Sunset Bridge (22 page)

“When I was rich and bored, I used to drop a hundred just for a trim at my favorite salon in Bel-Air,” Tracy said. “Men’s cuts were cheaper, but they started at, like, forty-five, and that was right there at the shop.”

“And Harit was more a stylist than a barber,” Maggie said. “So let’s say seventy-five because he traveled to their homes, and he gave maybe, what, twenty to the shop as their share? That’s fifty-five, plus a tip of, say, twenty more?”

“I think you’re way out there,” Wanda said, “but if you’re right, that’s six hundred dollars a month extra.”

“Three hundred would have made a difference to his family,” Janya said.

Maggie scanned the list. “No names I’ve seen before, but I haven’t seen much of anything so far. It’s not like the case files are in my possession.”

“Are you going to check them out?” Tracy asked.

“Definitely. Maybe Harit talked while he cut hair and somebody remembers something I can follow up on.”

“You don’t sound all that hopeful.”

“Ninety-nine percent of the leads a cop chases down in an investigation come to nothing. But it’s a place to start.”

Something had been nagging at Tracy, something the conversation about haircuts and stylists, as opposed to barbers, had triggered. Now it came to her, and she pushed back from the table to get more comfortable.

“You know what? Let me see that list.” She studied it after Maggie handed it to her; then she frowned. “Okay, this is wrong. He’s not here.”

“What?” Maggie asked. “Who’s not there?”

“Blake Armstrong. Of course, if he had been, you would have recognized his name, so I guess I should have figured that out.”

“Why did you think he should be here?” Maggie retrieved the paper.

Tracy put her hands over her head and wiggled them. “‘A good haircut and a little gel.’ What Janya said Rishi learned from Harit. I saw Blake at Derek’s party, and I commented on his hair, which is curly, like Rishi’s. He told me virtually the same thing, made the same wiggly motion. I thought maybe Harit was his barber, too.”

“He’s not on the list,” Maggie said. “And I told him about the murder-suicide. I probably said Harit’s name, and he didn’t react. He just seemed sad two strangers had died that way.”

“It’s possible he never knew the name of the man who cut his hair,” Alice said. “Didn’t connect them. Men…don’t pay attention.”

“Yes, and if he wasn’t a private client,” Tracy said, “maybe he just called and said something like, ‘Is that Indian barber available at two?’”

“Reduced to our nationality,” Janya said as she cleared plates off the table to make room for dessert. “Nameless.”

Wanda stood to help. “Because people have trouble remembering names they didn’t grow up with. They take the easy way out. I bet in India I’d just be ‘that American woman.’”

“Nobody uses ‘just’ in a sentence with your name in it,” Tracy said. “You can bet on that.”

“If Alice is right, and Blake didn’t make the connection,” Maggie said, “then the next time he tries to make an appointment with ‘that Indian barber’ he’ll find out.”

“Surely he’ll mention it to you if that happens,” Tracy said. “Or you can just ask him.”

“At least I have something to follow up on,” Maggie said.

Tracy doubted her new tenant would admit outright how much she missed her former job, but it seemed clear Maggie
wasn’t investigating the Duttas’ deaths solely to help the Kapurs.

She changed the subject as Wanda left to get her latest creation, the Orange Blossom Special, and bring it to the table. “I’ve invited Marsh to come to my next doctor’s appointment. They’ll be doing an ultrasound, and we’ll probably be able to tell the baby’s sex. Do I want to know? Will that spoil the fun?”

Wanda returned with the pie, which was topped with mounds of whipped cream and mandarin oranges, and Janya set plates and forks beside it. “You asked Marsh to go with you?” Wanda said. “The two of you are back together? This is an announcement?”

“No, I’m just being civilized. Thoughtful.”

“You’re being stubborn, that’s all.” Wanda carefully moved slices of pie to plates, and shook her head when they listed to one side. “I’m going to have to work on this one. Doesn’t hold its shape.”

“If you were managing a bunch of shops, you wouldn’t have time to work on recipes,” Maggie said, “and why is Tracy being stubborn? Why is everything always the woman’s fault?”

“Because she’s letting pride get the better of her. You have a problem with a man, you tell him so. You demand some answers. You don’t just cut off your nose to spite your face.”

Despite herself, Tracy’s hand went to her nose, which luckily, was still there. “That’s not what I’m doing,” Tracy insisted. “You don’t
ask
a man if he loves you. If you have to ask—”

“You have to ask,” Wanda said. “Anything you really need to know, a man won’t bother to tell you. That’s how that works. He figures you already know. It started in the Garden of Eden. You think Eve ate that apple ’cause she really wanted
to know what was going on in the world? No! She ate it ’cause she forgot to ask Adam what the good Lord had told him. That idiot woman figured if he wanted her to know, he’d have mentioned it. And that serpent? That serpent was just chattering away, all friendly like, and that was a nice change after all those nights with Adam watching the hyenas and the jackals playing football on the Animal Planet. She was desperate for conversation. The apple was just a bonus.”

“I think I like Wanda’s church…better than mine,” Alice said.

Everybody laughed, except Maggie. “You’re still making everything the woman’s fault.”

“You know what, Maggie? You and Tracy, you’re two of a kind. No wonder the two of you hit if off the way you did. Maybe both of you are afraid to find out what’s what with your men, so you figure if you don’t ask, you don’t have to hear the terrible truth. Only, having tried that myself, it seems to me that what we get is worse than a simple answer would ever be.” Wanda held up her hand. “I’m done.”

Tracy paused with the first bite of pie halfway to her mouth. “All I asked was whether I should find out my baby’s sex at the ultrasound.”

“What does Marsh think?” Alice asked.

Tracy shrugged. “I haven’t asked him.”

No one said a word in response. Together they finished their pie in silence.

M
aggie heard her telephone ringing when she was still twenty yards from the front door. She had finally broken down and installed a landline because her cell phone, despite a new battery, was still unreliable, and coverage at her house was spotty. Since she had eighteen months left on the contract with her carrier, she had given up and gone the traditional route so she could avoid dropped calls when she made inquiries about the Duttas.

By the time she picked up the receiver, she was out of breath and certain she would hear a click as her caller gave up. Instead, she heard a familiar voice.

“Mags? I was about to hang up and try your cell again. Did I pull you away from something important?”

Maggie collapsed into the chair beside the phone. “I was having dinner down the road at the Kapurs’. What’s up?”

Felo paused. “A lot, as a matter of fact. But I don’t want to go into it on the telephone.”

“What’s your choice? I’m here, and I assume you’re in Miami?”

“No, I’m just down the road, but I’m not bucking for an invitation. I’ve got to be at work early in the morning, so I need to head back tonight. Any chance you can drive south a little and meet me at a place called Joe’s just off 75 outside Pelican Point? It’ll take you about forty minutes to get here, but I’m finishing up something anyway.”

Maggie was tired. The village of Pelican Point might be in the same county, but forty minutes each way to the middle of nowhere didn’t sound appealing. Still, she was interested in the reasons why Felo wasn’t coming here if he was that close. Did he regret their last encounter? Was he trying to avoid another? Or was it just that he was trying to save himself a longer drive home?

“What are you doing in this neck of the woods?” she asked, buying a little time.

“Tracking a witness in a case we caught. We’re finishing up, and we’ll be done by the time you get here, if you come.”

“You’ve got Gary with you?”

“I’ll drop him off at the local steak house so we can talk in private.”

“I’ll be there.” She’d said the words before she knew she’d decided.

Fifty minutes later she slid into a booth at Joe’s, clearly a popular hangout, since she’d had to leap to get the booth when its previous occupants departed. She thanked a young man with a multitude of tattoos and piercings for clearing away a drained-dry pitcher of beer and half a dozen glasses. He even wiped off the table and brought a fresh basket of pretzels. She figured she’d either been honored or hit on.

Felo arrived ten minutes later, when she was halfway through an anemic mystery brew. One draft tasted just like the others at a place like Joe’s.

“Next time, send Gary here and
we’ll
do the steak house,” she said in greeting as he ignored the seat across from her and slid in beside her.

“Somebody told me Joe’s wings are the best in Florida.”

“I ate, you go ahead.”

Her tattooed conquest shuffled back and took Felo’s order; then they were as alone as they could be with Carrie Underwood belting out “American Girl” in the background and standing room only at the bar ten feet away.

“Get what you need from your witness?” she asked.

“He was happy to cooperate after we pointed out we were saving him a trip back to Miami, where his name’s on a warrant for three outstanding parking violations.”

“So you’ll head home after this?”

“Have to. How are things with you?”

She couldn’t imagine telling the truth, that whenever she wasn’t totally immersed in something else she missed him and their life together so much that more than once she’d had her car keys in her hand, ready to drive to Miami. Instead, now she was immersing herself in the Dutta inquiry to dull that impulse, even though she doubted she had a prayer of turning up anything useful.

“No problems,” she said. “I’m working hard.”

“How’s Rumba?”

“Sleeps all day and prowls all night. Nothing new.”

“I miss picking cat hair off my pants when I’m sitting in meetings.”

“Next time I’ll bring you my vacuum bag.”

She had turned just enough that he could lean over and kiss her quickly. “I’ll take whatever I can get, Mags.”

She didn’t turn away, but she didn’t smile, either. She just tried to read his expression and figure out what, exactly, that kiss really meant.

Their server approached with Felo’s beer and another for her, although she hadn’t asked and wouldn’t drink it. She was careful not to look too grateful when he set it down in front of her.

“Wings on the way,” the man told Felo, and vanished back into the crowd.

“So?” she asked. “I’m pretty sure you didn’t ask me down here to talk about cat hair.”

“I wanted to let you know what I’ve turned up in the investigation. I figured you’d want to hear it in person.”

“I’m glad you’ve got something. I turned up a big fat zero. From what I can tell, the only friends the Duttas had in Palmetto Grove were the Kapurs. Vijay wasn’t enrolled in nursery school. Nobody at the library, the supermarket, the Laundromat or the drugstore either knew the family or had any anecdotes, although a guy at the video store said some Indian woman had come in and asked for a job ordering and writing up descriptions for a new Bollywood section. She wanted to be paid under the table.”

“Kanira?”

“She fit the description. If it was her, that may have been all she was talking about when she told Janya she was going to change her life.”

“Anything else?” Felo asked.

“The landlord’s counting the days until their rent comes due so he can clear the apartment and rent it out again. He
claims he doesn’t know a thing except that their money was good. Every avenue led nowhere.”

“And the husband’s job?”

“I’m still working on that. But initially, nothing.”

Felo slowly sipped his beer, as if he was thinking over what she’d said. For a guy some labeled impetuous, he was slow to form opinions, one of the things that made him such a good investigator.

“The answer’s there,” he said when the beer was half gone. “If he didn’t shoot his wife and turn the gun on himself, the answer to who murdered them is in Palmetto Grove. One thing’s pretty clear. Dutta had no ties to Miami. There’s not a shred of evidence he’d ever been in the city before he died there. He and his wife entered the country in New York. He was enrolled in some kind of writing course at NYU, where he had a fellowship. Apparently she got pregnant right away and couldn’t work because she didn’t have a green card, so with another mouth to feed, he quit before graduation and they moved to Palmetto Grove.”

“Why?”

“She hated the cold and claimed it would harm the baby. He thought he had a job teaching at the community college in town, but it fell through. By then, whatever resources they’d come with were gone. So they stayed on, and he wrote and cut hair, a skill he’d learned in India.”

“They were never in Miami?”

“I can’t say they never visited, but there’s no connection anyone can find, plus no gap in the family history. India, New York, Palmetto Grove. No missing months. Not even weeks.”

“So was that what you couldn’t tell me on the phone?”

The wings arrived, and Felo waited until the server was
gone before he answered. “No, but that’s part of what I found out. Here’s the other thing, and it’s potentially more interesting. I got a look at the evidence and what the victims had with them.”

Maggie watched him dig into his food. “You haven’t eaten in how long?”

“Breakfast. Long day, sorry.”

She had always loved watching Felo eat. He loved food, relished it, couldn’t get enough. His delight was almost sexual, it was that intense.

Almost.

She looked straight ahead, curiously aroused as he sucked on a wing. “So what was so interesting about what they had with them?”

“Most of it was what you’d expect. Nothing in the mother’s purse of interest. Wallet, house keys, photos of her children in a little sequined carrying case, tissues. The father had a wallet, too, a pad with notes in Bengali, which turned out to be nothing more than grocery lists and what are probably random reworked sentences from the novel he was writing. His car keys were on the floor beside him, which was interesting to me. Put keys deep in a pocket and they stay there, right? So I think they were in his hand when he walked in.”

“And he dropped them when he died?”

“Or on his way to pull out the gun. But why would he wait until he was inside for that?”

Maggie wondered the same thing. That scenario was highly unlikely.

“He had a paycheck he hadn’t cashed, about thirty dollars in bills and change, and one thing that made no sense.”

Maggie perked up. “What?”

“Dice.”

“Dice? Harit Dutta was a gambler? Maybe that’s why the family had so many financial woes.” Her mind was racing now.

“Not just any dice. Blue dice with green marbling and the name of an Atlantic City casino embossed in gold. The Atlantis.”

“I don’t think I get it.”

“Neither did I, so I took a photo and sent it over to Alvaro.”

“There’s that name again.”

“Cut it out, okay?” Felo’s tone was sharp. “I’m trying to help you here. How about a little respect?”

Maggie knew he was right. She was a broken record. Alvaro was his friend. He and all the other male cops that Felo had ever been friends with were always going to be part of the package as far as Felo was concerned, and there was no point in pretending it wasn’t so.

“Yeah. Okay.”

She felt him relax a little. “I’m not an expert on gambling. Alvaro spends a lot of time at casinos these days, entertaining. He says he likes to see how people treat money. Along the way, if the people he’s with are losing, he loses, too. If they’re winning?” He shrugged. “He knows his way around.”

It was one thing to be polite, another to cheer from the sidelines. She nudged him forward. “So what did he say?”

“He thinks the dice are a special giveaway to high rollers, the kind of thing a casino will put in a gift basket in a player’s suite. Collectible, but not necessarily valuable. The kind of limited-edition memento people stick in collections, but without much value, at least at first.”

“So Harit Dutta, who never went anywhere and had, at best, a minimal income, was carrying dice only the high
rollers at Atlantis ever get. Odd, to say the least, unless he had a secret life we haven’t uncovered, and you’ve pretty well discounted that.”

“The next step is to find out how many dice were in that batch and who they went to. Alvaro’s going to do it.”

She felt a surge of anger. “You know, it’s one thing to ask Alvaro about the dice, but it’s another to involve him in the investigation. He’s not a cop anymore. He’s not even the next best thing.”

“Why not? He has connections there, and I don’t. It’s a stretch, even for you, to think he was involved in this case, too. You think Alvaro’s got his fingers in every murder, every fragment of corruption, in the city?”

“He knows everybody. Who’s to say he doesn’t know the people who did this?”

Felo slammed his glass on the table so hard Maggie was surprised it didn’t break. “You know what, it’s time you understood something. Past time, which is why I’m really here tonight. I didn’t come to tell you about the dice. You think I couldn’t tell you that over the phone?”

“Then why
did
you get me here?”

“Because I finally got the all clear.” He waited a moment, to collect himself, but she knew he was still angry, because his voice dropped. “I’ve told you all along that Alvaro had nothing to do with my decision about Paul Smythe. Let me tell you who
did
. There’s been an ongoing federal investigation of Smythe for two years now. His decision not to prosecute Jorge Famosa? That’s peanuts. The corruption’s so deep even
you
wouldn’t believe it. When the word got to the feds that you were trying to blow the whistle, they talked to the chief. And he…” Felo blew out a long breath, as if he hoped that would steady him. “He asked me to calm you down and keep you
from grandstanding at the press conference. And I tried. God knows I tried to get you to back off.”

Her mind was spinning. His words didn’t make sense, and she didn’t trust what little she did understand. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about
me
trying to get
you
to listen, and you blaming my ex-partner, who’d been feeding the feds useful information about Smythe for a full year before that point. Alvaro’s no friend of either Jorge or Smythe, even if he looked like one to you. He’s been working with the feds. Not because he’s a saint, but because he believes in that badge he used to wear, and he knew Smythe was bad for the city. And bad for Miami is bad for Peerless.”

“Oh, please! If the chief wanted me to keep quiet, he would have talked to me. He would have brought
me
into the investigation. He wouldn’t have talked to you.”

He was quiet for a moment, as if trying to find a way to reach her. “That’s where you’re wrong,” he said at last. “And you know why? You know what you don’t see? You don’t see
yourself
. You look in the mirror and don’t see the woman who got hurt so badly during her first two years in police work that she’s still sure every man on the force is patronizing her. It’s your line of first defense, your immediate reaction. It’s what makes your world go round.”

“That’s not true!”

“The chief knew you wouldn’t listen, just like you’re not listening now. You were absolutely convinced exposing Famosa and Smythe at that press conference was the right thing to do. He was sure even if you had all the facts, you’d go ahead, and while you were at it, you might blurt out something that would ruin the feds’ case. You know what he said to me? He said when Joan of Arc rode through town on her
big white horse, anybody who got in her way was trampled, only the history books forget to tell that part of the story. So he enlisted me as a last resort, to do what I could.”

Maggie didn’t want to believe this. She searched for something to say, some way to prove it wasn’t true. But nothing came to her.