Fighting clear of the swarm of policemen, Bolden handed her the bag holding the slice of pizza and soft drink. “That’ll be four-fifty. Plus a dollar delivery charge. Five-fifty total, ma’am. Something in there from the manager.”
Althea opened the bag and cocked her head to get a look inside. Slipping in a finger, she freed the napkin and read the note. One of the cops had good radar. Sensing something wasn’t kosher, he walked over and looked at both of them. “Everything all right, here?”
“Just fine, Officer,” said Althea, closing the paper bag. “Boy messed up my order, that’s all. Sometimes I’m surprised they can even find the building.” She fished inside her purse for her wallet and handed Bolden a twenty. “Got change?”
Bolden looked at the bill. He’d spent his last dime on the hat and sunglasses. He reached for his wallet, anyway, aware of the policeman’s intent gaze. “Just for a ten,” he said, lying. “Slow day.”
“No sweat,” said the cop, reaching into his hip pocket and pulling out a gambler’s wad. He ripped off two tens from the middle of the stack and traded them for Althea’s twenty. “And you,” he said, yanking down Bolden’s sunglasses with a finger and shooting him a do-not-fuck-with-me look in the eye. “Pay closer attention next time. Don’t go screwin’ up the lady’s order.”
Not caring to wait for a response, he sauntered back to the others.
Althea handed Bolden a ten.
“Jenny’s hurt,” he whispered. “She’s being treated at a hospital somewhere in lower Manhattan. I can’t explain, but I need you to check on her.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know. Find out!”
Althea nodded her head, but said nothing.
“Get my list?” He was referring to the list he’d asked Althea to compile of all companies that his clients had bought and sold over the past ten years. It was the only place he might find a clue to who might have been involved with a military contractor. Althea frowned. “It slipped my mind.”
“I really need it. And your phone.”
Althea dug into her purse and handed him her cell phone. “Don’t be calling Australia,” she whispered. “I’m on a budget.”
“One hour,” said Bolden. “Get my list!”
Before he could thank her, she had turned and begun her march back to the elevator. Nobody needed to teach Althea Jackson how to act in front of the police.
41
Detective John Franciscus drove slowly down the street, checking the addresses of the clapboard colonial homes. A light snow fell, adding a fresh layer to lawns already covered with six inches of the stuff. Icicles hung from bare branches that swayed in the wind. It was going to get worse before it got better. The forecast called for the brunt of the storm to hit the New York metropolitan area sometime that evening. Anywhere from six inches to two feet was expected. He turned up the heater a notch.
The hamlet of Chappaqua belonged formally to the city of New Castle. Though an NYPD detective had jurisdiction throughout the state, it was common courtesy to alert the local shop that he was paying a visit. Even so, Franciscus hadn’t phoned ahead. Crime folders, like Bobby Stillman’s, didn’t go missing without a reason. Men due to be arraigned did not commonly walk out of jail leaving no trace behind them. Other eyes were watching. It was best to be invisible for a while.
He pulled the car to the curb and killed the ignition, listening to the engine tick and the wind scuff the windshield. A look in the rearview to make sure his teeth were clean. A check of his necktie. A breath strip, and he was ready to go.
Franciscus climbed out of his car, checking for any ice on the pavement. Sixtieth birthdays and broken hips went together like beer and pretzels. Next house over, a man about his age was getting a snowblower out of his garden shed. Seeing Franciscus, he waved and shook his head disconsolately, as if he’d had enough snow for this winter. The image of the red-faced man struggling with his snowblower stayed with him. In a year, that would be him. Then what? What would a Wednesday afternoon hold in store for him?
Done clearing the snow, he’d go inside and take a shower. He’d come downstairs smelling of baby powder and aftershave, pour himself a Bud, and grab a bowl of Japanese rice crackers for some nibbles, before settling into the La-Z-Boy for a long, slow night in front of the tube. He’d end up watching reruns of I Dream of Jeannie and Bewitched. At some point, he’d fall asleep in his chair, only to wake up half out of it, dazed, and bleary-eyed, wondering how in the hell he’d gotten there in the first place. Not in the chair, but how he’d gotten to be sixty-three, retired, with a gold watch, a pension, and a zipper running down his breastbone that promised him twenty more years of the same.
Franciscus rang the doorbell. An attractive brunette in her mid-forties opened the door a moment later. “Detective Franciscus?”
She was a knockout, tall and willowy with hair cut short, nicely styled. Kovacs had been thirty-one when he’d called it quits. Franciscus had assumed his wife to be the same age. Put the word “widow” in front of a woman’s name and she became sixty, frumpy, and about as comely as a sack of potatoes. He returned the smile. “Mrs. Kovacs?”
“Please come in.”
“Call me John,” he said, stepping past her, into the cool of the foyer. “I appreciate you seeing me on such short notice. I hope I’m not interrupting.”
“Not at all. When you mentioned my husband, I was glad to make the time. Please, call me Katie. Why don’t we sit in the den.”
Katie Kovacs led the way across the foyer, past an open kitchen and down the hall. Franciscus couldn’t help but notice that the place was tricked out with all the latest gadgets and gizmos. There was granite in the kitchen, a stainless-steel fridge, and a PC in the work nook. Immediately, he began working out what kind of money she had to be making to live in this kind of style. It was a professional hazard. A salary of eighty-five grand a year left you with a sizable chip on your shoulder.
“Here’s Theo,” she said, pointing to a framed photo hanging in the center of the wall.
So that was Kovacs, thought Franciscus. The picture showed a young policeman in his blues, his peaked cap worn soberly. Trusting eyes, toothy grin, chipmunk cheeks. Franciscus pegged him as the cheery, indomitable type. The guy who took KP three nights running and didn’t complain. He didn’t look like a cop who’d end things by eating his gun. But then, no one started out that way.
They continued down the hall. Katie Kovacs pointed out her office. A sleek desk ran along two sides of the room, dominated by three large flat-screen monitors on which a blizzard of red, green, and white symbols flashed like Christmas lights. Documents were stacked in several piles. A few stray papers littered the floor. She smiled apologetically. “I clean up every evening.”
Franciscus observed Kovacs’s business attire. She was dressed in navy slacks and a starched white blouse. “I hope I’m not keeping you from an appointment.”
“No, no,” she said. “I work out of the house. I like to dress to keep me in the right frame of mind. Otherwise, I’d be snacking all day and watching TV.”
“I doubt that,” said Franciscus as they continued down the hall. “May I ask what you do?”
“I’m a municipal finance specialist. I help cities around the state raise money. Just small issues: anything under a hundred million dollars.”
“Sounds exciting,” said Franciscus, meaning, It looks like you’re making some dough.
Kovacs chuckled. “It’s not.”
They sat on a long white couch in the den, under the watchful gaze of a forty-two-inch plasma screen. She had set out a tray with a coffeepot, cups, and saucers, and a few cans of soda. He accepted a cup of coffee and took a sip. He noticed that she didn’t serve herself anything. She sat across from him, perched on the edge of her chair. Her smile had disappeared.