Snapshot (24 page)

“I'd rather see you eat it.”

“I'll get fat,” she said.

Fat's good at eleven years old, I thought. Keeps the boys away.

The sky darkened steadily as we ate. By seven o'clock it had turned to navy velvet. If Woodrow worked past eight thirty, I decided, I'd let him go for the night.

“Hey,” Paolina said. “Isn't that the car? Yeah. Look. Come on.”

“Is he alone?”

“Just him. Hurry up. Aren't you gonna follow him?”

Alone, I thought. Dammit. Then he'd most likely head back to Winchester. If he
was
having an affair, I thought it likely that the object of his affection was an office mate. When long-married men stray, they rarely venture far from accustomed paths.

“Relax,” I said, pulling out into moderate traffic. “I'm gonna tail him. A loose tail. Far back. Not like on TV. Just get a clear image of his taillights in your mind, and tell me if you see them turn. You'll be my extra eyes.”

“He took a left.”

“I'm on him.”

“This is neat,” Paolina said. “Like a video game.”

After two more turns it was obvious that he wasn't heading home. For a moment, I thought he might be driving to JHHI, but he kept on going into the area known as Mission Hill.

“Lock your door, Paolina,” I said firmly.

“Where is he? I lost him.”

“He took a left. He's doing a lot of zigzags.”

“Do you think he knows about us?”

“At night, all he can see is headlights. And headlights look the same,” I said, taking my eyes off the target vehicle for an instant to glance at my companion.

She was leaning forward, her eyes sparkling, her lips parted. Watching her, I experienced a moment of sheer panic: What if she became a cop?

“He took a right,” she said. “He stopped!”

I wouldn't have left my Toyota on the street where he parked his BMW, streetlamp or no streetlamp. Maybe he had a fancy alarm system. Maybe he wanted his car stolen.

I drove by as he got out of his car. He bounded up the stairs of a nearby apartment building. He wasn't carrying a briefcase.

I stared at the five-story building. No lights blossomed. Either he'd entered a back apartment, or he was visiting someone whose lamps were already turned on—possibly someone who expected him.

“What now?” Paolina breathed.

I pulled into a slot three quarters of the way down the block, in a no-parking zone. Across the street, a wire fence drooped around an abandoned playing field.

“We wait,” I said. “He could be dropping off something on his way home. Paperwork.”

I didn't think so. IWP's clientele might own some of the surrounding tenements, but I doubted they'd live here, in a poor, ethnically diverse, racially tense enclave.

We waited almost an hour. He didn't come out. Paolina yawned with increasing frequency. “I'm going to need to go to the bathroom soon,” she announced.

“Keep your door locked,” I ordered her. “I'll be right back.”

I walked purposefully down the block, ducked quickly into the apartment's vestibule, wrote down all the names as they appeared on a row of rusty metal mailboxes. One—Savannah Cates—caught my eye. The rest were men's names. Or initials. Or Mr. and Mrs. So-and-so.

Savannah
. I flashed on exotic eyes, tilted eyebrows, an engaging smile. Mooney hadn't been so far off base after all. Harold Woodrow
had
met a woman at the hospital. Not Tina Sukhia, but Savannah Cates, Muir's young receptionist …

I drove my little sister home to her suitcase full of crumpled clothes, and held her hand till she fell asleep in the guest room.

I had my shirt halfway over my head, getting ready for my own bedtime, when the phone rang.

Mooney must have found Emily. I grabbed it.

Roz.

“You get my messages?” she hissed.

“Haven't had a minute.”

“Dammit, I don't know how much longer I can keep him here.”

“Calm down. Where are you?”

“South Station. At the oyster bar.”

“Where's old Paco headed?”

“One-way, New York.”

“Keep him there.”

“Carlotta—”

“I have every confidence in you, Roz.”

“Just get here.”

“Half an hour,” I said. “Bye.”

29

I lied. It took me almost an hour, what with changing clothes, waking Paolina, dialing Gloria, making sure Paolina felt okay about staying home alone, assuring her that Gloria was a phone call away.

Oh, and I had to run back upstairs to get the nicely altered passport Paco had been civil enough to drop.

As I drove, I found myself peering down empty cross streets, checking the surroundings the way I used to when I was a cop on patrol. Searching the black-and-white shadows for Emily Woodrow. Wishing I knew her haunts, knew exactly where to focus. Hoping I'd find her before Mooney. Or she'd find me.

Had she killed Tina?

Had Tina killed Rebecca?

Was that what it was all about—an eye for an eye?

Or had a third party killed both Tina and Emily? Tina, for what she knew about Rebecca's death; Emily, because she'd learned the secret from Tina.

I blared an old Taj Mahal tape full volume. The music filled my head, answered no questions.

South Station has been recently renovated. An interior designer crisscrossed the floor and walls with beige-and-raspberry tiles, put in a French bakery, and sold vendor permits to hawkers with cute green carts filled with ties, fudge, and sun hats, as well as toys to bring home to the kiddies. Huge fans did their best to circulate the cigarette smoke and train fumes. You can get your shoes shined, buy a bouquet of fresh flowers and a chocolate croissant. The hurrying footsteps, whooshing doors, groaning diesel engines, and clanging bells are all that remind you that you're not in a shopping mall.

The oyster bar is tucked in a street-level corner.

I recognized a couple of veteran prostitutes right off, old friends I'd rousted years ago, no doubt rehabilitated through the wonders of our prison system and social service agencies. One was giving a brazenly outfitted hooker the unfriendly glare reserved for new talent on already-taken turf.

It took me a minute to realize that the woman of the hour, the one drawing hostile eyes, was Roz.

I guess she figured that with her clothes sense and general flair, there was no point in shooting for subtlety. But green hair, I thought, except on St. Patrick's Day, is going a little far.

Her wig made the stuff they sew on the heads of Barbie dolls look real. Nor had she taken my advice about conservative clothing—not that I'm naïve enough to think Roz possesses a knee-length shirtwaist dress. Her low-cut green taffeta number looked like a fifties prom dress gone astray.

One thing you have to say for her: She didn't look like the shaved-headed, black-clad karate warrior of the airport. No way would Sanchez link the two. Roz wore spike heels to change her height. Glasses completed the ensemble. Harlequins, with rhinestones in the corners.

She didn't look like anyone I knew. Or wanted to know.

“Don't worry, Yolanda,” I murmured to the tiny platinum-haired pro. “You are totally out of her league.”

“Hey. You back with the cops?”

“Relax.”

“No, sugar. You check that babe. She's young and hot and she ain't let go that dude all night. Man couldn't even take a pee if he wanted one. And look at the bod on her. She's messin' up business is what.”

“Good,” I said. “She works for me.”

“You pimpin' now? Hell.”

“Yolanda! I'm private heat, and she is, too. Go peddle it someplace else.”

“You gonna bring cops on me?”

“You're hopeless,” I said. “Go home.”

“Spot me twenty?”

“Ten,” I said. “Home.”

“Later, babe.”

I caught Roz's eye and she sagged with relief. I could see her point. Even after Paolina had sung his praises, I couldn't ID the sterling qualities in Paco Sanchez.

Either he hadn't changed clothes since the weekend or he had many identical T-shirts and bagged-out jeans. His five-o'clock shadow had turned into scruffy three-day growth. His eyes looked bloodshot under the fluorescents.

“Hey,” I said, approaching Sanchez and borrowing Yolanda's all-purpose greeting.

His face changed when he saw me. He recognized me, no doubt about it.

“Don't go anyplace till we've talked,” I said.

“And why the hell not?” he blustered.

“Cause this green-haired lady, the one you been boring to death with your sorry life story, will be glad to kick you where it hurts anytime I say. Right, Roz?”

“How about now?” she said. “What took you—”

“Hang on a minute.” I removed the doctored passport from my purse, held it well out of Sanchez's reach. He grabbed for it anyway. “Something you want?” I asked, tucking it out of sight.

“Hey,” he said. “Maybe we can deal.”

“Exactly what I had in mind,” I said. “Roz, why don't you take a walk?”

“Can I stay in sight? Just in case? I'd like to kick him.”

“The restroom, Roz. Lose the hair.”

“That's a wig?” Paco said. He sounded disappointed.

“Let's deal,” I said.

30

Roz disappeared.

“See, I want to understand something,” I said to Sanchez, sipping my assistant's leftover Pepsi and thinking that for the day, I was probably well over the maximum daily caffeine intake for a small country.

“I'll bet.” His moustache barely moved when he talked. It made me wonder what deformity he was hiding under its bushy growth. “Your friend have to leave?”

“I'll give you her phone number later,” I promised, tongue in cheek. “Why'd you boost my garbage?”

He lit a cigarette and I inhaled fumes. “Guy I work for said to do it.”

We shared a small round table, the stand-up kind meant for rushed commuters. The bar was empty except for two serious drunks in a corner, a scattering of working pros. “Carl Griffith,” I said. “The investigator. He musta been ripped when you took the cans too. You know, stealing the cans makes it sort of obvious.”

Paco blew a puff of smoke my way. “He doesn't tell me how to handle it. He kinda leaves stuff like that up to his ops.”

I don't mind inhaling smoke. I used to do a pack a day myself, before my dad died. “You started working for him recently?” I inquired.

Sanchez opened his mouth, paused with his tongue sticking halfway out. “Nah,” he said.

“Come on,” I said. “This your first case?”

“Third,” he said, stung.

A miracle he'd lasted this long. “And what about Paolina?”

“Griffith told me to check her out.”

“He tell you to get her on a plane?”

“That was her idea,” he said. “Honest. I wanted to help the kid out. That wasn't business, that was personal.”

Personal, bullshit. Now
I
wanted to kick him. “Who's the client?” I asked.

“Huh?”

“Who's Griffith working for?” I repeated impatiently.

“Lotsa people.”

“On the Paolina Fuentes thing.”

“He'd kill me.”

“He won't know.”

“You don't understand.”

“I don't want to understand, Paco. I want to know why you gave Paolina money.”

“It was a personal loan. Nothing to do with Griffith.”

“It probably comes under corrupting a minor. You know what kind of prison time child molesters get?”

“I never touched her. I liked the kid is all. Felt sorry for her.”

“Who's Griffith's client?”

“He won't tell me. He won't tell you, either. Man, it's all he talks about, how nobody can push him around.”

Sounded like a nice guy. The kind of guy who'd employ a creep like Sanchez. There was an ashtray on the table. Sanchez dropped his ciggie butt on the nicely tiled floor, ground it out with his heel.

“He keeps you in the dark?” I said.

“Hell, yeah, and if I get in any trouble, I'm on my own, too.”

“You're in trouble.”

“Well, I don't know anything.” He gave an elaborate shrug.

“Let's go,” I said.

“Go where?”

“Two choices, Paco. And one is the Feds. Passport forgery is Federal, right? As in Leavenworth.”

He swallowed, his Adam's apple jiggling up and down. “Uh, I thought you wanted to deal.”

“What time does Griffith open his office?”

“Hey, not till late. Not till after noon, at least.”

“I don't want to have a lot of conversation about this, Paco. I'm kinda on a tight schedule. The way I see it, if you love Griffith like a brother, and you're gonna get all bent out of shape when I suggest visiting his office after hours, we might as well talk to that uniform over there. I'm sure he can get through to a Justice Department suit who'd love to see how you doctor a passport.”

He swallowed again. “Say we do visit Griffith's place. What do I gotta do?”

“Sign in. Sign out. Work the security system. No reason the boss should know about our visit. Then you go back to work for him, you split for New York, whatever you want.”

He considered the situation.

“And then you'll give me the passport?”

“I never said that, Paco.”

“Come on.”

“It's either the Feds or a quick peek at Griffith's files.”

Before we left the train station, I found Roz sheltering behind a column and told her to get home to Paolina. Sanchez couldn't pry his eyes off the shaved section of her scalp.

When you work the middle-of-the-night shift, you don't have to worry about parking. I got a perfect slot on Boylston Street, and Sanchez and I strolled into the Prudential Center like buddies, almost arm in arm. I kept the funny passport in my handbag, its strap double-looped over my arm. I didn't trust my new buddy.