Innocent monster

TWENTY-FOUR

The next morning I slept in. I’d removed myself from the case, but I had no intention of telling my brother about it and running back to my office at Bordeaux In Brooklyn. I figured I had another week or two to avoid the rest of my working life, until either Sashi was found or the story and the trail went cold again. I did, however, owe it to Candy and Max, despite their lies, to tell them in person. I also wanted to thank Jimmy Palumbo and give him some bonus cash for doing quality work. He was a good guy and good company and I guess I kind of felt sorry for him. I knew firsthand what divorce could do to people, how it could blow up their lives in an instant. A lawyer once told me that the saddest reading in the world was a divorced person’s credit report.

“It’s like reading a dying man’s EKG, Moe. The heart’s beating fine and then… boom! You’ll look at the credit report and everything is perfect for thirty years: no late payments, no judgments, no liens, no repos, not a single blemish. Then somebody cheats or is bored with their spouse or for whatever reason someone wants to end the marriage. But there’s more to a marriage than the kids and the pets. There are joint accounts, joint credit cards, car payments, loan payments, the mortgage. Cards get maxed out, loans don’t get paid and for what, to punish the other party? The finances go to shit and their lives follow in short order.”

Those words rang in my head as I turned onto the Bluntstones’ street in Sea Cliff and their Victorian loomed up before me. I wondered what would become of Max and Candy when this all came to a conclusion. If Sashi never came home, would there be anything left to hold them together or would the shared loss bind them to each other in a way that love never could? As appealing and romantic as the latter notion might be, my experience taught me that the former was much more likely. That with Sashi gone, their nuclear bonds broken, Max and Candy would go spinning off into the void like random particles.

One thing was for sure, the circus was back in town. The press conference, as expected, had relit the fire and the block was a Noah’s Ark of news vans, inconvenienced neighbors, cop cars, the curious, and, worst of all, the tragedy pimps. There were just some people addicted to the scent and spectacle of tragedy. Drawn like swarming flies to a fresh corpse, it was easy to spot their faces in the crowd. They were the lean and hungry onlookers, the ones waiting to feed off the bad news. They were the ones with the vacant lives whose condolences were more for their own empty selves than the families of the lost. They were the eager wreath-layers.

A uniform stopped me when I approached the house. I explained who I was; then he explained, “They’re not here.”

“Is Detective McKenna around?”

“He’s the one that took them outta here. Look at this place. It’s a freakin’ circus.”

“It is that,” I said, smiling at his confirmation, and retreated to my car.

The museum was abuzz with its usual emptiness when I showed up in Cold Spring Harbor about twenty minutes after leaving Sea Cliff. Jimmy Palumbo still looked a little worse for wear from the other night. I imagine a dip in freezing water in December is probably not the best thing for your health, especially if you’re going to stay in your wet clothes for another two hours. Still, he seemed glad to see me and even more glad when I slipped him the envelope with his bonus cash. He didn’t make a show of pretending to not want or need it. Instead, he thanked me and tucked the envelope away in the inside pocket of his blazer.

“Listen,” I said, “just so you know, I had to turn over the shit we got from Martyr to the detective in charge of the case.”

Jimmy was suddenly much less happy to see me. “Fuck!” summed up his feelings nicely, but his sick expression was much more eloquent.

“Don’t worry about it. I didn’t mention you at all. As far as he knows, I did all of this on my own. You’re fine.”

“Great. Thanks. I didn’t mind helping you, but you gotta leave my name out of all this. Because all I would need is for my ex to find out I was earning cash off the books. Her lawyer’s already straining my nuts for extra pennies. And if I got in any legal trouble, she could keep the kids away from me forever.”

“Believe me, I understand. I got you covered.”

He looked relieved. “I appreciate it.”

“Rusk in?”

“Always.”

“Can you phone him and see if he’s got a few minutes for me?”

“Go ahead downstairs, I’ll make sure he got time for you.”

Wallace Rusk was waiting for me at the elevator door as he had on my first visit. He was also dressed in identical clothing. The expression he was wearing was rather more perturbed than on my first visit, though he did offer me his hand in greeting.

“I suppose I have you to thank for that visit from the local constabulary,” he said, gesturing towards his office door.

Now I understood the look on his face. McKenna had been to see him and had no doubt been a little less polite about it than me. As evidenced by Rusk’s demeanor and Jimmy’s before him, people have a distinct distaste for dealing with the police. I forget that sometimes, although given my own experiences with the police, I shouldn’t.

“I’m sorry about that. I mentioned your name in passing and Detective McKenna seized on it.”

“I suppose I can’t hold that against you,” he said, motioning to a chair opposite his desk. “Would you like a drink, Mr. Prager?”

“Yeah, actually I would. Thank you.”

“Sherry, cognac, or scotch? I’m having a sherry myself.”

“Sherry would be nice. Thank you.”

He left the room, but returned with two small, delicate crystal glasses. He offered one to me. I stood when I took it. We raised glasses. Sherry isn’t a glass-clinking and slante kind of drink. Rusk smiled as he sipped.

“Very fine sherry,” I said.

“A discerning palate.”

“I own several wine stores with my older brother. He’s the real expert, but I know the fine taste of things.” As I said the words, Mary Lambert’s flavor filled up my senses.

“You are a man full of surprises, aren’t you, Mr. Prager?”

“Fewer than you’d think.”

We sipped some more.

“When I was at school, one of my professors taught our class a little rhyme about sherry. I think it goes, ‘I must have one glass of sherry at eleven/’Tis something that must be done/For if I don’t have one glass at eleven/I will have eleven at one.’ I shall never forget that.” He took his place at his desk, a wistful look in his eyes. “It is strange, is it not, what a man remembers?”

“It’s funny you should mention that. I wanted to ask you about a rather strange man.”

“So you availed yourself of Declan Carney’s services.”

“I did.”

“And you’re curious?”

“I am, but who wouldn’t be? Between the fake name and outfit, the hair and the rest, he suggests a thousand questions.”

“Of course, what I know of his history I don’t know directly from the man himself. I don’t even know his given name. I imagine some of what has been related to me is more myth and exaggeration than fact, possibly most of it, but it makes a fascinating story. Though I somehow doubt he feels that way about it.”

“About what?”

“The story goes that he finished near the top of his class at West Point and he was being groomed for some important position within the intelligence community. But when Iraq invaded Kuwait, he was yanked out of whatever training program or graduate school he was in and pressed into combat. Then during Desert Storm, after there was nothing left for the air forces to bomb, his unit was ordered to oversee what I believe is euphemistically referred to as mop-up duty. Only in Desert Storm, this form of mop-up duty entailed bulldozing millions of tons of sand over panicked Iraqi troops and burying them alive in what would become their tomb.”

“Nice.”

“Rather monstrous, I think.”

“That’s what I meant by nice, monstrous.”

“Oh, I see.”

“So he flipped out?”

“Not initially, no. He returned home and resumed his education. Then, after several months had passed, he was given an honorable discharge. He resurfaced years later as Declan Carney.”

“A man who studies the authenticity of beautiful things.”

Rusk shook his head in agreement and finished his sherry. “Yes, I suppose that is one way to see it.”

“Beware the innocent monster,” I whispered barely loud enough for me to hear.

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing,” I said, standing up and placing my empty glass on the desk. “I appreciate the time and the sherry. Thank you, Mr. Rusk.”

“You’re quite welcome, Mr. Prager. Please feel free to visit whenever you wish. I enjoy our little chats.”

“Me too. Be well.”

On the way home, I drove to Max and Candy’s house, but it was even more of a circus than when I’d been by earlier. I had no stomach for it and went home to lick my wounds in peace.