Body Blows (15 page)

“Looks pretty good for his age, don't you think?”

says Larry.

“Who?”

“Mo Feivel. I'm just saying, looks pretty good.”

“What do you mean
for his age
? We're the same age, more or less.”

“Maybe it's working with his hands,” he says. “Or maybe there's less confusion in his life. He doesn't have that worried crease between his eyes.”

“I have a worried crease between my eyes?”

Dysart Motors. The banner reads L
OWEST
P
RICES
! H
IGHEST
V
ALUE
! Plastic pennants hang limply over a dubious fleet. The prices on most of the windshields wouldn't replace a bumper on one of Ultra's vehicles. I'm barely out of the front seat before a hopeful looking man sidles up. He gives the hotel's utility sedan a once-over, no doubt calculating to a penny how much it might be worth as a trade-in.

“Hey there, my friend,” he says as if he's known me all his life. “Looks like you're ready to move into something a bit more your style.”

“What style would that be?” I want to know.

“Let's see now,” he says. “Big man like yourself might want a little headroom, legroom. Got a fine Cherokee over here, A-1 condish, four-wheel drive, just sit yourself in the front seat there and tell me if that doesn't fit you like a glove.”

“Handsome ride,” I say. “But I don't want to waste your time …”

“You let me worry about that,” he says. “Nothing makes me happier than finding the right match of man and machine.”

“I'm really here to talk to Mr. Dysart.”

His hopeful smile disappears. “Outta luck there, pal. Old Dysart checked out five years ago.”

“Oh? Who runs the place these days?”

“Mr. Starryk.”

“Is he here?”

“George? Sure. He's inside.”

“Thanks,” I say, heading for the showroom.

“Sure you wouldn't like to just sit behind the wheel for a minute? It's a great feeling.”

“I'm sure it is,” I say. “Why don't you show it to my friend? He's always interested in new experiences.”

Inside, a young man and woman are hotly debating the merits and possible drawbacks of owning the canary yellow Mustang on the showroom floor. The man mediating the discussion could be Dimi's twin, blood relation at least. He recognizes me immediately and takes off toward the far end, past a silver Focus and through a wooden door marked S
TAFF
O
NLY
.

“Mr. Starryk?” I call after him. “Could I talk to you for a minute?”

Just before the door slams I distinctly hear the words, “Piss off!”

That's not going to happen. I disobey the door's injunction and follow him into a windowless sector of tight office cubicles. The lone employee visible is a woman on her knees in the narrow corridor picking up scattered papers with an aggrieved look on her face. She looks angry even as I'm helping her.

“Did he say sorry?” she asks me. “Hell, no. Goddamn rhinoceros.”

“Did you see where he went, Ma'am?” I ask politely.

“Nobody has to pee that bad,” she says.

The door to the Gents is locked. I knock. No answer.

“Mr. Starryk? I have to talk to you.”

The voice from inside sounds preoccupied, perhaps wrestling with a stuck zipper. “Piss off!”

“I need to ask you a few questions.”

“Go away! I got nothing to say to you!”

“I'm looking for Dimitar. You're related, aren't you?”

“Piss off, I'm calling the police.”

The sounds from inside aren't generally associated with calls of nature. “Good. You do that,” I say. Something is being dragged across the floor. It occurs to the quick-witted sleuth that there may be at least one window in this part of the building. “That will work out fine.” I can't spot a rear exit. “I'll wait right here until they show up. I'm sure they'd like to talk to you as well.”

I lied. I have no intention of waiting outside the men's room. I retrace my path through the showroom and onto the lot. The Cherokee is missing, presumably with Larry Gormé at the wheel. I head for the rear of the building and arrive in time to see George Starryk extricating himself from a bathroom window. There's a wall at the far end of the lane and nowhere to run.

“What do you want?” he says. “I don't know you. I've got nothing to do with you.”

“You filled in for Dimi on Monday night.”

“So? I was doing a favour. One brother for another. That's no crime.”

“You are going to have to tell that story to the police, sir. Better just sit tight until they get here. They hate having to look for people.”

He doesn't much care for that option. He picks up a handy length of two-by-four.

“Take it easy, Mr. Starryk,” I say. “We need to sort this thing out.”

“Why don't I sort you out? You're an intruder.”

He takes a swing at my head, which wasn't his best move; I'd have gone for the wonky knee. I duck the bat and get too close for him to try it again. I don't want to hit him. He's right about one thing, I am an intruder. I tie him up, force him back against the wall and take the stick away from him.

“You don't want to make this worse than it is, Mr. Starryk. Seriously. Calm down. I need to find your brother.”

“I drove a car. That's all.”

“Did you see your brother that night?”

“Him and the little guy drove away. I put on the hat and jacket, you guys come out, you grab a cab. None of my business. I wait around until some guy says move the car, then I bring it back to the shop and come home.”

“That first limo is still missing. Were you aware of that?”

“Nothing to do with me.”

“And I just heard that two other limos have gone missing from Ultra this year. Were you aware of that?”

He pulls away from me, brushes off his jacket and straightens his tie.

“I've got nothing to do with what he does.”

“So none of those vehicles have shown up here at any time?”

“Look around. I got nothing to hide.”

“Well, they'd be in South America or somewhere by now, wouldn't they?”

Larry Gormé and the Jeep Cherokee are still missing when I get to the car. I sit in the front seat of the hotel's sedan, which does look in need of a fresh set of tires, and at very least a visit to the carwash. I manage to make the cellphone work and punch in Gritch's number.

“Hey, Gritch? Call Mooney and Pazzano will you? Tell them to check out Dysart Motors. The manager is a guy named Starryk, S-T-A-R-R-Y-K. Dimi's brother. He was the replacement driver Monday night.”

“Oh, yeah?” he says. “You want me to tell them about the limo we found in the parking garage first?”

“Mercedes?”

“Oh, it's the right one,” he says. “Got the Ultra sticker and everything.”

“Where was it?”

“Top level. Far side of the elevator where they usually keep the dumpster,” he says. “Garbage guys were pissed, phoned down. One of the Presbyterians went up and found it ten minutes ago.”

“Stick with it. I'm on my way back.”

“You going to call them or should I?”

“I'll call them.”

Much as I dislike making Pazzano's day … “Hello? Detective Pazzano, please. Okay. How about Mooney? Okay, well could you reach out for them? Tell them it's Joe Grundy. Tell them one of our security guys found that limo they've been looking for.”

I start the car, count to ten, about ready to maroon Larry when he squeals into the lot and shudders to a stop a few inches from the rear of a Pontiac Firebird. He bounces out of the Jeep and swaggers over with a big grin on his face. I can see the salesman dismounting gingerly.

Larry climbs in beside me and slams the door.

“Have fun?” I ask.

“It was a blast,” he says. “I drive like one of the Andretti boys. Don't know why they pulled my licence.”

Gritch is waiting on the open roof of the parking garage, puffing happily on an El Producto as we pull up. Larry is still pumped after his test drive, or maybe it's because he's about to steal a story from an ambitious young reporter who's been beating him to the punch. Whatever the reason, he's cheerful as a songbird, snapping pictures with his cellphone. Mine doesn't have that function. At least I don't think it does.

“Right on your doorstep,” he says. “With any luck there's a dead body in the trunk.”

“Be careful what you wish for,” says Gritch. “The trunk lid isn't latched all the way. Something's sticking out. Could be a coat.”

Larry wants a closer look but I grab his arm. “Let's wait for the authorities,” I tell him.

“Aren't you prudent all of a sudden,” he says. He grabs another shot.

“Security camera up here?” I ask Gritch.

“Yeah, there's one over there and one on the ramp.

And they should have picked it up driving in from the street, too. Rachel's getting that organized.”

A cruiser pulls onto the roof. Melody Chan gets out. She looks happy to see Gritch. He's definitely happy to see her. They don't have any chance to swap war stories because Pazzano and Mooney are right behind them. I can't tell whether they're pleased or pissed, they have their cop faces on — we've heard 'em all, we believe no one, and where were you on the night in question?

“Anybody touch it?” Pazzano.

“Not from our staff,” Gritch says. “Can't speak for the rest of the world.”

“Goddamn tinted windows,” says Mooney. The limo is parked nose out. He walks around to the rear, crouches. “Trunk isn't closed all the way.”

“Pop it,” says Pazzano.

Mooney puts on a glove and pops the lid. No body.

Larry looks disappointed.

“Got a cordless drill,” Mooney says.

“Rachel Golden's getting the security tapes for you,” Gritch says.

“Okay,” Mooney says, taking control of the situation, moving Pazzano and me a few steps apart.

“You uniforms bag this area. Civilians out. You!”

“Have you guys talked to Dimi's brother yet?” I ask.

“Who?” says Pazzano.

“Dimi Starr's real name is Starryk. His brother George, also named Starryk, is currently managing Dysart Motors on Broadway.”

“I thought we told you to keep your nose out of this,” Pazzano says.

“Oh, Lord!” I say, thoroughly fed up. “If you two were half as good as you think you are, you'd know all this.”

Pazzano muscles up to my chest, getting his feet set. He'd like to make this physical, provoke me into shoving back. Stupid as that might be, I'm getting perilously close to obliging him. I can feel Gritch's hand on my wrist.

“Oh, I'm sure they would have found all this out in a few more days,” Gritch says.

“While you're at it,” I say, “you might want to check with the fraud guys. This is the third limo's gone missing at Ultra.”

“Get away from the car or I'll break your little camera,” Pazzano says.

Larry turns. “Me?”

“Not a lot of gratitude around here,” Gritch says.

“Hey, I appreciate,” says Melody Chan. “I was on my way to guard a dead horse.”

chapter fifteen

“Y
ou wouldn't believe the checklist,” Connie says. “It's a masterpiece of bafflegab — what to say, what
not
to say, to our hosts, to our guides, to the governor general, questions you can ask, questions you must never ask. Not to mention the security clearance, medical checkup, shots …”

“You likely to pick up an exotic disease over there?”

“Don't want me spreading any. I'm going to be cooped up in a plane with the G.G. for ten hours — can't have me incubating microbes all the way. She has to disembark looking bright-eyed and ready for business.”

“How long before you take off?”

“Four hours. Finish your lamb chop, big guy, I haven't got all night.”

The Palm Court is beginning to fill up with the pre-theatre dining crowd. Rolf Kalman, the maître d', has given us one of his premium tables, secluded, by the potted trees for which the place is named. I promised him we wouldn't occupy it all night, it's worth at least a hundred-dollar gratuity from the right couple seeking public privacy. Connie is dressed for travelling — a soft, tailored jacket over a very fetching silk blouse. She looks chic, alert, filled with anticipation, fully capable of handling anything that comes her way. I must stop fretting about her. I try not to hover but it's in my nature. Inside my jacket is the little black box I've been carrying for two days.

“Safe trip,” I say.

“Awww,” she says, pulling out the thin gold chain and medallion. “A Saint Christopher medal. You cashiered altar boys sure know the way to a gal's heart.”

“I wanted to get you a flak jacket but they didn't have one in your colour.”

“I thought the Pope had this guy decommissioned,” she says, deftly fastening the almost invisible catch. She knows better than to ask me to handle it.

“Don't tell my Uncle Victor,” I say. “He flew twenty missions in Korea wearing one just like that.”

“Uncle Victor still around?”

“Oh, yeah. Eighty-four, never had a fender-bender. Doesn't matter what Rome says, Saint Christopher looms large where I come from.”

She tucks the medal inside her blouse and jiggles sweetly to settle the erstwhile saint. “He'll be happy there,” she says with a smirk.

“Who could blame him?”

“You want dessert?” she wants to know.

“I haven't looked at the menu.”

“It wouldn't be on the regular menu,” she says.

We can't linger over dessert nearly as long as I'd like. The airport beckons, China beckons.