Emma smiles patiently. I ask the kid if he happened to notice a Toshiba laptop with a Grateful Dead decal, or possibly an Epson CPU in pieces on Cleo's dining room table. He saw nothing of the kind, of course. My stolen portable and Janet's missing computer are probably in a landfill by now, having failed to yield any goodies.
"But the guy with the hair," Evan says, "I did hear him talking to Jerry about a program. He said he was waiting for an upgrade."
"Aren't we all."
"An upgrade for his 'Pro Twos'"Evan, squinting at his scribbles"whatever that is."
"Pro Tools. It's a music-mixing program. The guy claims to be a record producer."
"Yeah? What's he done?"
"Exaggerate, mostly."
"Hey, I almost forgot." The kid slaps a takeout menu on the table. Emma and I move closer to examine it. Under the table she gives one of my kneecaps a naughty pinch.
"Cleo's autograph!" Evan exults.
"Nice work."
"Can I have it back when you're done?"
"We'll see." I pocket the deli menu. "How about some more donuts?"
Emma gets up. "I've got a budget meeting upstairs. Jack, we'll talk later." Then, to Evan: "You did a great job."
"Thanks. I just hope I didn't miss anything."
And as soon as Emma is gone, Evan asks why I didn't want her to know the real reason I sent him to the widow's penthouse on Silver Beach.
"Because she'd just get nervous," I say, "and there's no cause for that. So tell me: Where'd you leave it?"
Evan grins. "In the bag with the coleslaw."
"That's beautiful."
"While I was waiting for you to call back," he says, "that's when Cleo decided to keep the food. She got a major jones for that meatball sub. But then she took another phone call and the long-haired guy went off with the blow dryer, and Jerry was icing down his face. So for a couple minutes I'm standing there all alonethat's when I took it out of my jacket and slipped it in the deli bag."
"Quick thinking."
"Then you phoned back and said it was okay to give her the food, which was a major relief since that's where I'd already hidden it," Evan says. "Can I tell you something? She scared me, Jack."
"Cleo?"
"You should've heard her talkin' to Jerry when she got off that other call."
"Was she mad?"
"Mainly just ... cold.Her voice, man, I can't describe it. She's like, 'Do it. Get it done and no goddamn excuses this time.' Cold as ice, Jack. 'All these fuckups, Jerry, I'm over it.' Stuff like that. He's a big sonofabitch, too, and he's like, 'Yes, Ms. Rio. Right away, Ms. Rio.' Like a little kid standing in the principal's office. Tm sorry, Ms. Rio. I'll get right on it.' Really creeped me out."
"What were they talking about?" I ask Evan.
"No idea," he says. "But I was shakin' big-time when I handed her the coleslaw. And waiting for that elevator, Jack, I thought I was gonna wet my pants."
"You're a champ, Evan. First-rate job."
"Thanks." He leans closer and drops his voice. "When she was autographing the menu, she rubbed one of her boobs against me. On purpose, Jack, I swear to God!"
"And you're sure you don't want to be a reporter when you grow up?"
Evan's response is muffled by the donut he's cramming into his cheeks. "So, you promised to tell me. What was on that CD?"
"Just music."
"Come on, man. Who?"
"Her husband."
What I gave young Evan for covert delivery to Cleo Rio's apartment was the compact disc containing the first rough cut of "Cindy's Oyster." On the shiny face of the disc I used a red Sharpie to write a time, a date and a phone number.
"Oh wow," says Evan. "Her dead husband's music?"
Lunchtime. Emma's stuck in another meeting, so I take the Mustang and light out for Beckerville. Turning the corner of Janet's street, I feel my palms go clammy on the steering wheel. In my mind I've worked up this visual loop of Janet answering the door in her SWAT-team getup; tugging off her hood and smiling because it's me at the door ...
But that's not how it goes.
Janet's Miata is gone from the driveway, and there's no sign of life at the house. The front door has been repairednew locks, the worksbut nobody answers when I knock and ring the buzzer. The blackout shades on the front windows have been lowered to the sills, making it impossible to peek inside. Casually I stroll to the rear of the house. In rny cheap necktie and buttoned-down shirt, I could be taken by a glancing neighbor for a city code inspector or possibly a meter reader for the electric company. Here again, my notebook serves as a nifty prop.
The back door is also locked, so I commence a minor felony. I remove two of the jalousie panes and lay them gingerly on the lawn. From my shirt pocket I take a small box cutter, lethally sharp, and slice a gash in the screen. Reaching inside, I twist the knob and lean on the door. The crime is consummated by stepping into Janet's home, which has been tidied up though not reoccupied. Armed with the unsheathed cutter, I hurry to the living room where I intend to excise a swatch of blood-stained carpeting. This will be matched against the blood on a used tampon that I'm praying is still in the bathroom wastebasket, where I saw it two days ago when Emma and I were here.
I'm assuming the worstthat the blood on the carpet belongs to Jimmy Stoma's sisterbut it's important to know for certain. My plan for comparing the two samples is to solicit the off-duty services of good old Pete at the Medical Examiner's Office. He began a torrid affair with Karen, his assistant, shortly after she and I called it quits. For some reason Pete is convinced that he was the cause of our breakup. Naturally I've done nothing to disabuse my pathologist friend of this numbskull notion or relieve his misplaced guilt, knowing that someday I'd need a favor.
The carpeting parts like custard under the wicked blade, and I seal a wafer-sized piece in a Baggie. The tampon is retrieved and likewise securedfortunately, whoever cleaned up Janet's house neglected to haul out the trash. Having completed my b-and-e in less than five minutes, I exit by the back door, pausing only to reset the jalousies. I drive directly to the county morgue, where Karen greets me with that creepy formality reserved for past sex partners. Pete, on the other hand, pumps my hand, gives me a hug and says he'll be happy to work up the blood specimens on the sly. He doesn't even ask where they came from, that's how eager he is to make amends.
"This is your lunch? No wonder you look so skinny." Carla took an early break from the drugstore photo counter to meet me at the yogurt shop.
"I've been busy," I tell her.
"Too busy to call?"
"It's one thing after another with this story."
"Ah ha!" she says. "Blackjack is getting laid again, isn't he?"
How on earth do they know? It's truly baffling.
"No comment," is my mealy reply.
"Well, it's about damn time." Carla stretches across the table and tweaks my nose. "Who's the lucky girl? Tell me everything, Jack. She give head?"
"Jesus, Carla!"
"Reason I ask, I'm thinkin' of having my tongue pierced."
"Stop right there." I raise both hands.
"All I want to know is, would it make a difference in the b.j. department? My girlfriend Rae, she says the guys go crazy. She's got a half-carat ruby on a platinum post."
"And that doesn't interfere with her tuba lessons?"
"Come on, Jack, tell me."
"I paid a visit to your mother. How pathetic is that."
"Oh, I know. I got the whole story," Carla says.
"And you were right. She's pretty darn happy."
"Toldya."
"Would I be even mildly amused to hear the wedding arrangements?"
"First you've gotta tell me"Carla pauses to lap up the last smudge of her boysenberry yogurt"what happened Saturday night with you and Loreal. After you split from the club."
"Not much. I tailed him to some redneck dive and pretended to interview him about Cleo Rio's new album."
"You mean CD," says Carla. "An album is where you keep your photographs, Jack. Speakin' of which, I got some juicy ones if you're up for it. Amateur bondage!"