“You mean like scratches and pops from a vinyl record, that kinda thing?”
“Nothing so obvious as that, no. I believe what I hear is the rumble of a cassette motor.”
“Are you sure it isn’t from the phone machine?”
Devo smiled at me like a proud father with his Little Leaguer. “A very astute question. I cannot be certain, but if that is in fact Patrick’s voice, I would venture to say it was dubbed off a cassette tape and then filtered to suppress the other noise you would expect to find on an old tape. Find the person in possession of the original tape and you will be very close to having your answer.”
The Sidebar Grille was near empty when Carmella and I walked in. During ten months of the year, the bar would be four deep with ADAs, defense lawyers, judges, cops, court officers, and even the occasional investigator, but July and August were quieter times around the courts as judges and lawyers heeded the call of the Hamptons. Only cops and skells don’t do summer hours. The Sidebar Grille was famous for its food and convivial atmosphere. More plea bargains and monetary settlements had been sealed in here with steaks and handshakes than in any number of courthouses.
Maybe it was the emptiness of the place or the humidity. Whatever the cause, it didn’t seem that the Sidebar’s renowned aura was having much of an effect on Carmella. While she may not have been exhibiting any obvious physical signs of the pregnancy, my partner was showing nonetheless. She sat across from me, squirming in her chair, unable to look me in the eye. Carmella was uncomfortable in her own skin and that just wasn’t her. She was learning the hard lesson, that children change your life whether you carry them to term or not. Soon she would learn that it was a change from which there is no retreat.
Marco the maitre d’ was about a hundred years old, but never forgot a face or a name or how to put one to the other. He took Carmella’s hand in his, placing his other hand atop hers.
“ La bella Carmella, what may I get for you this evening?”
“A Virgin Mary.”
Marco screwed up his face like he’d been stabbed in the heart.
“She’s been under the weather,” I said, hoping to head off Marco’s interrogation.
“So sorry, bella. You get better, soon, you understand?”
“And for you, Moses… Dewar’s rocks?”
“How’d you guess?”
Marco winked, disappeared.
“You’re still not drinking,” I said. “Good.”
“Good! Why good?”
“Because you’re thinking of keeping the baby.”
“I’m also thinking of not keeping it.” She placed her right hand on her lower abdomen. She tilted her head down. “You hear me, you inconvenient little brat?”
“They’re all inconvenient, Carmella. Every single one, always.”
“I guess.”
Marco brought our drinks over and chatted with me a bit, but I couldn’t help but peer at Carmella out of the corner of my eye. She was in love and, inconvenient or not, that baby was to be born. Now the trick was getting her to know it.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Brian Doyle got relief, all right… me.
I was certain Martello had taken notice of my car after our confrontation in front of his house the previous day. With the man’s attention to detail and lust for revenge, he no doubt already knew my car and tag numbers. He probably knew my total mileage and how much longer I had before my next oil change. To guard against being easily spotted, I switched cars with Carmella Melendez. While she may have been a great detective and meticulous about her looks, the woman’s car was a disaster area. There were enough old newspapers, gas receipts, and food wrappers in there to start a toasty bonfire and enough half full coffee cups to put the fire out. Still, the car smelled of her grassy perfume and that more than compensated for the mess.
I parked across Great River Road from the turn onto Martello’s block. I nestled the car into a dark, cozy corner on the lot of a half-completed neo-Victorian just down the street from the theme park house, Night had long since settled in and the construction crews were well gone. My position afforded me a clear view of Martello’s house, but it would be impossible for him to spot me without night vision equipment. I could also see the nose of Brian Doyle’s Sentra. He was parked on Martello’s block in amongst several cars that lined both sides of the street. Apparently, one of the neighborhood kids was having a pool party. I punched up Brian’s number.
“Yeah.”
“Okay, Brian, I’m in position. You can get going.”
“You sure you don’t wanna wait till my fuckin’ bladder explodes?”
“Piss in a coffee cup, shithead. That’s like on page one of your guide to surviving surveillance.”
“Whaddayu, nuts? I got like ten people on the porch over here. I’m not gonna provide entertainment for the evening.”
“Anything happening?”
“Nah. He got home from his shift around four forty-five and he’s been in there jerkin’ off ever since.”
“Okay, go home and get some rest. I got him now.”
It didn’t take Brian long to split. He must not have been kidding about his bladder.
About three hours later, the pool party was breaking up. As the departing cars took turns passing me by, the blast and thump of hip hop fractured the silence of the suburban night before fading away in the distance. I was sort of glad for the action. My wrists were aching from holding up the binoculars. And when I checked the sun visor mirror, I noticed funky circles on my face from the binocular eyepieces. I looked like the oculist’s billboard in The Great Gatsby. T. J. Eckleburg, I think that was the guy’s name. It’s weird what you remember sometimes, but stakeouts’ll do that to you. The boredom fucks with your head.
Just when the last car headed past me, my cell buzzed. It was Sarah.
“Hey, kiddo. What’s up?”
“The doctor says Mom can go home in a day or two. She’s doing much better.”
“No unexpected sightings? The sheriff’s still got someone watching?”
“Twenty-four hours a day, Dad. And no, no ghosts or anything.”
“And you’ve been keeping busy?”
“I go to the hospital twice a day and then I just hang, but I am kinda anxious to get back to school.”
“Good. I’m pretty sure we know who’s been behind this whole thing. I’m staking out his house right now.”
“Really?”
“Really. He’s the son of a dirty cop. I guess he blames me for his father’s death.”
“Were you, Dad… to blame, I mean?”
“No, but that doesn’t matter if he thinks I am.”
“Be careful.”
“You too, Sarah. We’ll talk in the morning, okay.”
I occupied myself with the concept of blame for a little while, a very little while. Then I hopped off that slippery slope, picked up the binoculars, and tried getting back to work. The deathly quiet of the place gave me the creeps. How did Aaron ever adjust to living out here? Brooklyn at its most quiet is noisy and that noise had been my lullaby nearly every day of my life.
Things were changing in the Martello house. The strobe and colored flicker of his TV stopped, the front window going pitch black. A lamp snapped on and there was a brief show of Ray Martello’s dancing shadow. About five minutes later, the porch and outside garage lights popped on. The electric garage opener whined, the door crawling up and out of sight. An engine rumbled. Puffs of exhaust fumes showed themselves like reluctant specters in the cooling night air. First brake, then backup lights flashed as the big SUV lumbered backwards down the driveway.
I supposed I was far enough away that he wouldn’t hear Carmella’s ignition catch, but I didn’t trust the way sound traveled out here and decided instead to wait until he either passed me moving north or drove in the opposite direction along the border of the golf course. The Yukon’s headlights rushed at me, sweeping from my left to right as the truck turned north toward Montauk Highway. I twisted Carmella’s key; the engine perked right up. Still, I waited a beat or two to let Ray Martello get a block ahead.