Get Lost Page 8

  I nodded solemnly.

  “Unless you’re prepared to connect Mr. Klein or the art gallery to the murder of Siobhan O’Donnell, I’m advising my client not to answer any more questions.”

  “Very well.” Milner flashed a millisecond smile. He glanced at his watch.

  Sloppy was now on a roll. “Furthermore, if you are not prepared to charge my client with a crime at this time, I demand his immediate release. If you intend to hold him as a material witness, I demand his release on bail.”

  Milner raised his hand. “You needn’t worry about that.”

  “My client has cooperated with the Albuquerque police from the time Tommy O’Donnell’s body was discovered. Holding him here in New York may well hinder their investigation. I will assure you that, should Mr. McKenna’s presence be required at a future point in your proceedings, my client will present himself voluntarily. Given reasonable advance notice, of course.”

  “Have you finished, Mr. O’Toole?” Milner’s smile smacked of condescension.

  “Have you?” Sloppy fired back. I was impressed at what a pit bull my friend had become. I stifled the urge to fist-bump him.

  “I’ll have a transcript of Mr. McKenna’s deposition drawn up. As soon as we have his signature, he’ll be free to return to New Mexico.” Milner put his papers into a manila folder and sat back.

  “How soon will that be?” I said, not wanting to be left out of the decision.

  “Will tomorrow noon be satisfactory? I can have the papers sent to Mr. O’Toole’s office. He can return them with your notarized signature.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Then our business is finished. For now,” Milner said.

  We rose together. I reached out and shook hands with the D.A. His hand felt clammy. The ring felt cold.

  Sloppy and I walked out the front door of the precinct house. He bundled his overcoat against the evening chill. “Where to, Gabe?”

  “Donovan’s still any good?”

  “Their food’s slipped a notch, but beer’s still beer.”

  “That’ll do.”

  “I have to stop by the office first.” He checked his watch. “Nearly five-thirty now. Seven-thirty? That too late for you?”

  “It might be too early. I have a couple of calls to make. Gotta find a hotel, shower, and change out of these clothes.”

  “Try the Quality Inn on the Boulevard. Let’s make it eight.”

  “Eight o’clock. Listen, you still in touch with Deke Gagnon?”

  “Onion?” Sloppy used the nickname we’d hung on Deke as kids. “I should say so.”

  “How’s he doing these days?”

  Sloppy shook his head. “The same.”

  “Still able to pick a fight in an empty room? He became a cop, right?”

  “Until they kicked him off the force. Now he runs his own investigation firm. A regular shamus—trench coat, the whole bit. I toss him some work every now and then. He and wife number three live someplace in Astoria. Married a Greek gal. At least I think this one’s Greek.”

  “Give him a call, see if he can join us, okay? Maybe we can hoist one to Tommy’s memory.”

  “Will do. Eight o’clock. Donovan’s.”

  Gerald O’Toole, Esq. ducked into a shiny, red BMW 6 Series convertible and bad-assed his way down the street. I walked the half-mile to where I’d left my rental car.

  Somehow, Milner had known about my meeting with Klein and my visit to the Sun Mountain gallery in Santa Fe. How? Did somebody from inside the APD tell him? Did that ring mean he, Klein, and the guy at the gallery were somehow connected? I didn’t like any of it.

  I needed to get together with old friends and drink to remember, and to forget. First, there was business that couldn’t wait.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  I sat in my car and opened the driver’s window, fanning myself with the two parking tickets some traffic cop left under the wiper blades. I rolled the window up and fished around under the newspaper on the seat for my new phone. Six calls, all from Rebecca.

  “Hey kid, what’s up?”

  “Gabe, where have you been? I’ve been trying to reach you all day. You’re not going to believe it but—”

  “Is this good news or bad news?”

  “Both.”

  “Give me the good news first, I could use it.”

  “C.J. heard from Nai’ya.”

  I gripped the wheel tight in my left hand. “Are they okay?”

  “They’re fine. She tried to call you on your old phone, but her calls wouldn’t go through.”

  “I turned it off and left it in my desk back home. Did she say where they are?”

  “They’ve gone up north. Those were her exact words. Nai’ya’s family is hiding them until everything blows over.”

  “Her family?” I waved off a grizzled panhandler who slapped a greasy hand against my passenger side window.

  “That’s what she said. I thought her family was from Laguna Pueblo? That’s west of here, not north.”

  “She must be with her younger brother Estefan. He married a woman from Santa Clara Pueblo. That’s north of Santa Fe. I only met him a couple of times. They’re not close.”

  “She’s going to try and call you tonight after everybody goes to bed.”

  I looked at my watch. Six-fifteen. She’d be two hours behind Eastern Time. “Does she have my new number now?”

  “Yep. C.J. gave it to her. When will you be back?”

  “Tomorrow night.”

  “Want me to stay here at the house tomorrow until you get in?”

  “No. I’m taking the last flight out. You go home. How’s Otis?”

  “He’s fine. The little guy misses you.”

  “Sure he does. Tell him his regular staff will resume its duties tomorrow night.”

  “Gabe, aren’t you forgetting? There’s bad news here, too. You better sit down.”

  My stomach tightened. “I’m sitting in my car. How bad is it?”

  “They dug up six more bodies.”

  “What?” I jerked back hard and accidentally hit the horn.

  “First one early this morning. The others at regular intervals throughout the day. Six so far. Looks like your barn was also somebody’s private cemetery.”

  “Is Sam still there?”

  “You mean Crawford?”

  “Oh, jeez. I forgot.”

  “He was, but he left for the day. Want to know the funny part?”

  “There’s a funny part?”

  “Remember the body they first identified as that guy Hoffa?”

  “Kind of hard to forget.”

  “Turns out it wasn’t him after all. It’s the body of a trucking company official from New York City. A teamster’s union pin was on the dead guy’s coat. According to Darryl, Sergeant Crawford thought the remains looked like that guy Hoffa. But DNA tests showed he was wrong. Guy’s name was Blazek, or Blassic, or something like that.”

  I didn’t care if the corpse was Tiny Tim. My main concern was that the dead man came from New York. “Is Officer Jackson still there?”

  “Yes, he is.” Her girlish voice paused. “He’s taking me out for a bite to eat when he gets off duty.”

  “Really?” I pictured two blondes at a taco stand.

  “Yep. When some men promise to take you to dinner, they actually do it.”

  “Touché. Listen, after you two enjoy your little rendezvous, I need you to do something for me.”

  “Sure. What?”

  “Find out if any of the other bodies have been identified. See if any more are from New York. Get any names you can. Leave the info on my desk before you go home tomorrow night.”

  “Okay.”

  “Maybe Officer Jackson can find out for you.”

  “I’ll do what I can.”

  “The law may not know much for a few days, but check tomorrow anyway. I’ll touch base with Archuleta when I get back and fill you in on what’s happened here. Thanks for everything. Enjoy your dinner.�
�

  “Right.”

  “One last thing. Nai’ya—did she really sound okay?”

  “C.J. said she sounded fine but kind of serious. Not scared or anything. Just serious. Determined. And one other thing—”

  “What?”

  “She said to tell you she’s sorry for leaving the way she did.”

  “Thanks. A lot.”

  I hung up and reached for the folder on Klein Associates I’d left under the driver’s seat before walking up to Siobhan’s place. It wasn’t there. I looked on the rear floor, under the seat, on the back seat. I climbed out and circled the car. No sign of forced entry on any of the doors or windows.

  This didn’t figure. It looked like a professional job, but how could they have missed my new cellphone? I called Rebecca back.

  “Sorry to bother you again. I either misplaced the folder you made up for me or I’ve been robbed.”

  “Gabe, be careful. Don’t worry about the folder. I have copies of everything back at my apartment.”

  “You’re a lifesaver, kid. Talk to you tomorrow.” I pulled out of the parking spot. My uneasy feelings tagged along for the ride.

  The Quality Inn was three blocks away. I stopped at the bar after checking in. A double whiskey accompanied me to my room. The air conditioning was already on and the king-sized bed was firm. I punched in a soft music channel on the TV, stripped off my clothes and nursed my drink through a long, hot bath.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Donovan’s hadn’t changed. Thirty feet of mahogany bar, a jukebox filled with oldies, high-backed booths along exposed brick walls. The waitresses were still old, but somehow no older. The menu above the bar looked familiar, except for the higher prices.

  Different faces, same crowd. Only the old, thick haze of second-hand smoke was missing.

  I lucked into our old booth, second one on the right, straight across from the bar. My view of the front door and the street beyond brought back a surge of memory.

  A waitress came over. I ordered a Smithwick’s Irish Red and reflexively took out my photo ID. The gray-haired lady smirked. “Don’t flatter yourself, grandpa.”

  New York. I slipped the ID into my wallet and looked around. Maybe my friends and I left something of ourselves behind when we stopped coming here, but damned if I knew what it was.

  The beer arrived. I took a couple of generous slugs of the reddish-amber liquid before Sloppy and Onion ambled through the front door. They immediately honed in on our old booth.

  I stood and waved and stepped out onto the floor. We met in an awkward group-hug followed by some cobwebbed shoulder punches. The same tired wisecracks flew back and forth.

  Onion took a half step back and motioned toward my upper lip, a friendly “foam alert.” I brushed it aside with my sleeve.

  “Sonofabitch. I better stick to whiskey. How you doing, Onion?”

  His physique resembled an onion even more now; rounder and heavier than when we’d last met. “Brain, I thought you’d be punch drunk by now.”

  “I’m working on it. Let’s sit down.” We sat where we always sat, except for Tommy’s empty space to my right. I looked across at Sloppy. “Thanks big time for helping me out today. I owe you.”

  O’Toole shook his head. “You owe me nothing, Brain. My turn to play bodyguard, that’s all.”

  The waitress returned. I could have predicted my old friends’ Guinness draughts.

  “Fucking shame about Tommy,” Onion said. “Sloppy told me on the way over. Why would anybody want to bump him off?”

  “No reason I can think of.” I took a slug of beer. Then I told them how Tommy had been shot to death at the Pueblo-66 Casino. I told them the cops had me identify his body. I told them everything, except the part about my daughter. “And so I flew back to the Big Apple to pay my respects to Siobhan.”

  “Siobhan too.” Onion sniffled. “That sucks so bad. That dame was class all the way.”

  Once their beers arrived, I proposed a toast. “To Tommy. To Siobhan.” We raised our glasses and drank in silence.

  “I can’t believe he’s gone.” Onion took out a tissue and collected some tears. “And Siobhan… You had a thing for her, didn’t you Brain?”

  “Yeah. In Junior high. My first girlfriend.”

  “Beautiful girl.” Sloppy shook his head.

  “What would you know? You were never interested in girls.” Onion stared at O’Toole. “That’s why I get married so many times. To make up for your inaction.”

  “I just never met the right girl.”

  “Careful, Slop,” I warned. “That’s what Liberace used to say.”

  He stiffened in his seat. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “That you’re a lousy piano player.” I glanced across at Onion and we busted up.

  “If I was so lousy, then why did you guys make me leader of Collateral Damage?” Sloppy referred to our 80’s punk band that withered and died without ever getting any traction.

  “You were the leader because you were the only one with a garage.” Satisfied, Onion returned to purposeful drinking.

  “Look, you two,” Sloppy’s Irish was now officially up, “the only reason Collateral Damage didn’t make it big time was we lacked proper management.”

  “Yeah, that and talent,” I said. “What was the name of that God-awful song of yours we auditioned at CBGB’s?”

  “You mean, ‘Love is a Death March’? Best thing I ever wrote.”

  Onion drained his glass. “Then Tommy had to go and spoil it by singing on key.”

  “Guess we weren’t rotten or vicious enough.” I looked across at Sloppy. “But we were the only punk rock act in history whose keyboardist wore a bow tie.”

  O’Toole grinned over his Guinness. “What’s wrong with a bit of style?”

  We shared some good laughs and recalled more of the old times before the waitress came our way again. Onion pointed to each of our glasses in turn.

  By now, I was struggling to organize my thoughts and words. I hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast. “How ’bout some food? It’s all on me tonight.”

  We started with a double order of baked clams. Onion and Sloppy tried the fish and chips. I ordered a shepherd’s pie.

  “So, Gabe,” Onion said, “we kinda lost track of you. Whatcha do with your life?”

  What to leave out? They knew I’d ditched my amateur boxing career to finish college.

  “After Fordham, I didn’t know what I wanted. My dad was pushing the army. So I enlisted and served for two years—Rifleman, 1st Battalion, 75th Rangers.”

  Sloppy leaned forward. “See any action?”

  “They sent me to Grenada in ’83. I was part of the drop at Port Salines airport. Small-scale really, but it was enough. Two of my buddies came back in pieces.” I looked past the bar. A pair of tired-looking gals danced with each other in front of some besotted neighborhood gents.

  “Know what you mean, man.” Onion’s voice brought me back to our booth. “Eight years after I joined N.Y.P.D., my partner bought it. Some punk shot him. I emptied a full clip into that motherfucker. Turned out he was fourteen years old. Asshole Sharpton started marching and I got suspended.”

  I looked up in surprise. “When was that?”

  “Summer of ’87.”

  “I was in New Mexico that summer. No wonder I didn’t hear.”

  “That was it for me. Quit the force and my first marriage that same week. If it weren’t for O’Toole here, I might’ve taken the bridge.”

  “I always figured you’d make it in professional baseball,” I said. “You were a damn good high school pitcher. What happened with that?”

  “Another almost. Pitched for a year at a junior college down in Texas. Can’t even remember the name of the place now.” Onion shook his head.

  “No shit? I had a cousin who pitched in the minors for a year.”

  Onion shrugged. “I could always throw hard, but never knew where the damn ball was going. My lack of control tu
rned off the scouts, I guess. Got a nibble. Never got drafted, never got an offer.”

  Sloppy turned to Onion. “Lack of control has always been your problem.”

  “It’s not my fault I’ve never been appreciated.” Onion’s gaze dropped below the rim of his glass.

  “Everybody has tough times.” Now I was looking into my beer. “My marriage ended a year ago this February. Twenty-two years.”

  “Damn, Gabe, I’m sorry,” Sloppy said. “Your wife cheat on you?”

  “No. She died on me. Cancer. It ate her up, bit by bit…fuck, where’s our food?” I squinted the moisture from my eyes.

  Our three plates arrived, balancing on the waitress’s forearms. An acrobat, yet. But she did follow it up with another round.

  As we ate in silence, I tried not to think of Holly.

  There we sat, pals from simpler times. I gazed across the table at a slick New York lawyer and a rumpled, washed-out private investigator. What did they see when they looked at me?

  My cellphone interrupted my thoughts. I didn’t recognize the Caller ID. “McKenna.”

  “Gabe?” Nai’ya sounded far away.

  I bolted upright. “Are you okay? Where are you?”

  She said something, but her words were lost in the din.

  I shouted in response. “I’m in a restaurant. Too much noise in here. Hang on, I’m moving outside.”

  It sounded like she said “okay.”

  “Sorry guys, this call’s important. I’ll be right back.” It took me a minute to work my way through the front door of Donovan’s and out to the boulevard. A fire engine roared by, sirens at full-blast, an ambulance wailing behind it.

  “Damn. Hang on another minute.” I walked past a laundromat and a small deli and turned down a driveway into a secluded rear parking lot. Not much moon tonight, just a dim light falling from a second floor window above the deli. Two dumpsters, a beat-up white paneled van, and me. I moved to the center of the lot to improve my cell signal.

  “That’s better. Honey, how are you? I thought you were going to call me later tonight.”

  “I’m okay. This is the only time I have alone.” She coughed softly. “Sorry.”