Nightbird (22 page)

“The lab report isn’t back yet,” Ryan said.

“Go get Coletti,” the Chief told his night driver. “Look for the guy in the loudest suit.”

The tech man strutted over, wearing a red satin bow tie that appeared to be made of curtains from a Sicilian whorehouse. He
was preceded by cologne and trailed by the fumes of his faux Cuban cigar.

“Get that cigar out of my face,” the Chief said, “then fill these guys in on the lab report for the Stone case.”

“I didn’t know the report was in,” Ryan said.

“Check your box once in a while,” Coletti said. “I put a copy in there myself.”

“I checked it,” Ryan said. “Right before I left at six.”

“Your age, you probably just think you did.”

Ryan grabbed Coletti by the bow tie. Gregory inserted an arm between them and said, “Not again, pally, please. Let’s not come
to blows in here.”

“That’s not a fucking clip-on,” Coletti gasped.

Ryan released his grip and stepped away from Coletti.

Coletti said, “I called in a favor for you, Ryan. Got preliminary results back in less than a week. Then you act like this
in front of the Chief.”

“I didn’t see a thing,” the Chief said. “Give him the results, quit jerking around.”

“Besides alcohol,” Coletti said, “she had only one drug in her system, but she had enough to knock a linebacker on his ass.
It’s a drug called Lorazepam, also known as Ativan. It’s a strong muscle relaxant, like a tranquilizer for the nervous system.”

“I never heard of it,” Ryan said.

“Then I’ll enlighten you,” Coletti said. “It’s four times the strength of Valium. It’s potent shit.”

“Mark it closed pending further information,” the Chief said, and walked back to the dais.

An old-time detective who’d been watching walked up and jabbed his finger at Ryan’s face. “Next time you got a beef in here,
you take it outside like a man,” he snarled.

The old-timer had to be pushing ninety. He was a regular, part of several tables of classy old detectives. Out for the night
with their best suits on, like old times. Sipping a few martinis, sniffing a little perfume.

“How come you didn’t find any Lorazepam when we searched?” Ryan said.

“My guess is she swallowed her whole stash before she jumped. She was stoked.”

“Is this a prescription drug, Armand?” Ryan asked.

“Yeah, but she didn’t have one. We checked her pharmacy, and her doctor.”

“She bought it on the street?”

“You can get anything on the street. But I’d bet she has some jet-set supplier.”

“I never heard of it before, either,” Gregory said.

“Out west, down south, places like that, you hear of it more.”

“Could it have been given to her without her knowledge?” Ryan asked.

“Stop it right now,” Gregory said. “I see where you’re going. Enough is enough.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Coletti said.

Ryan shook hands with Coletti and apologized. Coletti waddled back to the bar. Ryan wrote on an index card.

“Now Coletti’s your buddy,” Gregory said. “You think he gave you fresh ammunition.”

“I love that guy,” Ryan said.

“The Chief says it’s closed, pally. It’s closed. Finished. You go anywhere else with this case, you go without me. I ain’t
bullshitting here. You work one more minute on this case, you do it without me. You listening? That’s the last thing I got
to say on it.”

“Drive me to the office,” Ryan said. “Then you can go wherever the hell you want. I won’t have to worry about dragging you
down with me.”

“You want to fuck up your life,” Gregory said, punching the elevator button, “that’s your business. But I’m not the one you
should be worrying about.”

D
anny Eumont thanked the gods of etiquette that only two forks appeared to his left. He’d feared a murderous row of silverware,
a lineup formidable enough to fluster someone who gave a rat’s ass about proper forkage.

“So you spend your life just going around eating shrimp?” Danny said.

“Pretty much.”

Abigail Klass was younger than he expected. The picture on her column showed only the back of a woman’s head, a woman holding
a knife and fork in the air. This was too bad, because the other side of that image deserved presentation.

“I’m glad you’re not allergic,” she said. “You’d be surprised how many people are allergic to shellfish.”

“My teeth get a little sore crunching the shells. Otherwise, no problem.” Slow down the wiseass act, he thought. Let her discover
the shallow man at her own pace.

Pier Seattle was an in joint and had a great crowd for a Monday night. It was a takeoff on the seafood restaurants of the
Pacific Northwest. “Sophisticated seafood,” the menu announced. Charlie the Tuna need not apply.

Despite linen tablecloths, the decor was spare: hardwood floors, fish memorabilia, and racehorses on the walls. Work in the
stainless-steel kitchen was observable through a huge picture window. The walls, according to the menu, were painted kayak
yellow and Laramie blue.

“How about this,” she said. “We’ll order three appetizers, and two entrées, then do a couple of desserts.”

According to the menu, the fish were line caught and hand harvested. The meat and vegetables were organic, the game farm raised.
Every entree came with a story. If Joe Gregory were here, Danny thought, he’d ask the waiter, “How much would it cost without
the story?”

“Why don’t you order for both of us,” he said.

“I’ll pick something, but you order it. I don’t want to give them any clue as to who I am.”

Danny never realized that food writers worked this covertly. She had made the reservations in his name and waited outside
until he arrived. She insisted on a corner table, then picked the seat against the wall so she could see the entire restaurant.
She’d been schooled in the art of undercover.

“Are we allowed drinks?” he said.

“Just don’t be a lush. They go over my expense account with a jeweler’s loupe.”

Abigail Klass had short dark hair that curled up slightly under her left ear. She had dark brown eyes and a blockbuster smile
set in a face that reminded you of the all-consuming radiance of your first high school crush.

“When you called,” she said, “I figured you wanted to discuss leaving your Johnny-come-lately outfit and moving over to a
real magazine.”

“Why would I do that?
Manhattan
is the weekly of the future in this town.”

“A future of maybe a year,” she said.

Abigail’s columns appeared regularly in
New York
magazine. Her yearly “Best of the West Side, Best of the East Side” ratings were its biggest-selling issues. Restaurants
framed favorable reviews and displayed them in the window. Each review was a little plotted story, with characters and overheard
dialogue. Her readers came away with more than a vague idea about certain meals; they felt as if they’d been there with her.

Their waiter was an aspiring actor with Pierce Brosnan looks but a flat midwest accent. Abigail had picked out a variety of
menu items, trying to cover as many specialties as possible. Then Danny played his part suavely, acting as if he really knew
what the hell fois gras was. Sophisticated fish demanded the sophisticated diner. He could play that part.

“I see your columns all over the place,” Danny said. “And I never realized you were Paul Klass’s sister.”

“I was wondering how long it would be before that came up. Most men just want the free meal; now I get one who’s looking for
information.”

“Oh no, I want the free meal, too,” Danny said.

Abigail smiled and said, “The truth is I never met Gillian Stone.”

“Actually, I was more curious about Trey Winters.”

“I was afraid of that, too. I already told the police everything I know about that night. Not much, really. He never mentioned
her during dinner. And to tell you the truth, I wouldn’t say a bad word about Trey Winters if I knew one.”

Pierce Brosnan brought the wine and an assortment of oysters on the half shell: Hood, Pearl Bay, and Kumamoto. Danny wondered
about sucking them down, but the vinegar dip had bite to spare. He decided to change the subject away from Trey Winters; he’d
learned from his uncle to circle around to a different angle.

“I bet you’re quite the cook,” he said.

“You’ve got to be kidding. My last boyfriend used to run from the house screaming whenever I touched a pan.”

“How did you learn about food?”

“From books. Reading. Actually, I’m getting a little sick of it. After a while there’s only so many things you can say about
risotto.”

He sampled the roasted mussels from the wood oven. Much of the food came from a wood oven. She told him that wood ovens were
the latest fad.

“Let me ask you something,” Danny said. “I noticed that you always review high-ticket places like this. Why don’t you do some
places where real people eat.”

“You mean like Burger King?”

“That Johnny-come-lately outfit? No. I’m talking about the fast-food pioneer who changed the way America eats. Since 1921,
the one and only White Castle.”

“I might have to pass on that one. I worry about food sold by the sack and referred to as belly bombs.”

“That’s a shame, because you’re missing out on the best cheeseburger in town. It’s the steam grilling. Part grilling, part
steaming.”

“Sounds damp.”

“A little mushy. But that’s part of the whole experience. Like little meat loaves. These little squares of beef, one point
five ounces, perforated with five holes. Steam grilled to perfection. Covered with onions. That pungent aroma of onions.”

“Why five holes?”

“Actually, that’s a good question,” he said. “I’ll look into it. But the Castle cheeseburger is the pinnacle of the cheeseburger
mountain. See, in most places they never get the cheese right. You know how it’s always hard, undermelted? But at the Castle
it’s all steam grilled, and this tangy cheese flows down and inhabits the very soul of the burger.”

“I feel like I should make the sign of the cross.”

“I always do,” Danny said.

The last appetizer was smoked salmon, with Russian osetra caviar. Abigail put a portion of everything on her plate. She stopped
every few bites and made notes on a pad she had hidden on her lap.

“What do you think of the decor?” Abigail said.

“I wondered why they had pictures of racehorses on the wall of a seafood restaurant.”

She looked around and made a note on her pad.

“Last week,” she said, “I ate at a place where they sat me next to the Heimlich chart.”

“Was that the night you ate with Trey Winters?”

“You’re not going to give up,” she said. “Okay, let’s get it over with. I’ve known Trey for more than ten years. Both he and
Darcy have been wonderful to me and my brother. Especially Trey, he’s been amazingly supportive.”

“What was his mood that night?”

“Sounds more like a cop question,” she said.

Danny poured himself a second glass of wine. He couldn’t even remember drinking the first.

“Trey was relaxed and charming, as always,” she said.

“Your brother got Trey his start in show business, didn’t he?”

“Paul thought the world of Trey. He always said that once Trey got the Shakespeare bug out of his system, he’d become one
of the finest light comedy actors in the business. Paul said that Trey had a Cary Grant appeal.”

Danny wondered if Abigail knew the appeal that little boys had for her brother. He doubted it; Paul was much older than she
was. Probably already dying when she was in her early teens.

“Trey and your brother must have been very close,” Danny said.

“I hope that question doesn’t have some hidden agenda. For some reason people refuse to believe a normal friendship is possible
between a gay man and a heterosexual one.”

“No agenda, I promise,” he said. “All I’m trying to do is get a feel for Trey as a person. To be honest, he comes off a little
cold.”

“He’s not. I’ll tell you exactly what kind of person he is, Danny. Trey Winters supported my brother through the last five
years of his life, and it wasn’t a cheap proposition. He paid for all his medical expenses and living expenses. When my brother
was near losing his apartment in the Broadway Arms, Trey had his theater company buy it, at a healthy profit to Paul. Then
he let him live in it until he died. Over three years, rent free.”

The waiter delivered Danny’s entrée, wood fire–roasted Maine sea scallops. Abigail reached over, took his plate, and spooned
a trio of scallops onto her own. She chewed slowly, then wrote on her hidden pad.

“Actually, my brother introduced Trey to Darcy Jacobs,” she said. “Darcy’s father, Marty Jacobs, backed several of Paul’s
shows.”

“Lucky break for Trey.”

“Marty Jacobs wasn’t happy about it. Not at all. In fact, he never spoke to my brother again after that. He didn’t want his
baby to marry an actor. There’s a pretty detailed prenup involved in that marriage.”

“I forgot that was your brother’s apartment,” Danny said.

“Gillian was the first person to live in it since he died. I think Trey was trying to be a mentor to her, the way Paul had
been to him.”

“Did he mention bringing a costume over to her, or offering a role as understudy?”

“I told you, he never mentioned her at all.”

Abigail held up her plate and slid a stack of her prawns onto his plate. She asked him if he could taste rosemary. Groucho
had a line here, but Danny held it back. He liked this woman too much.

“Her drug problem must have devastated Trey,” Danny said. “She was so young, such a talent.”

“I’m sure it did.”

“That’s why I was surprised he was so relaxed when he had dinner with you. It was just a few hours after telling her he wanted
her to be tested for drugs.”

“I’m not saying he was giddy or anything,” she said. “But he certainly wasn’t nervous, or anxious. Concerned, maybe. The man
is weeks away from a major Broadway opening. He has a million details on his mind at all times. In fact, when I was waiting
for him outside the restaurant, I saw this guy hand him an envelope. Trey said it was business. And it obviously concerned
him.”