Now, there are times in this work when you need every ounce of your acting ability to keep from blowing yourself out of the water. Since no one was supposed to know I was here — and, by the by, the Harv O’Gannon I was posing as does not exist, except when, like an old shirt from the closet floor, I put him on — this was one of those times. I kept my chin from smacking my chest, if just barely. Control is all. “Thanks.” I took the phone. “Hello.”
“Who the hell are you?” growled a male voice.
I snorted. “Well, who’s this?”
“According to you, whoever you are, I’m your boss!”
Joy Monrho stood off to the side, arms folded, watching me impassively. I gave her a wink. “Oh, hi, Arnie.”
“You mean Ted. Mr. Bumpps to you. I got no frickin’ O’Gannon working for me. So who the hell are you?”
The latest face-lift notwithstanding, he sounded just the same. I was not surprised he did not recognize my voice. To Arnie Bumpps, guys like me are as disposable as sneeze rags. “I’m just finishing up here. You want my report in person, or should I e-mail it?”
“The cops have been called. Just for your information.”
“The Lincoln Park police! Oh no!”
“See you in the pokey.”
“Yessir. Bye now.” I hit the OFF button. “Arnie’s quite the card,” I said, handing the phone to Joy.
“He didn’t seem to know who you are,” she remarked.
“Ahh. Another one of those annoying logistical foul-ups,” I said, strolling in the direction of the front door. “I think I’ll be going.”
“Probably a good idea.”
“Bye then.”
“Bye.”
Like a mountain cat off a tree limb, Micki was on me before the door of my Mustang closed. “Tell me those calls I got last night were just a bad dream. Tell me.”
“Sorry,” I said.
For once Micki’s cheeriness had slipped, like a scabbard from a sword, giving a glimpse of gleaming blued steel. “You won’t believe how furious Arnie is.”
“Play-acting. He’s a big strutting, scene-chewing ham, is our Arnie.”
“He’s threatening to report me to the bar association!”
“Why? You didn’t do anything.”
“He assumes I sent you to Joy’s house under false pretenses!”
“I went off the reservation. I’m known for that.”
“And now I’m getting the heat!”
“The dogs bark,” I said, “but the caravan moves on.” I looked around. The townhouse complex was in Romulus, not far from the airport. It was a beautiful, sunny March morning, the kind of weather that makes places look nicer than they really are. But it didn’t do much for this joint. “So Faith lives in this dump somewhere?”
“Yes,” she grumped, “just up the way.”
“This was where she and J. J. lived?”
“Yes, why?”
“Because jeez. You should see Joy’s digs. Flossy.”
“J. J. had to pay Joy alimony. It was all he and Faith could do to dig it up every month.” Her eyes narrowed. “And you aren’t supposed to know what Joy’s ‘digs’ look like, may I remind you.” She started up the sidewalk, scowling. “You wanted to talk to Faith, let’s go talk to her.” As we approached the door of 8619, she asked, “Could you refresh my memory on a point?”
“Why sure.”
“Did I ever actually, like, hire you for this case?”
“Surprised you don’t recall,” I said airily. “Of course, at the time, you were running treadmill. Maybe you blanked it all out, overcome by, whatchacallum, dolphins.”
“Endorphins is the term I believe you’re trying to misapply. And I seriously doubt they have any such effect.”
“Well, you can’t go by me,” I admitted. “I’m more into adrenaline and alcohol.”
Faith Monrho let us in. We did the introductions and got seated in the smallish living room. It was equipped with mismatched hand-me-downs that, even so, imparted a homey, comfortable feel. Faith was older than Joy by a fistful of years, and much taller, five eight or nine in her bare feet. She wore white pants and a white top, which made her either a nurse or a clerk at Baskin Robbins. Her black hair was cut in a thick shoulder length shag, and her blue eyes peered at us through rimless glasses. Some kind of classical piano music played from the next room, probably WHJR. Faith seemed not to notice. She did not seem to be fully with us, either.
“...Some information that he’s gathered,” Micki said, finishing her introduction. “Ben?”
I took a deep breath. “Ms. Monrho, it’s a sad task we’re embarked on here. You’ve been hurt a lot already. Some of what I have to say may cause you more pain. For that I apologize in advance.”
“It’s all right,” she said. Her voice was rich, melodious. I wondered if she’d ever sang. She was pretty, in a regal, stricken sort of way, but from the absence of makeup and female adornment, found it hard to particularly care. “Did you find out who the... the other woman is supposed to be?”
Micki reached a hand to her knee. “It’s Joy. I am so sorry.”
“Joy?” Faith echoed. She blinked, bowed her head, and then shook it. “Can’t be true.”
“I talked to her last night,” I said. “She laid it all out for me.”
“What exactly did she say?”
With a glance at me, Micki said, “I’m not sure it’s important to—”
“No.” Faith raised her head and stared at us. A single shiny tear gleamed in each eye. “I want to hear it. I want to know what that bitch said about my husband.”
“It’s like her mainspring’s broke, isn’t it?” I murmured.
“Yes,” Micki said quietly.
We were back out in the parking lot. I leaned against the fender of my Mustang, smoking a short, cork-tipped cigar. “Like she can’t stand up fully straight,” I said. “Walking wounded.”
“It’s been a year,” Micki, deliberately upwind from me, said. She was dressed for court in a navy suit, a cluster of gold chains adorning her neck. “You’d think she’d be recovering.”
“My ex, Raeanne, she had a lot of experience with this stuff — she said a lot of times it takes a full year for it to even really hit.”
“Wow,” Micki murmured. “Well. At least Faith gave us some things to work with.”
“Some leads, anyhow. But what we got here is some kinda she-said she-said, huh?”
“Yes. Except, from what you say, Joy would seem to have evidence. Which means we need some.”
I looked at her, bending a little to make direct eye contact. “Is that your way of saying I’m on the payroll now?”
“If you can follow instructions.”
“Your druthers is my ruthers, like my daddy used to say.”
“I mean to the letter.”
“Now that’s overreaching. What I do is meet objectives. Hit targets. With ordnance, if necessary.”
Micki looked at me sourly, rolled her eyes, released a big sigh. “I could just replace you. But we’re probably in too deep for that.”
“You’re gonna give me a fat head, those kinds of glowing endorsements.”
“And this deposition is coming up quick.”
“Why the deposition? I don’t get it.”
“It’s a tactic. Like throwing down a glove. They get Joy’s version on the record, it puts the settlement negotiations on a different playing field, whether we like it or not.”
God, I was glad I didn’t have her job. “Okay.”
Micki paced the sidewalk, considering. “I’ll move for a postponement. You get rolling. Full court press. What’re you going after first? The Waffle Wagon?”
“Forget the Offal Wagon. I mean, the one Joy mentioned is where she said it is. And it is in fact halfway between her work and his. But that kinda place, nobody there’ll remember squat about them.”