Reilly 13 - Dreams of the Dead (37 page)

She called Judge Flaherty’s chambers and left a message asking for an emergency meeting at 8:00 a.m.,
ex parte,
which meant
without Stamp’s presence, if she couldn’t get in touch with him soon enough.

Thinking through it, she wasn’t sure where to go now. What if Hendricks called his partner and the partner went to her home? She called Matt and asked him to go pick Bob up for the night. She started driving aimlessly. She called Paul again and left another message, then gave up for the moment, heading toward an all-night coffee shop on the highway to drink some coffee and take a moment to think some more.

P
aul hadn’t been able to let Brinkman go that easily. A nasty son of a gun, he was after Nina, kinky, arrogant as hell, and begging for a lesson. Paul watched from down the block as Brinkman’s garage door opened as soon as Nina left. The Cayenne slid down the driveway and Paul followed. It was the right thing to do. He was frustrated and pissed off and not finished with the conversation. He didn’t like being dismissed. He particularly disliked being criticized in front of Nina. Besides, the other side of him, the curious, devilish kid he sometimes saw in himself, had kicked in. He was curious to see what Brinkman was up to at this time of night. Maybe he would betray himself yet.

After rolling downhill for a few blocks, Brinkman’s Cayenne bumped up the winding path into the Village Shopping Center, which at this time of night was all closed up except for one place, the Bar Bar Bar. He parked right in front and went in.

Paul knew the place, one of only a couple of locals’ bars in the affluent North Shore village of Incline. Ostensibly a pizza parlor, it was a blue-collar oasis in a staid golf-and-ski-lounge culture, the last place he’d expect Brinkman to go for a drink.

Maybe that was why Brinkman had chosen it. Paul parked in front of the deserted post office and took a little tour around the dark parking lot, around the market and the secondhand-furniture
store and a coffee shop, all closed and dark, making up his mind. Finally he opened the door to the pizza place.

The Bar Bar Bar wasn’t big. On the left an actual bar sat, an unexciting slab embedded with quarter poker machines, upon which several bearded denizens leaned. To the right was a hole in the wall where a blond kid in a white apron rolled out pizza dough. Against the wall a few rickety tables had been set like afterthoughts, and at one of those Eric Brinkman sat staring at Paul, legs apart, a beer in front of him, moist and golden, one hand lightly held on his knee, ready for anything.

Paul sat down beside him.

“I don’t like you spying on me.” Brinkman seemed pretty relaxed under the circumstances.

“And yet it happens, as well it should.”

“Why not have a beer, Paul. Take it easy for a change.”

“I’ll do that. I’ll have some food, too.” Paul went to the bar, where a pudgy, young lady gave him Jack Daniel’s straight up with a Coors chaser, then went to the pizza window, knowing Brinkman was watching him the whole time and trying to figure him out.

“Do you have salad?”

“Salad?” The kid sounded as if he had never heard of such a thing. His face said,
Why no request for salmon croquettes? Look around, pal. Think this through.

“Well, what do you have besides pizza?”

“Nothing.” His badge said
EDDIE
.

“Okay, I’ll take a slice of mushroom pizza, Eddie.”

“We have pepperoni or sausage tonight. Oh, and a special, which is pepperoni plus sausage. That’s it.”

“I’ll have the special.”

Eddie slowly went about his business.

Finally Paul was sitting again, fantastically hungry. The slice of pizza disappeared fast.

Brinkman drank his beer, watching Paul reflectively. Finally he
said, “For what it’s worth, I know why you’re here. You want me to promise to lay off her.”

“You got that right, buddy.” Paul finished the last bit of crust and drank down the liquor in a gulp.

Eric chuckled, running a hand through a haircut Paul found revoltingly fashionable. “So you find me humorous,” Paul said.

“I find you a belligerent fool, that’s what I find.”

“You’re the one going to an anonymous bar to get drunk after she walks out on us.”

“I happen to be friends with Bev.” Eric indicated the manager—who had taken over from the frizzy-haired girl at the bar—a short woman in a tight T-shirt that showed off her amplitude, wearing high heels that forced her to lurch from table to table.

One of the customers hit a mini-jackpot playing with his quarters. Everybody leaned over to look. They all knew each other. The Bar Bar Bar was that kind of place. The men worked hard all day and shared cheerless apartments. Not a one was Latino.

That kind of place. Nevertheless, it had a cozy feel and people there seemed happy, laughing, knocking back a few beers after a long, hard day. Paul’s pizza had tasted great. He should eat more pepperoni. Screw mushrooms. What they did here, they did well.

Paul said, “I may not be around for a while, and here’s the thing I came here to tell you. I want you to leave Nina alone.”

“Fine.” Eric was watching Bev walk around to see the three sevens lined up on the poker machine. She gave Eric a wink.

The men ordered second drinks. They drank them.

Then they ordered thirds, drank them, too, and then things somehow turned more unpleasant.

“I believe you’re not paying attention,” Paul said. “I think I’m going to have to teach you a little lesson.”

“No need. I’m well educated. Probably better than you. Columbia.”

Paul stood up. “You arrogant ass. Let’s go outside,” he said, filled with rage, because tomorrow he was probably going to
jail, because he was going to tell Cheney the truth, and then this rich dude who couldn’t investigate his way out of a hamster cage would take over everything—the mountains, Nina, all of it. Paul’s business, which he loved, Wish, the whole thing, everything would go to hell, and it was all his fault, but he had done the right thing, and—

Brinkman said calmly, “I’m a fifth-degree black belt. Don’t make me take you out. Ever heard of the Lima Lama system?”

Eric had said the exact wrong thing, although maybe anything he said at this point would have been the exact wrong thing. Paul was a little fuzzy on that point. “Try it, buddy,” he said. Bev was shaking her head. She jabbed her thumb backward toward the door. The customers watched them go.

They ended up by Paul’s car. Brinkman said, “I’m not even after Nina, okay? Let’s forget this.”

“Liar. In for a pfennig, in for a pfund.” Paul punched with his right. Brinkman grabbed his arm, twisted it over his head, and held it behind him, pulling him off-balance and putting the arm into danger of breaking. The whole thing took about two seconds.

Brinkman dropped Paul’s arm and stood there, arms loosely at his sides.

“So you’ve got one move,” Paul said. This time he feinted with his right and sent over a fast, hard left hook, but Brinkman leaned in totally unexpectedly and somehow got a snaky arm around Paul’s neck and pulled him backward. He stepped back suddenly and Paul fell onto the pavement, landing on his side and damn near cracking his head open. As it was, his ear connected hard with the pavement.

He got up, touched his ear. Blood was flowing freely, but he could hear Brinkman say, “Use this.”

Paul took the tissue and held it to his ear. “Let’s go back inside, okay?” Brinkman said. “It’s cold as fuck out here. I want to explain something to you.”

“Not till I explain something to you.” Brinkman’s defensive arm came up fast, but this time Paul was faster. His fist connected with such knuckle pain he knew he had struck the jaw cleanly.

Brinkman staggered back. His eyes closed and he collapsed to the pavement.

Paul nudged him with his foot. “Wake up, Mother Hubbard.” Brinkman opened one eye, saw Paul looming over him, and scuttled back. Paul felt much, much better, though his ear was bleeding again. “You tell Lima Lama there’s a gap in the technique about five inches wide. It’s called bare knuckles.” The door of the bar opened and a grizzled man peered out.

“Come on in,” he said. Brinkman got up slowly to his feet, holding his jaw.

“Is it broke?” the man said.

“I—I don’t think so. Let’s have one more, Paul.”

“You talkin’ to me? I’m not going back in there.”

“I’ll buy. Come on. JD straight up, right?” Warm air rushed out, and Paul thought, Why not cap off a great night? and went back inside. They sat down at the same table as before. Fewer than five minutes had elapsed. Nobody looked their way. The old-timers ignored them. It was a courteous place that way.

Bev brought their drinks. She smiled at Brinkman. “Like ’em?”

“Perfect copies of Jimmy Choo’s 2010 collection,” Brinkman said.

“I know you prefer ’em pointy,” she said, and walked with small, careful steps back around the bar.

“How’s the ear?” Brinkman said. “Let’s have a look.”

“Screw you.”

“Speaking of screwing.”

“I’m not speaking of screwing.”

“Well, I want to speak of screwing, so why not shut up for a minute, Paul.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“You ever heard of an old book called
Psychopathia Sexualis
?”

“Krafft-Ebing.”

“Right. A Victorian doctor. Sort of an early shrink. He wrote about various kinky things people get into about sex. You know, the dom-slave stuff, that sort of thing.”

Paul drank his Jack Daniel’s, which warmed him. “Do I dare even ask why we are talking about this? Is it because you have about a hundred pairs of shoes lined up like little girls in your fucking pantry?”

Eric laughed. “Yes. Actually, I have even more. I’m a collector, Paul. I like women’s shoes. High heels. Designer only. Beautifully made. Four inches or higher. Platforms turn me on. I like peep-toes, and as Bev said, the pointed toes are big favorites. I like them black, red, and gold. I’m not interested in earth tones like taupe. Boring. That doesn’t do it for me.”

“I can’t believe I’m having this conversation. Do you wear them?”

Brinkman looked insulted. “What an idea. I play with them. I touch myself with them.”

“Is this some—genetic aberration? Were you born this way?”

Eric shrugged. “Doubtful, but who knows? In my cups I’m not entirely my sharpest self, so I will tell you this. I had a piano teacher when I was fourteen, Paul, sexy as hell, but she wouldn’t let me have sex with her. We did other things, and as time went on, I got to preferring her shoes. She was willing to help me out. You know—”

“Please don’t feel the need to go into details.”

“The red soles on the Louboutins—they’re insanely sexy. Nina was wearing a pair. I wanted one.”

“You bastard. She took back the one you stole after court that day.”

“Yes.” Eric looked disconsolate. “What a beauty.”

“I guess we’re even. We broke into your house. You stole her fancy shoe.”

“But—the point I’m trying to make, Paul—I don’t do women.” Eric sat back.

Paul considered this. “You don’t what?”

“Have sex. No interest there.”

“You’ve never had sex with a woman?”

Brinkman smiled. “Only secondhand.”

“You’re extremely fucked up.”

“See, now that’s how you make me laugh. I’m playing. Lots of people like playing. I’m sure you do some things the media would consider unusual. Maybe you spank or you like threesomes or leather. Who’s to say I’m weirder than the norm?”

“Okay, enough to focus on what’s happening, I get that you’re not going after Nina. And stay away from her shoes from now on.” Paul drank down the rest of his drink. Brinkman sat there with his black belt and his shoe fetish looking like a nice golf dude. The whole thing was surreal. Paul felt compelled to question existence in general, the topsy-turviness of it all. He felt like writing a poem, or trying to beat up Brinkman again. “It’s a crime,” he went on. “Stealing them. You have money. You could buy loads of pretty shoes.”

Brinkman leaned forward again. “I like shoes women have worn. I like watching them walk in them.” He nodded toward Bev. “Now you know my secret, it’s your turn, since we’re playing truth or dare. Where’s the body?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yeah, you do.”

Paul thought, Oh, well, the world’s going to be in on this in a few hours, what’s the harm. Right then, he knew he’d be telling Cheney all this shortly. “I know where it was, but it seems to have gotten up and gone out clubbing.”

Brinkman’s eyebrows rose. “Now we’re getting someplace. You’re the one who sent the e-mail tip?”

“Yeah. I did.”

Brinkman grinned. He slammed a hand down on the table. “I knew it!”

Paul told him the whole story. They had one more, which they
really shouldn’t have. They both had to drive but it was a night for being bad.

After they had shared far too many confidences, and Paul had learned much more than he ever intended to learn about really gorgeous, sexy, hot shoes, Paul had coffee and another slice of pizza. The special.

B
y the time she got to the Al Tahoe streetlight, Nina had begun to think about Kelly Strong. She was a smart, young woman who had been in law school. Maybe she was working with Hendricks. Maybe she had persuaded her father to sell, all for that escrow set-aside.

Through a process of elimination, Nina felt it was possible, but two things made her feel it was unlikely. First, she had spent time with Kelly two years before and found her to be honest but uninvolved with her family’s business. Kelly had wanted nothing more than to leave Tahoe, as Nina recalled, but that brought up the second thing, which was that Kelly had suffered some sort of breakdown and had to leave school.

Kelly and Hendricks. Her part in it would have been to make sure the sale happened. True, she had gone from disinterest to strongly urging that her father let it go. And whaddaya know, the buyers in Korea had no manager all of a sudden, and she knew the business.

But Kelly hadn’t killed Cyndi Backus and Brenda Bee, not with the description of the boyfriend they had.