A Dark Homage, page 15
“That’s it?”
Delilah met his gaze. “That’s it.”
DeMarco stabbed half-heartedly at a fitter. He swirled the bite around on his plate. “I’ll think about it,” he said finally. “That’s the best I can do. But don’t get your hopes up. I like surviving, and sharing information with you…well, man, that could be my ticket to the morgue.”
Anders looked at Delilah. She nodded. “I hope you change your mind,” Delilah said. “A woman’s life could be in danger.”
“More than one life is in danger,” DeMarco said. “Believe me on that one.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Barb’s heart sank. Almost three days on an antibiotic and her daughter still had a fever. Barb suspected something more than strep was going on. Perhaps a virus on top of the pesky bacteria. She pulled off the plastic tip to the ear thermometer and placed the device back in its box.
“Back in bed,” she said to Dee. “Let’s go.”
“I feel fine.”
“You may think you feel fine, but on a cellular level, you’re not so good. Rest and fluids.”
Her daughter rolled her eyes, but with less zeal than normal. Her long, blonde hair hung straight and lank against her skull, and her pale skin looked ghost-like. Barb felt another stab of concern. Screw the doctors. She picked up the phone.
Fred answered on the third ring. “Let me guess. On my way home, you want me to grab an old Jewish grandmother and bring her home to make soup.”
“Close. I need two whole chickens and a bag of carrots. I already have the celery and onions. Oh, and some fresh ginger root and two lemons.”
“Ginger-lemon tea again?”
“You know it.”
“Barb, the doctor said—”
“Don’t Barb me, Fred. We both know doctors don’t know everything. Besides, you like chicken soup, too.”
“True. But that tea tastes like vomit.”
“Be glad you don’t have to drink it. Are you leaving soon?”
“Not soon enough.”
Barb heard her husband yawn. He’d been working long shifts for the last few weeks and it was beginning to catch up with him. If he wasn’t careful, he would be sipping ginger lemon tea before long.
Before Barb hung up, Fred said, “One more thing, Barb. I contacted the Willston Police Department. They confirmed the cause of death for Miriam Cross. Shock and hemorrhage from the severed neck.”
“No surprises there.”
“Well, there was one surprise.”
Barb tensed. “What?”
“A drug screening detected amobarbital. The coroner used gas chromatography-mass spectrometry to determine the concentration of the drug in her body fluids and tissues.”
“And?”
“Levels that exceeded a therapeutic range.”
“Translation, Fred.”
“Your girl had barbiturates in her system.”
“Enough to kill her?”
“Probably not. Based on the amount of blood at the scene, she was alive when the perp beheaded her.”
“Shit.”
“Look, my buddy at Willston wanted to know what was up with all the questions. I think they have a pretty tight operation going on over there, Barbie. There’s even a gag order in place. I can’t be turning in chips anymore or someone’s gonna start to wonder.”
“Why the gag order?”
“Don’t know and I ain’t asking.”
“Got it.”
His voice softened. “I love you, you know. Pain in the ass that you are.”
Barb smiled. “Fred, do you think Miriam was taking drugs?”
He took so long to answer that she thought maybe he’d hung up. But then he said, “I’ve seen a lot of crazy shit. Some lonely rich lady swallowing Amytal to dull her jittery nerves wouldn’t surprise me in the least. But—” He hesitated.
“I want to hear the but, Fred.”
“But you have to think about this in context. The woman was murdered.”
“If she was taking drugs, especially if they were illegal drugs, that could explain why she was murdered.”
“No one said anything about illegal drugs, Barbie. Amytal can be used to treat anxiety and insomnia. Perfectly legal, with a prescription. But it has another use. It’s far-fetched.”
Barb waited.
“Some people believe it acts as a truth serum.”
“I thought truth serum was a thing of fiction writers.”
He sighed and she loved him then for his infinite patience. “It can reduce inhibitions. Fact or fiction, Barbie, you have to consider all your options. When you’re dealing with reality…well, anything can happen.”
Delilah and Anders drove back to Tula’s home, but no one was there except the housekeeper, a quiet Hispanic woman named Maria who spoke limited English. Anders let them in with the extra key Tula had given him, and Maria greeted them at the front door.
“Something to drink?” Maria said.
They both declined and Maria retreated to the kitchen. The house felt cool after the stale urban air, and Delilah sank into the couch gratefully. Anders disappeared down the hall. He reappeared a minute later with his laptop and a notebook.
“I’ll need an hour or so,” Anders said. “Something DeMarco said has me on edge.”
“The guy sure seemed nervous.”
Anders nodded. “Shitting bricks, as the saying goes.”
“Gotta give him credit for turning down whoever was trying to buy him off.” Delilah was thinking of DeMarco’s face: the wide eyes and drained pallor. “An honest politician? Too bad he’s not running.”
“Oh, he’ll be running alright, just not in the way we might like.”
Anders placed the laptop on the square coffee table and sat cross-legged on the floor in front of it. Criss-cross applesauce, Delilah thought, for no reason at all other than the faint recollection of her niece saying that every time she sat that way. Delilah watched Anders unfurl a mouse and plugged it into the computer. Then he sat back and waited for the computer to boot up.
Anders said, “But why did he say no?”
“Ethics?”
“Maybe, but something more than morals was at work.”
Delilah considered this. “Fear.”
“I think so.” Anders typed something into his computer. When he was finished, he looked up at Delilah and smiled. The unexpected warmth threw her off guard. “You were good in there. With DeMarco.”
“It’s my job.”
“Of course it is. It was just a compliment, Delilah. Why do you have such a hard time with the personal stuff?”
“I don’t.”
“You do.”
Delilah waved him away. “Do you think the mob is involved?”
“I think you’re changing the subject.”
“Stop.”
“Stop what? All I did was say something nice and you turned it around. What is it with you?”
Delilah looked away. She didn’t want to be like this. And if this was going to work, she needed to stop letting him get under her skin. After a few seconds, she said, “Sorry.”
Anders sighed. “Yes, I think the mob could be involved. But how Miriam Cross got involved with the Mafia is anyone’s guess.”
“And which Mafia? The Italian mob, the Russian mob…”
“Exactly.”
Delilah put her head back against the couch cushion. It was only two-thirty in the afternoon but she felt tired and cranky.
Anders was back to typing on his computer. He looked preoccupied.
“What are you working on?”
Without looking up, Anders said, “If we can’t get that list from DeMarco, we’ll need to figure out who the men in the sex tape are some other way.”
“You know how?”
“Not exactly, but I may be able to pull a few leads out of the cyber sphere, with a secure connection and an hour or two of time.”
Delilah stood up. She stretched, and then slipped her shoes back on her feet. “I’ll leave you and your laptop alone, then.”
“What will you do?”
“I have an idea. Call my cell when you’re finished. I’ll meet you back here later.”
Delilah didn’t really have an idea. She was feeling uneasy in Tula’s house and wanted time away from Anders. But where to go?
On her way out the door, she swung by the kitchen to talk to Maria. She asked her where the nearest bookstore was located. A large coffee and some space to think might provide inspiration. She’d leave the car—finding parking in this city was a feat—and walk. She could use the exercise.
Maria shook her head. “I do not know bookstore.”
It occurred to Delilah that, although Maria worked here, she probably lived in another area of the city. “Thanks anyway,” Delilah said.
Maria nodded solemnly.
“Where are you from originally?” Delilah said on impulse.
Maria’s eyes widened in fear. She backed up against the long, granite counter and knocked a wine glass onto the tile floor. It shattered.
“Idios mío,” Maria mumbled.
Delilah bent down to help Maria pick up the scattered pieces of glass. They worked together in silence, placing shards in a paper bag to be discarded in the garbage. Delilah chided herself for mentioning the woman’s home country. If she was an illegal alien, of course the mere thought of deportation would be enough to terrify her.
“Lo siento,” Delilah said. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“It is fine,” Maria said. “Gracias.”
“I only asked where you were from because…because I was interested.”
“Colombia.”
Delilah watched as Maria removed a broom from a narrow cabinet and leaned on it, her shoulders rounded in the slump of someone used to hard days on her feet. Delilah noticed that, despite the circles under her eyes and the creases around her mouth, Maria had youthfulness to her skin and brightness to her eyes. Delilah had initially guessed Maria to be about her age, late thirties or early forties, but she realized the woman was much younger. Mid-twenties, perhaps.
Maria pulled something from a drawer and held it up.
“The telephone book? Ah, to find the bookstore.” Delilah smiled gratefully. “That’s okay, Maria. I’ll just walk around. I have some thinking to do.”
“Do you have children?” Maria asked shyly.
“No children. Just animals. You?”
Maria gave a tentative nod. “Two boys.” She smiled, the first real smile Delilah had seen from her, and it brightened her face. “In Colombia. With mi madre. My mother.”
Delilah, struggling to follow the rest of Maria’s story, learned that Maria came to America because the money she earned working for Tula was enough to support her mother and her children in a way that they otherwise could not afford in Colombia. Delilah hoped Tula was paying a fair wage. She had to believe a friend of Anders would do so. Still, Tula had to be getting something for the risk of hiring an illegal. And that something was surely financial savings. Delilah gazed at Maria with renewed respect. She could only imagine the heartbreak of leaving your children behind. Feeding your children versus raising them yourself…what a Sophie’s choice.
“Tenga cuidado en las calles,” Maria said. She lifted the broom and started sweeping, her demeanor business-like again, the conversation over.
Delilah knew very little Spanish, but she thought Maria just told her to be careful on the streets. An odd thing for her to say. But still feeling the woman’s loss, Delilah simply said goodbye and headed back outside.
The day had turned from hot and humid to hot and windy. Scraps of garbage whipped through the streets. Pedestrians, dressed in the rainbow of garb one would only find in New York, swarmed the sidewalks. Delilah, her weather senses tuned like that of an animal, could sense a storm coming despite the clear sky. She wished she’d brought an umbrella.
Delilah walked briskly, unsure where she was headed. Her mind felt cluttered with images: DeMarco’s insouciant smile, Emily Cray’s plain little house in Willston, Miriam’s naked body tied to that bed. Somehow they were all interrelated. Delilah pulled out her cell phone, dialed Lucinda’s number and then cupped the phone near her ear, waiting for Lucinda to pick up. When there was no answer, she left a message asking Lucinda to confirm that the boys were with their grandparents. Then she called Lucinda’s work only to learn from the grouchy receptionist that Lucinda had called in sick. Next, Delilah tried Joe. No answer there, either. She left another message.
She felt useless in New York; too far away to help the people who needed her and unable to assist Anders in tracking down DeMarco’s list. She toyed with heading back to Philly now. Anders could stay and work on DeMarco.
She needed some way to get that list.
She stopped mid-step. Keep it simple, stupid. There was a way. At least it was worth another shot. Delilah dug through her purse until she found the scrap of paper with the address for DeMarco’s headquarters written hastily on it. She raised her hand to hail a cab. A yellow car stopped a foot away from where she stood and she climbed in quickly, providing the address as she did so. It was getting late in the afternoon and Delilah didn’t know how long anyone would be at the DeMarco headquarters. She wanted to catch DeMarco or his receptionist before they left for the day.
Delilah looked up from the scrap of paper just as the cabbie was pulling away from the curb. A man was staring at the cab. Bald scalp, chiseled face. Delilah squinted through the rear window, trying to decide if it was the same man she’d seen back in Doylestown. Paranoia? Or was she being followed?
Delilah felt pretty certain it was the same man.
Damn. While the cab driver wove his way too slowly through the streets, Delilah wondered who’d hired her tail. Who would already know that her firm was investigating the case?
“Just pull over here,” Delilah said about twenty minutes into the ride. They were still two blocks from headquarters, but traffic had slowed to a stop and she was far too impatient to wait. She’d walk.
She was in Hell’s Kitchen. Delilah jogged down 10th Avenue, constantly checking for a tail. All clear. Still, she was careful, keeping her head up and attention focused.
At DeMarco’s office, she stopped before entering and took one last look around before going. The bells on the door announced her arrival.
She didn’t see DeMarco.
The office consisted of a cramped reception area with a broad desk, a row of filing cabinets behind the desk and two beat-up orange vinyl chairs against the front wall. Juan DeMarco fliers were tacked to the walls. Stacks of literature on everything from Habitat for Humanity to Hispanic Gay Pride to the Libertarian party were scattered around the office on tray tables. Behind the front office, a doorway hid the rooms beyond with a set of colorful beaded strings, the kind Delilah’s roommate had in college. If DeMarco was trying to appear the working man’s candidate, his digs—from the odd location amidst actors, industrialists and restaurants to the humble interior—supported that image. He seemed like a straightforward, hardworking, charismatic man. She wished him luck.
Delilah rang a small bell on the desk. After a moment she heard a “be right there” ring out from the back room. It wasn’t the annoyed tone of the older woman who had greeted Delilah and Anders earlier. Someone much younger was manning the booth now.
While she waited, Delilah glanced around the room. The message light flashed on the phone. A stack of pink slips sat neatly next to the receiver. A shredder perched near the desk area, a pile of papers next to it on another folding tray table. A streaked and battered coffee maker had been placed on a table in the corner. The machine was off, but two stained mugs and a pint of milk sat on a paper plate beside it.
Seconds later, a pretty young face interrupted Delilah’s assessment of the office. No more than twenty or so, she had short, curly black hair and caramel-brown eyes. Chubby, with the rounded belly that said she was either pregnant or had recently given birth. A shrill cry in the back room confirmed Delilah’s suspicion.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” the woman said. “Can I help you?”
“I’m looking for Juan.”
“You and the rest of the world.”
“Is he here?”
“Nope. Haven’t seen him since I arrived.”
“What time was that?”
“After one.”
Delilah glanced back at the coffee machine. The woman, following Delilah’s gaze, shook her head. “That was me and Agnes, the morning volunteer. She always makes me coffee.” She shrugged. “I guess she figures I’d fall asleep on the job without some caffeine, the baby and all.”
“Congratulations on the baby. Are you a volunteer here, too?”
“Hell, no. I’m the paid labor.” The woman held out her hand and Delilah shook it. “Elena, Juan’s sister. The cherub in the back is Juan’s nephew, Miguel.”
Delilah smiled. “So maybe you can help me find Juan. He and I met this morning.”
“Then you’re the only one who’s seen him all day.” The baby gave another wail and Elena cringed. “I need to feed him. He’s a pig, that one. Do you need literature or something? We have all kinds of stuff on the Libertarian party.” Another wail. “Or on Juan. He’s a good guy, you know. He could win if only he would make up his mind to run. The people like him. He’s real.”
The baby started to scream. Delilah said, “Elena, go take care of him. I’ll grab some literature and let myself out.”
Elena gave her a grateful smile and disappeared through the beads.
Delilah needed to act fast. She scanned the room for a security camera. Deciding that it didn’t matter, she pulled her phone out of her bag and tapped the camera setting. She walked around the desk and, as quietly as she could, started to sift through the shredder pile. That was her first guess for where the list would be, especially if Juan had somehow rushed back here after their meeting or directed his staff to dispose of the information. She found memos and bills but otherwise nothing. She moved on to the filing cabinets, trying to figure out how such a document would be filed. She looked under “D” for dinner, then “C” for charities. Nothing. Likewise, “F” for fundraiser was a dead-end, as was “H” for Habitat for Humanity.
