn't answer, Mia heard him say “motherfucker” a few times, and then he was silent. Roy banged the cell door shut, and Mia was alone.

Alone in a jail cell. How had she let this happen? Mia wanted to scream, wanted to cry, wanted to do something, anything, but she didn't know what to do first.
Cox is coming,
she told herself, trying to calm down.
He's coming, and he'll get you out of here.

She sat down, carefully, on the wooden bench. Sleep would be impossible in this place, but at least she didn't have to stand all night. She looked at the dirty toilet and was supremely grateful for her greater-than-average bladder control; there was no way she was going to sit or even crouch over
that.
She tried to focus on something concrete—the crabbed graffiti scratched into the wall, the pattern of the bench's peeling paint, which seemed to resemble a mountain range—when she heard a voice.

“College Girl,” it said. “College Girl, you there?”

Mia actually felt herself flinch. Who was that? And who was “College Girl”? Then she put it together. The blond guy in the next cell. He was talking to her.

“I'm here,” she said tentatively. What to do? She had heard this guy screaming and cursing; she had seen him scuffling with the police officers. That had been quite enough contact for her; she had no desire to talk to him now. But she also didn't want to anger him and spend the next God-knew-how-many hours listening to him scream at her. Maybe it would be better to placate him. “Why are you calling me College Girl?”

“You went to college, didn't you?”

“Well, yes, but that was quite a while ago.”

“Still. It shows. The minute I saw you, I said to myself, ‘She went to college. She's a college girl.' And I was right.” Mia said nothing to this, and he added, “So what was it like?”

“College? I liked college. I had a lot of fun in college.”
A lot of fun in college?
She was so nervous, and God, but she could babble like an idiot when she was nervous.

“Yeah? You party a lot? You had a boyfriend? A pretty lady like you, I bet you had lots of boyfriends.”

This comment seemed like it was leading somewhere Mia did not want to go, so she didn't answer.

“What's the matter?” he asked; she heard the belligerence snaking into his tone. “Did I say something wrong?”

Mia remained silent, but her anxiety started to mount again. Why had she even started by talking to him in the first place? He was a psycho, he was deranged, and he was in jail, for Christ's sake. But then again, so was she.

“Hey, I'm sorry if I was out of line, College Girl.” His tone was softer. When she still didn't answer, he said, “Come on. I said I was sorry. It's just that I'm so steamed over those asshole cops I don't know what I'm saying.”

“It's okay,” Mia said finally. Her butt hurt from the unyielding wood, and she shifted slightly, trying to get more comfortable. It didn't work.

“Good,” he said. “That's good. You don't hold a grudge. I hate people who hold grudges, you know?”

“Uh-huh,” she said. She hoped she wouldn't have to hear about what else he hated in people. Or what he did to the people who had aroused his hatred.

“So, like, what are you in for?”

Despite everything, Mia laughed—a great, surprised hoot. When had she ever in her life heard that line? Only in a movie, uttered by Jimmy Cagney. Or Edward G. Robinson. When she didn't reply, he added, “Nah. Let's not even go there. Forget I mentioned it. But let's keep talking, okay? You'll still talk to me, College Girl?”

“Sure,” she said. “We can keep talking.” He had made her laugh, here in a jail cell. She had to like him for that alone.

“I never went to college,” he said. “Too fucked up by the system from way back. Those nuns I had for teachers . . . they were
fierce.
Whacking my knuckles or my open palms with a ruler; you ever been hit with a ruler? That metal edge may be thin, but let me tell you, it can really do damage. And when that didn't work, they hauled down my
pants and whacked me raw. Man, it seemed like I was always getting whacked for something or other.”

“They do sound fierce,” she agreed. She had a sudden image of him as a little blond boy, hands outstretched and trembling as they waited for the stinging blows. The image hurt; why hadn't he been protected? “What about your parents? Didn't they do anything?” Her own parents would have demolished anyone who had actually dared to raise a hand against her.

“Hey, if I told my old man, he'd whack me again for getting in trouble.” He snorted. “How about you? You like school when you were a kid?”

“Sometimes,” Mia said truthfully. “But not always. My second-grade teacher was a horror.” She hadn't thought about the teacher, Miss Cyril, with her pale, taffy-colored hair and narrow, pink-rimmed eyes, for years, but now here she was, risen from the past and practically breathing fire. “She used to yell a lot, and she made us tie her shoes for her—she wore orthopedic shoes that laced all the way up her foot, practically to her bony old ankle. She'd lean over you while you were tying them, to make sure you did it right.” The details rushed back. “Spit collected at the corners of her mouth when she talked, and she used to tuck a tissue right down the front of her dress. Even after she used it, she'd put it back in there. I think I had a stomachache every day of second grade.”

The blond guy made that snorting sound again; Mia realized it was laughter.

“Teachers really can suck, can't they? Almost as bad as cops.” He paused, and Mia could hear his breathing, loud and labored. He suddenly sounded winded, even old.

“You okay?” she ventured. “You want to know if I'm okay, College Girl?”

“It sounded like you were having trouble breathing.”

“Nah. I'm all right. Those boys in blue get me tense, that's all. And
when I'm tense, everything tightens up. But I'm fine.” He waited a beat. “Thanks for asking.”

“You're welcome.”

“What's your name, anyway?”

“My name?” She hesitated. Should she tell him? What if he had some way to find her when they both got out of here? He could hunt her down, hurt her, hurt Eden.

“You don't have to tell me. But I'll tell you mine. It's Patrick. Patrick Fitzpatrick.”

“I guess that's easy to remember,” said Mia, trying to be diplomatic. Pity his parents had been so uninspired.

“I'm the youngest of seven. I guess they just ran out of steam by the time I came along. They couldn't come up with anything better. “

“You must have gotten teased about that,” she said. “Hell, yeah,” he said, almost with relish. “But I could give back as good as I got, you know? Fuck with me, and I would fuck with you. Only harder.”

“Do you have a middle name?” asked Mia. It was time to redirect the conversation again; it was most definitely that time.

“Xavier. All the boys in my family got Xavier as a middle name. The girls all got Bernadette.”

“I'm Mia,” she said. She could have lied, made up something, but she didn't want to. And anyway, it was probably safe enough just to give him her first name. “No middle name though. Just Mia.”

“Mia . . .” he said, as if road-testing it. “Mia-bia fo-fia, banana-fana-fo-fia. Mi-my-mo-mia. Mia.” Then he made the snorting sound that for him was laughter. “So, Mia,” he said. “You married?”

“I was.”

“So you're, like, separated?”

“Divorced,” she corrected. “Ah, divorce sucks. Lose-lose proposition. Anyway, why'd you divorce him?”

“I didn't. He divorced me.”

“Who,” he said softly, almost caressingly, “would divorce you, College Girl? Was he a homo or something?”

“No,” Mia said. “It wasn't a guy he was after. It was a girl. A different girl.”

“Scumbag,” said Patrick, as if that settled it. “Kids?”

“A daughter.”

“Nice,” he said. “Kids are good. Wish I had one. Maybe two. Not seven though—seven's too many.”

“Seven would be a lot,” Mia agreed. And then she asked, “What about you? Are you married?”

“Twice.”

“And . . . ?”

“They both up and died on me.”

“Really?” said Mia. He seemed very young to have had two dead wives. Then she had an appalling thought: maybe he had killed one—or both—of them. Maybe she had been talking to a murderer all this time. There was a sour churning in her stomach, and she had to bite the fleshy part of her thumb to keep from throwing up again.

“First one went in a car accident. Gory as World War Two; I'll spare you the details. But it was closed casket, if you get my drift. Second one died of an overdose. She was using, you know? I used to fight with her about it all the time. I told her to drink if she wanted to get wasted. Drinking is a nice, clean vice. A
safe
vice. A shot of bourbon is a shot of bourbon, no matter where you drink it: New York, L.A., Denver, Nashville, Anchorage, Honolulu. But that rat poison you snort or inject; who the fuck knows what's in it? And don't get me started on the cocksuckers who sell it.”

“That's so sad.” Mia abandoned the idea that he was a murderer. Not that he couldn't have been lying, but something told her that he wasn't, and she decided to believe that something, whatever it was.

“Yeah, ripped me in fucking pieces, that's for sure. But the guy who sold it to her is history now. Ancient history.”

Mia found herself praying that Patrick had had nothing to do with the nameless dealer's untimely and possibly violent end. Drug dealers were frequently killed. Occupational hazard. Weed was a perfect case in point.