I flexed a finger and Skink slunk out of the courtroom.
“It’s private enough,” I said.
She looked back at the empty spot where Skink had been sitting. Now convinced, she opened her portfolio and rummaged around and came out with a stenographic pad, the pages of which she flipped through before finding what she needed.
“Joseph Parma,” she said softly.
I stared at her for a long moment. “He was a client.”
“Yes, we know.”
“Mr. Parma died ten days ago,” I said.
“Right.”
“Murdered.”
She stretched her mouth as if she had just knocked over a vase. “Sorry about that. Such a thing. Brutal, eh?”
“Yes it was.”
“They find out who did it?”
“Not yet.”
“We might be able to help.”
“Excuse me?”
“Maybe we should talk someplace more private, do you think?”
“If you know anything about the murder, you should tell the police. Did you know Joey?”
“Me, personally? No. Though I heard he was quite a quality fellow. But we were just kind of wondering if maybe you had any sort of conversation with Mr. Parma before he died?”
“He was a client.”
“Helloo. I know. That’s why I’m asking.”
“I can’t tell you anything he told me. He was a client.”
“I don’t get it.”
“It’s, like, a rule.”
“But he’s dead.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“That’s a stupid rule.”
“Tell the Supreme Court.”
“Why would I tell them?”
“How old are you?”
“Do you think that question is appropriate?”
“I was just wondering?”
“I’m twenty-one.”
“And already a vice president.”
“Doesn’t that totally rock? Isn’t that just the best?”
I glanced at my watch. “Right now I have to be upstairs in another courtroom. Why don’t we meet next week in my office, we’ll talk about everything, Joey Parma, the company you work for, and your boss.”
“I’m not allowed to talk about him, remember?”
“Sorry, I must have forgotten. And you said you also had a case for me?”
“Yes, Victor, we have a case we’d like you to handle.”
“And it involves Mr. Parma?”
“Indirectly.”
“If I do elect to take the case, I’ll need a retainer.”
“Orthodontia? Are we talking orthodontia here, Victor?”
“Talk to your boss, he’ll know what I’m talking about. My office, Monday. Let’s say ten?”
“Fine. I have the address written down here somewhere.”
“See, I told you you didn’t need my card.”
I walked with her down the aisle and held the courtroom door for her. She gave me a smile and shook my hand. Her skin was remarkably soft and there was an awkward moment, as if she thought we should air kiss or something. The firm and distant business handshake was not yet part of her repertoire, but the blinding smile certainly was. She grasped her portfolio to her chest like a high school girl before starting down the hallway.
I was watching her leave as Phil Skink sidled up to me. “Who’s the twist?” he said.
I handed him her card.
“Nice-looking thing, no doubting that,” he said.
As she continued down the hall one of her heels wobbled and she almost fell before catching herself. Without looking back she continued on.
“She’s twenty-one,” I said, “and a vice president.”
“They’re minting them vice presidents younger and younger these days, ain’t they.”
“Seem to be.”
“You ever been a vice president, Vic?”
“Not even of the chess club in high school.”
“So what’s our little miss vice president of?”
“Follow her and find out.”
“Ah, it’s like that, is it?” he said. “You owes me three-fifty for today.”
“I know.”
“And this’ll be more.”
“I’m good for it.”
“I hopes so, Vic. A man gots to eat.”
I gave him a quick glance, up and down. “From what I can tell you’re doing fine. But as for the girl, don’t let her know what you’re up to. Find out what you can about her and her employer. I put her off a bit so you would have some time. Let me know before ten on Monday morning. She mentioned Joey Cheaps.”
“The one what got his throat slit down by the river?”
“Our vice president seems to think she knows why.”
“Interesting. And if she does?”
“I know an old woman who is sharpening her knives.”
Chapter 13
“OSSOBUCO,” SAID DETECTIVE McDeiss, his rich voice rolling over the rounded syllables like a thick gravy. “I like the sound, the way it falls trippingly off the tongue. Ossobuco. The name, if you are interested in these things, which I am, is derived from a Tuscan rendering of the Milanese dialect. Osso for bone. Buco for the cavity within the bone holding the marrow. Ossobuco. Ossobuco. You can’t say it without smiling. Give it a try, Victor.”
“Bone hole.”
“That’s the spirit.”
“Can we go over what you found now?”
“What’s your rush?”
“Don’t you have to get home? Isn’t your wife waiting on you?”
“Not tonight. She has her book club meeting.”
“What are they reading?”
“The usual crap, father has an insidious disease, mother brings the family together for one final Christmas, heartwarming redemption for all. But they’ll be talking for hours, that’s the way it is with her ladies and their book club. They might even talk about the book. So you see, Victor, there is no reason to rush.” He leaned over, refilled my wineglass with dark red wine. “Sit back. Enjoy yourself. It’s not every day we sup in a place such as this.”
McDeiss was right about that. We were in a large expense-account restaurant with a sharp wooden bar stocked with well-dressed business types and valet parking out front. I had checked all the restaurants with a Seventh Street address to find the place that McDeiss had not so subtly referred to, a place that served a killer ossobuco, and that place turned out to be the Saloon. Wooden walls, deep chairs, fresh linen tablecloths, a menu with prices that could blanch asparagus without the boiling water. It was McDeiss’s show and so I let him order, a Caesar salad for two, due ossobuchi, and a liter of Chianti.
When the waiter brought the main course, McDeiss rubbed his thick hands together. Two large bowls with a circle of risotto and in the middle, sitting within a pond of rich wine reduction, the veal shank, a well-browned snap of bone surrounded by a thick wheel of meat.
With his fork, McDeiss pulled a small section of meat off the bone, swirled it in sauce, brought it carefully to his mouth. His eyes widened and his head did a little dance as he swallowed. And then he looked at me and said, in a voice overcome with joy, “Ossobuco.”
“Did you taste the lemon zest?” he asked, after our plates, empty of all but the bone and a smear of sauce, had been whisked away from the table.
“Is that what it was?” I said, trying not to show how much I enjoyed the entrée. “I thought the wine had gone sour. Can we do this now?”
“You’re so anxious,” he said.
“Yes, I am.”
“Why don’t we discuss it over coffee and dessert?”
“You want dessert after all that?”
“There is a mixed fruit tart I have my eye on.”
“No wonder your knees shoot off fireworks when you kneel.”
“Are you calling me fat?”
“Let’s just say you have a physical presence.”
“Damn right, I do. In my job that’s an asset. Nothing like a big sweaty black man leaning over a suspect to get a tongue to start wagging.”