“What’s the matter? Is Sarah-”
“She’s fine. She’s fine,” Katy reassured me. “I just wanted to talk to you, Moe.”
“You never needed a drink or a cigarette to talk to me before.”
“I never needed any courage to talk to you before.”
I moved to hold her, but she turned away.
“No, no, I need to get through this. I need to say the words.” I couldn’t believe this was happening. Nausea rolled over me in waves and I literally lost my balance so that I had to prop myself up against the back of the couch. You hear stories about it, but you never think it’s going to happen to you. Your doctor’s never going to utter the words “inoperable tumor,” and the wife you love more than your own soul is never going to say “I’m leaving.” But the moment was here. Never was now.
“Say it, Katy.” I forced the words out of my mouth.
“Okay, here goes.” She drew a deep breath and turned back to face me, silent tears streaming down her cheeks. “I just wanted to say I can’t go through this again, Moe. I know you wanted more kids, but … I just can’t …”
I was filled with such a profound sense of relief that I was struck dumb.
Katy misinterpreted my silence. “You hate me now, don’t you?”
“Hate you! Are you nuts? I couldn’t hate you. Maybe I could dislike you a little bit,” I teased, “get a little annoyed with you every so often, but I could never hate you.”
She folded herself into me in that way she had so that I knew our world was right again. Suddenly, without warning, my thoughts drifted to John Heaton, alone and drunk somewhere. And in that same moment I knew I wouldn’t need to make deals with self-impressed little lizards like Y. W. Fenn. No, if John Heaton thought there was a chance of locating his plain-faced girl, he’d find a way to talk to me, payoffs be damned.
“So it’s okay with you?” she whispered, her wet cheek pressed against my chest.
“When I’m done with this case, I’ll make sure we won’t have to go through this again.”
“But-”
“But nothing. I’ve got everything I ever wanted, right now. As long as Sarah and I are enough for-”
“Shhh,” she said, pressing her finger across my lips. “Let’s go to bed.”
“Are you sure?”
“The only thing I’ve ever been more sure of is when I said ‘I do.’”
Who was I to argue?
The phone rang, but it wasn’t John Heaton. That would have been too much to ask. It was Thomas Geary’s increasingly familiar if unwelcome voice that greeted me. He did have the good form to keep it short and sweet. The meeting with Senator Brightman had been arranged for later in the day out at Geary’s house in Crocus Valley. Before I could protest, Geary assured me that I could have all the time alone with Brightman I wanted.
Katy was gone, her side of the bed still creased and warm from where she’d slept. I stayed behind for a little while to enjoy the scent of her that still lingered in the air. I felt light enough to float. They say you never really miss things until they’re taken away. We would continue to wonder about what could have been and to quietly mourn our lost child. They also say you don’t know how much you miss something until you get it back. I put my hand in Katy’s vacant space, running a finger across the creases in the sheet. I knew I had missed her, but not quite how much until now.
I didn’t see it until I got behind the wheel. There was something stuck between my windshield and wiper blade: a business card. That’s what you get, I thought, for being too lazy to pull into the garage. As I got back out of the car, I tried to guess what life-altering product or program this card was promoting. Was I going to make extra money working out of my home? Was I going to lose forty pounds safely and naturally, or was I going to learn how to buy real estate with no money down? I plucked the card. It was, oddly enough, one of mine. There was something written on the back.
There once was a man named Moses
Who didn’t know his ass from where his toes is
He took a case that was a total disgrace
So that a killer could come out smelling like roses
It was unsigned. A pity, considering Shakespeare, Blake, and Eliot were now all shaking in their shoes at the prospect of being dethroned. I crumpled up the card and flicked it at the sewer grate. My aim had been better when I was a kid. I hesitated and went to pick the card back up. Unballing it, I smoothed the card out as best I could and slipped it into my wallet.
The ride to the Brooklyn store went by in a flash, the words of the limerick repeating over and over again in my head. I ran through the list of possible candidates for its authorship. Whoever was responsible had gone to a lot of trouble to leave it for me to see. I hope he took the time to see the sights of scenic Sheepshead Bay. Maybe take in the late show at Pips Comedy Club or guzzle down a dozen littlenecks at Joe’s Clam Bar.
Klaus seemed surprised to see me, but I let him know I was there only to pick up messages and do some work in the office. As far as the wine business went, he was to either handle it himself or refer it to Aaron.
“There’s one message on your desk from a Larry McDonald, E-I-E-I-O, and one from someone who called himself Wit,” Klaus remarked with a smirk. “You know Wittgenstein? My boss, the closet philosopher.”
“Yancy Whittle Fenn,” I said in my defense. “All his best friends call him Wit.”
“Y. W. Fenn! Now I am impressed.”
“Good thing one of us is.”
I’d picked the Brooklyn store because it had an empty room next to the office. It was the perfect space to lay out the contents of the Spivack and Associates file. While what I’d told Wit was true, that I didn’t always work in a conventional manner, I wasn’t exactly a psychic reader, either. Straightforward police work had its moments. I skimmed through the thick file, copying down certain facts and data that I might be able to put to use between now and my appointment with Brightman. I wrote down the street address of Brightman’s community office, the place where Moira Heaton was last seen, and the name and number of the NYPD detective who’d handled the case. That done, I retreated to the office to make some calls.
“Hey, Larry, it’s Moe.”
“Like I don’t know your voice, schmuck.”
“So?”
“Remember the Hound’s Tooth?”
“Now who’s being a schmuck?” I chided. “I’m retired, not senile.”
“Nine o’clock?”
“Ten’s better.”
“We’ll split the difference. Okay, Moe?”
“See you there.”
Actually, I felt kind of stupid now for having had Larry go through the trouble of getting me the files. What I hadn’t known at the time I asked the favor was that I’d be the recipient of Joe Spivack’s largesse. It was too late now. I doubted there was anything in the official police record that wouldn’t be in the Spivack file. In fact, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if the police record was substantially less comprehensive. Cops can afford to follow up on only so many leads. They’re limited by time, caseload, and funding. On the other hand, private investigations are limited only by the depth of the client’s pockets.
I dialed another seven-digit number.
“Who the hell is this? It’s … The sun is still out, for heaven sakes.” Wit was sounding a wee bit hungover.
“You like limericks, Wit?”
“My head’s killing me. Who is-”
“It’s Moe Prager, your potential horse-trading partner. So, do you like limericks?”
“There once was a man from Nantucket … You mean that sort of tripe?”
“Exactly. You wanna hear one?”
He didn’t answer. I took that as a yes. I read off the back of my card.
“Such atrocious grammar,” he critiqued, sounding more like himself. “Is that supposed to have some significance to me?”