Gold Coast Blues (18 page)

I looked at Sergeant Blake and then back to Mike and Cooper. As if choreographed, they both stood and walked to the door. Sergeant Blake opened it. Ahmet walked in and took a seat. Before the others left, Cooper said, “But can I take that chance? Relax awhile. Let me think about it.”

—

You didn’t become kingpin by taking chances. Cooper knew a missing private investigator would attract little attention. He had everything to lose by letting me go and nothing to gain. After enough time passed some would say,
He knew what he was getting into.
Others might say,
He got what he deserved.

Ahmet had moved his chair near the door, where he sat with his face behind a Turkish newspaper. I paced the room, noted the distance between the other chairs and Ahmet, then tried to calculate how quickly I could fold a chair before Ahmet recognized a threat—that is, if he bothered to look.

“Hey, Ahmet, I don’t think they locked the door.”

A guttural chuckle emerged from behind the paper. “You going somewhere?”

I put my hand on the back of a chair and lifted it a few inches off the ground. “Your boss doesn’t like to take chances.”

Another throaty laugh. “You have no chances.”

The chair didn’t fold as expected. I struggled with the seat, trying to stay calm. Anger at my ineptness replaced any inkling of panic. When I glanced again at Ahmet, he was already coming at me. I swung the chair in front of me just in time for Ahmet to pluck it from my hands, slam the seat flat, then throw it at my feet.

“That’s what you wanted, no?”

I grabbed the chair and held it up, hoping to smash Ahmet’s head with the heaviest part of the chair—where the legs, seat, and hinges folded together. Ahmet mocked me with his casual posture and smile, egged me on with hand gestures and words in his native language. I lunged toward him then retreated in a feigned assault. He flinched, I swung the chair at the side of his head. Ahmet blocked the blow with his forearm then cried out as blood trickled down his arm from where a rivet had torn his flesh. I jammed the chair into his stomach, which had no ill effect but allowed him to take hold and shove the chair back into my abdomen, dropping me to the floor. As I gasped for breath, Ahmet lifted me from behind in a crushing reverse bear hug. Adding a dash of humiliation, he leaned back on his heels then swung me around in clumsy pirouettes.

Helpless as I was, Ahmet’s embrace afforded me enough physical stability to allow a rational assessment of my predicament, thus fostering a thought regarding the proximity of my feet to Ahmet’s knees. I lifted my right leg as high as I could, then exerted every last bit of remaining energy in a downward thrust, crashing the heel of my shoe against Ahmet’s locked knee. I saw and heard the “crack” of a baseball hitting the bat’s sweet spot, followed by a primal scream as Ahmet took the path of least resistance, dropping to the floor over his shattered leg.

I sat a few feet from the writhing man, unaffected by the sight of Ahmet’s right shin bent queerly at a ninety-degree angle below the knee. Slowly, I got to my feet then opened the door just enough to poke my head out. Ahmet’s groans leaked into the empty hallway. A sense of urgency hit me but I couldn’t leave yet, not without first taking care of Ahmet. The bedsheet from the cot tore easily into strips. Ahmet tried to resist, but with every move the pain discouraged his ambition. After tying his hands behind his back, I gagged him with a few strips then wrapped his mouth shut, tying the strip behind his head.

Once again, I poked my head out the door. The room was in the middle of a long hallway that I guessed ran the length of the building. One direction probably led to the office where I had entered. The other direction probably led to the lab where the front door was located. I took a last look at Ahmet, momentarily considered the magnitude of his discomfort, then closed the door.

Now outside the room, a feeling I associated with Amy’s intuition directed me to turn right. I jogged down the hallway, enduring the throbbing pain bouncing around my face, but worried more about the few options available to evade someone appearing at either end of the corridor. About thirty yards from the end of the hallway, I noticed a single bulb illuminating the opposite side of the glass door. Beyond the glow, darkness. Ahmet had originally appeared from a dark corridor connected to the office. My spirits soared, although the emergence of Cooper, Mike, and Sergeant Blake from the shadows—about to push their way through the glass door—delayed an attempted dash to freedom.

I ducked into a doorless work space, then crawled under a utility table where several stacks of boxes offered refuge. The room had an earthy, dead-plant odor, and the only light was whatever spilled in from the hallway. While approximating the progress of the three men chatting quietly as they walked down the hallway, I noticed several crumpled pieces of paper on the floor. I crawled over to one of them. The paper cracked easily and smelled like brewed tea. In poor light, the ornate handwriting and mysterious images brought nothing to mind. I moved closer to the doorway for better light and recognized a logo with five arrows splayed above and below a capital “R.”

“Lafite Rothschild 1947,” the yellowed label read. I grabbed several more scraps. “Mouton Rothschild 1945,” “1982 La Mission Haut-Brion,” “1978 Romanée-Conti.”

On the table, tea bags steeped in a bowl of water. I grabbed a handful of paper from one of the boxes. Vintage labels laid out three to a page, waiting to be aged in tea. A small oven at the end of the table sat ready to bake in the appropriate antiquity. Hundreds of corks filled several other boxes. Scattered across one table were lead capsules, sealing wax, and rubber stamps with vintages and French estate names. The men’s voices became louder. I ducked back under the table. They passed the doorway. Moments later, Ahmet’s howls of agony raced down the hallway.

A fresh round of throbbing ricocheted around my face as I stood and bolted down the hall. Once through the glass door, I sprinted toward the glow of the office light where my adventure had begun. Outside, the wet, cool air refreshed me, felt good against my face, prompted me to run faster. Not until I found my car and turned onto Springfield Avenue did I begin to relax.

Chapter 28

Expressions of horror on their pretty brown faces reflected my battered appearance.

“I’m so sorry, mister!” the tall girl said. “We told you it wasn’t safe for white men to walk around.”

“Call the police,” the other girl said.

“No!” I said. “I’m fine. Do
not
call the police. I’m going to rest awhile then go to the airport. Okay? Promise me you won’t call the police.”

Both nodded. Both were crying.

Once back in my room, I collapsed into the bed’s crevasse. I relived running through the dark corridor before busting out into the cool air. All the doors had been unlocked, coming and going. Only a handful of people in the building. No security except a few cameras. Apparently, they had no fear of discovery. My presence had been a surprise. I drifted off, wishing I had a gun in my hand, then awoke less than an hour later knowing that I should get the hell out of town.

I ate another peanut-butter sandwich, packed, gave each girl a hundred-dollar bill, then drove to the airport, where security inquired about my face then disappeared for several hours with my IDs. Not until midafternoon did they allow me to pay an additional fifty dollars to book another flight.

—

I turned off all the lights in my apartment, preferring only the residual glow from the streetlamps. Punim strolled out of the bedroom then jumped onto the coffee table. She sat watching me with her tail wrapped tightly around her legs. She appeared well.

I swallowed a couple of aspirin then lay on the couch with two ice packs covering my face. In the background, an analysis of new information loitered, waited for integration with Tanya, Eddie, Margot, and Doug. Punim landed on my chest then stretched out across my torso. The barrel of my Glock stroked her back. I put the gun on the coffee table then rested my hand next to her belly. It was good to be home.

—

The three pairs of eyes were on me again. I smelled chemicals. A chloroform mask lay over my nose and mouth. The escape and reunion had been a dream. The disappointment ached.

“Wow, it’s dark in here.”

The familiar voice dissolved the men into the light of a gooseneck lamp. I removed the ice packs and sat up.

“That was a fast trip—oh, my god! What happened?” Amy’s look of shock did not diminish her beauty.

“It’s nothing, really. It only happens during a crime investigation. I think it’s an immune system response.”

She sat next to me. Her eyes jumped around my face. “You were badly beaten. It’s not funny.”

Amy stood then walked around the room turning on more lights. Punim jumped down and followed her to the kitchen. Amy dropped some raw meat into Punim’s bowl then returned to my side on the couch. Pointing at the gun on the table she said, “Expecting someone?”

I grabbed the Glock, dropped it in the shoulder holster hanging from a hook next to the front door, then sat back down next to Amy. “You and Punim now BFFs?”

“Don’t give me that crap. What happened? Who did this to you?”

“Wine counterfeiters did this to me.”

Amy stared a moment, as if confused. Then she surprised me with “That makes sense.”

“What makes sense?”

“Wine counterfeiting. It fits with what we know. You discovered the truth and got beat up in the process.”

“Tell me how it relates to Tanya’s disappearance.”

“Wine is the theme, right? Margot’s stolen wine. Doug married to Margot. Tanya disappearing with Doug. Which wine is real? Which is counterfeit? Maybe a blackmail opportunity?” Amy stopped to think about it some more. “Okay, there are dozens of possibilities, but I think you can say Tanya’s disappearance is
somehow
related to stolen wine or wine counterfeiting.”

Amy folded her legs under herself and waited for my response.

I said, “You seem awfully invested in my answer.”

“I just want you to see what I see.”

It hurt to frown. “I see Eddie coming here to look for Tanya and find out about phony grape juice for—for his bosses. But I don’t see it as simple as Tanya connected to the grape juice. I’m still going to assume there’s another component involved. She was bangin’ Doug, remember?”

“You don’t have to be crude. You think Eddie is prospecting for new clients?”

“I think Eddie’s more like a foreman sent to watch over an operation.”

“So there’s already a network here?”

“Perhaps. Can’t see a street kid like Eddie selling a rare bottle of Château Lafite Mouton Rothschild Blanc de Blancs Vin de Pays.”

Amy giggled. “Quite impressive, Jules.”

I pointed to the beat-up paperback lying on the table. “My little wine book. Complete with phonetic translations.”

Amy had a content, happy look. The kind that instilled confidence in men previously rejected. She said, “You stopped yourself from saying the name of Eddie’s boss.”

“There’s no reason for you to know names.”

“What difference would it make?” she asked.

“What you know could hurt you—and if you got hurt, I would never forgive myself.”

Amy reached toward my face and may have barely brushed the bruised side of my mouth—I wasn’t sure. “That must hurt.”

“The other side feels fine,” I said and bent toward her, expecting to feel the warmth of her lips against the undamaged part of my mouth. She shrunk back.

“Let’s not,” she said.

Misinterpreted signals? “You know, you didn’t ask permission to kiss me goodbye two days ago—”

“I didn’t think you’d respond by mauling me—”

“
Mauling
you? I seem to remember your body responding rather agreeably to my
mauling
you.”

A pregnant pause. “Let’s keep the focus on the investigation. It’s important you talk about it while it’s still fresh in your mind. Just relax and talk to me.”

I lay back down, replaced the ice packs, then draped my legs over Amy’s thighs. She didn’t object. “I should confront Margot Daley about the bogus wine scheme. Or maybe not. Maybe I should talk about everything except the fake wine.”

“I agree, don’t confront her about the fake wine. See if she’ll lead you somewhere first.”

I changed the subject. “When did you first become aware of your energy reading or whatever you call it?”

Either Amy wasn’t sure I was serious or was thinking about her answer. “It was a survival mechanism,” she said, looking into the distance. “My father had unpredictable outbursts of violence. I learned to read his body language, so I knew when to hide until his anger passed. Eventually, I could tell his mood just by what I heard when he walked up the stairs to our apartment. Or how he put the key in the lock and opened the door. By the time I got to high school, I could check in just by thinking about him awhile and get a
knowingness
of what he was going to be like when I got home.”

Amy looked at me. “I’m sorry,” I said. “About the violence.”

Neither of us spoke. Then Amy said, “How much trouble were you in? I mean—”

“As bad as it gets. So what? Investigating crime is dangerous. I know that.”

“So your life doesn’t mean anything to you?”

“I’m just saying that anyone who decides to investigate crime knows—or should know—it can be dangerous—as in life-threatening.”

“You didn’t answer. Does your life mean anything to you?”

I gave her a nice, long stare. “Does my life mean anything to
you
?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

She studied me. “Have you done anything about your depression?”

It hurt to laugh. “A depressed private investigator, how cliché! Unfortunately, I’m not much of a drinker. There’s no bottle of bourbon for drowning sorrows while ruminating on missed opportunities.”

“Depression is nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Oh, Jesus Christ! If you’re going to—”

“Of course your life means something to me! I
like
you. You’re interesting. Probably a good person. But I don’t think you’re happy.”