He blinked back the moistness and hit the answer button. "Tremont here."
"Frank?"
It was Mickey Walker, sheriff of nearby Sussex County. Big black guy, used to work in Newark with Frank. Solid dude, good investigator. One of Frank's favorites. Walker's office had landed the baby-raper murder case-apparently a parent had taken care of the pedophilia problem with his own gun. Seemed to Frank a damned fine example of good riddance, though he knew Walker would work it for all it had.
"Yeah, I'm here, Mickey."
"You know Freddy's Deluxe Luxury Suites?"
"The hot sheets on Williams Street?"
"That's the one. I need you to get over here right away."
Tremont felt a tick in his blood. He switched hands. "Why, what's up?"
"I found something in Mercer's room," Walker said in a voice as gray as a tombstone. "I think it belongs to Haley McWaid."
CHAPTER 13
POPS WAS IN THE KITCHEN scrambling up some eggs when Wendy got home.
"Where's Charlie?"
"Still in bed."
"It's one in the afternoon."
Pops looked at the clock. "Yep. Hungry?"
"No. Where did you guys go last night?"
Pops, working the frying pan like a short-order lifer, arched an eyebrow.
"Sworn to secrecy?"
"Something like that," Pops said. "So where you been?"
"I spent a little time with the Fathers Club this morning."
"Care to elaborate?"
She did.
"Sad," he said.
"And maybe a little self-indulgent."
Pops shrugged. "A man stops being able to earn for his family- you might as well cut off his balls. Makes him feel like less of a man. That's sad. Losing your job is an earthquake for Working Joes and Yuppie Scum alike. Maybe more so for the Yuppie Scum. Society has taught them to define themselves by their job."
"And now that's gone?"
"Yep."
"Maybe the answer isn't in another job," Wendy said. "Maybe the answer is in finding new ways to define manhood."
Pops nodded. "Deep."
"And sanctimonious?"
"Right on," Pops said, sprinkling grated cheese into the pan. "But if you can't be sanctimonious with me, well, who else is there?"
Wendy smiled. "No one, Pops."
He turned off the burner. "Sure you don't want some huevos de Pops? It's my forte. And I already made enough for two."
"Yeah, okay."
They sat and ate. She told him more about Phil Turnball and the Fathers Club and her sense that Phil was holding something back. As they were finishing, a sleepy Charlie appeared in ripped boxers, a huge white T-shirt, and a major case of bed head. Wendy was just thinking how much he looked like a man when Charlie started plucking at his eyes and flicking his fingers.
"You okay?" she asked.
"Sleep buggers," Charlie explained.
Wendy rolled her eyes and headed for the upstairs computer. She Googled Phil Turnball. Got very little. A political donation. There was a hit on an image search, a group shot with Phil and his wife, Sherry, a pretty petite blonde, at a charity wine tasting two years ago. Phil Turnball was listed as working for a securities firm called Barry Brothers Trust. Hoping that they hadn't already changed her password, Wendy signed on to the media database her station used. Yes, everything is supposed to be available on free search engines nowadays, but it wasn't. You still had to pay to get the goods.
She did a news search on Turnball. Still nothing. But Barry Brothers came back with more than a few unflattering articles. For one thing the company was moving out of its long-term home on Park Avenue at Forty-sixth Street. Wendy recognized the address. The Lock-Horne Building. She smiled, took out her cell phone. Yep, after two years, the number was still there. She made sure the door was closed and pressed send.
The phone was answered on the first ring.
"Articulate."
The tone was haughty, superior, and, if you could do it in one word, sanctimonious.
"Hey, Win. It's Wendy Tynes."
"So it says on my caller ID."
Silence.
She could almost see Win, the ridiculously handsome face, the blond hair, the steepled hands, the piercing blue eyes with seemingly very little soul behind them.
"I need a favor," she said. "Some info."
Silence.
Win-short for Windsor Horne Lockwood III-would not make this easy.
"Do you know anything about Barry Brothers Trust?" she asked.
"Yes, I do. Is that the info you need?"
"You're such a wiseass, Win."
"Love me for all my faults."
"Seems I did that once," she said.
"Oh, meow."
Silence.
"The Barry Brothers fired an employee named Phil Turnball. I'm curious why. Can you find out?"
"I will call you back."
Click.
Win. He was often described in the society pages as an "international playboy," and she guessed that fit. He was blue-blooded old money, very old money, the kind of old money that disembarked from the Mayflower and immediately called for a caddy and a tee time. She had met him at a black-tie event two years ago. Win had been refreshingly up-front. He wanted to have sex with her. No muss, no fuss, no obligation. One night only. She had been taken aback at first, but then thought, Well, why the hell not? She had never done the one-night-stand thing, and here was this ridiculously handsome, engaging man giving her the ideal opportunity. You only live once, right? She was a single, modern woman, and as Pops had recently put it, humans need sex. So she went back to his place in the Dakota building on Central Park West. Win ended up being kind and attentive and funny and great, and when she got home the next morning, she cried her eyes out for two hours.
Her phone rang. Wendy checked her watch and shook her head. It had taken Win less than a minute.
"Hello?"
"Phil Turnball was fired for embezzling two million dollars. Have a pleasant day."
Click.
Win.
She remembered something. Blend, right? That was the name of the place. She had gone there once to see a concert. It was in Ridgewood. She pulled up the Web site and clicked on Calendar of Events. Yep, tonight was open-mike night. It even said: "Special Appearance by new rap sensation Ten-A-Fly."
There was a knock on the door. She called, "Come in," and Pops stuck his head in the doorway. "You okay?" he asked.
"Sure. Do you like rap?"
Pops furrowed his brows. "You mean like the paper stuff on presents?"
"Uh, no. As in rap music."
"I'd rather listen to a strangled cat cough up phlegm."
"Come with me tonight. It's time we opened up your horizons."
TED MCWAID WATCHED his son, Ryan, at the Kasselton lacrosse field. Day had surrendered her rays, but the field, made from some newfangled artificial turf, had stadium-quality lights. Ted was at his nine-year-old son's lacrosse game because what else was he going to do, hang around the house and cry all day? His former friends-"former" was probably unkind but Ted wasn't in the mood to be charitable-politely nodded and made no eye contact and generally avoided him, as though having a missing child was contagious.
Ryan was on Kasselton's third-grade travel team. Stick skills were, to put it kindly, somewhere between "still developing" and "nonexistent." The ball spent most of the time on the ground, no boy able to keep it in the stick webbing for very long, and the game began to resemble hockey players at a rugby scrum. The boys wore helmets that looked too big on their heads, like the Great Gazoo on The Flintstones, and it was nearly impossible to tell which kid was which. Ted had cheered for Ryan an entire game, marveling at his progress, until the kid took his helmet off at the end and Ted realized that it wasn't Ryan.