Fall Guy (13 page)

I was halfway home before I changed my mind. I stopped into one of the ubiquitous Korean delis that never close and, amazingly, has everything you'd ever think to ask for crammed into a space the size of a country kitchen. I bought a six-pack, a large bag of corn chips and two containers of ready-made dip. I strongly suspected that Irwin was kidding about the dip. Still, as I told him,
semper paratus
was my motto. Or one of them.

If Irwin was surprised to see me back at his apartment, he didn't show it at all, not a man I wanted to play poker with under normal circumstances, which mine never seem to be. Anyway, I was nothing if not a good sport. In fact, in keeping with said motto, I'd made one other stop on the way to the game. I'd stopped at O'Fallon's apartment and dropped off his briefcase. I didn't want any curious eyes seeing that I had O'Fallon's notebook or, worse, Parker's cell phone, and I thought it might look pretty hinky taking the briefcase with me if I went to the bathroom. I took
off Dashiell's leash and left that on top of the briefcase. I also picked something up, my poker money. I took three hundred of Parker's stash, stuffed it into my pocket, and Dashiell and I headed up the stairs. If Irwin was as good a player as Brody had indicated, I was going to lose for sure. Losing Parker's money wouldn't be nearly as painful as losing my own.

“Just when you thought you were out…” he said.

“You pulled me back in.”

And so he did, his hand on the waist of my jeans, walking backward and tugging me along. He stopped short of the poker table, standing on tiptoes to try to get a look inside the bag I was carrying.

“You're not Greek, are you, doll? You never mentioned your last name?”

“Not Greek. A Jew bearing gifts. I believe that's considered kosher.”

He smiled.

I handed him the bag.

“Six-pack, chips, dips. You're a find, doll.”

The bell rang. He handed the bag back to me. “In the kitchen. Anywhere there's room. Beer in the fridge.”

I carried the beer and chips into Irwin's kitchen, seeing the stool at the sink and a folding stepladder leaning against the wall adjacent to the kitchen door. I put the beer in the fridge. There was already a whole shelf of beer in there. I opened the cabinets until I found a large bowl and dumped the chips in there. I was taking that back to the living room when the door opened and there stood Parker with three other men.

“Rachel,” he said.

“Hello, Parker. Nice to see you again.”

He looked at Irwin, then back at me.

“I invited her,” Irwin said. “At least
she
brought something.”

I held the bowl of chips aloft. “A six-pack, too. Thirsty work, playing poker.”

Now they were all squinting at me, Parker because I was there, Irwin because he thought he'd caught me in a lie—he had, too, at least one—and one of the other three because he had a cigarette dangling from his mouth, the smoke making him squinch up his eyes. I guess the other two were just waiting to be introduced, hoping the mark had a ton of money to lose. And that she did.

“Enough chitchat,” Irwin said. “Let's play cards.”

There was a light hanging over the poker table, the wire running across the ceiling and down the wall. Irwin shut off the rest of the lights and we took our seats, all except one of Parker's friends, the one with the cigarette, who went to get the first round of beer. I thought about going back to the kitchen for the dips, but didn't bother.

“We're still on for tomorrow, right, Rachel?” Parker asked, fidgeting with the money in his pocket. Or maybe he'd found the set of keys he'd lost because whatever it was he was fooling with was making a jingling kind of noise.

“As a matter of fact, you're not,” Irwin told him. “Rachel here was kind enough to pack up your stuff and leave it with me. You can take it tonight when you go.”

Parker looked betrayed. “But you said—”

“Dog has to go to the vet,” I said. I turned to smile at Irwin. He smiled back approvingly, one con artist appreciating another.

“But you said—”

“You said you needed your clothes,” I told him. “They're right there.” I pointed to the stash of things against the wall.

“But there's other stuff that's mine.”

“I can give you the rest on Saturday, after the memorial.”

“What memorial?” Rattled now.

“I was going to tell you all of this, in due time.” Irwin picked up the deck and began to shuffle. “Everything in due time. But first introduce your little friends to Rachel.”

“Bill, Ricky, Ape, Rachel.” Not telling me who was who. Though I had a sneaky feeling the one with hair on the backs of his hands might be Ape.

“Gentlemen.”

“Don't count on it,” Irwin said. “Now, you told me you've never played poker before. Shall I go over what beats what?”

“Nah. I'll catch on,” I told him. “Anyway, I can't stay too long. I have this appointment.”

“With a gentleman,” Irwin told the others, “a real one, I suspect.”

“So why can't we get the rest of my stuff now if you can't do it tomorrow? I'm here. You're here.”

“Right. I'm
here
. I'm not
there
.”

“Bitch.” It was the one who was smoking. He took the cigarette out of his mouth and bent it into the ashtray, leaving it only half out so that the smoke kept coming and coming. It sounded like
the voice from the answering machine, but that person had said his name was Andy. Maybe they all used as many names as Parker did.

“You talk to a lady like that,” I told him, “you'll go right straight to hell.” I watched for a reaction, but there was none. He just reached for a beer and pulled out the tab.

Dashiell walked over to the window, poked aside the curtain and looked down at the street. The compressor of the air conditioner kicked on. Irwin picked up the cards.

“Win or lose, I'm out of here in an hour. Agreed?”

“You can leave right now,” one of Parker's friends said, either Bill or Ricky or perhaps even Ape. “Who invited you, anyway?”

“I did.” He had a big voice for a little person, deep and resonant. And he knew how to use it. I thought of what he'd told me, that he'd worked with the big cats, not a man to be pushed around. “Parker, your stuff is here, and if it's still here when I wake up in the morning, it'll be there”—pointing to the windows, his finger curved so that if he were actually at the windows, he'd be pointing to the garbage cans. “As for the rest of your things, there's a memorial for Tim on Saturday, at four o'clock, in the garden. Rachel was kind enough to say you could get the rest of your things after that. Meanwhile, you have clothes.” He looked at Parker. We all did. He was wearing a denim shirt, the wrinkles from being folded on a shelf still visible. His jeans looked new, too, either that or dry-cleaned, the way they do it on the Upper East Side. “As
for the rest of you deadbeats…Bill”—he was looking at the one with thinning blond hair, a short-sleeved plaid shirt, green pants, not a fashionista like Parker—“Ricky”—the one who was smoking, the one you wouldn't want to be alone with on an elevator or in a dark alley, unless you had your pit bull with you—“Ape”—the hairy one, the tallest of the three, the beefiest one, too—“you drank enough of his whiskey and stole enough of his possessions to show your ugly mugs there, for decency's sake, pretend you're respectful of the dead, pretend you're saying a little prayer for the good detective. But that's up to you, of course. I imagine if I mentioned that Jin Mei will no doubt be preparing some food for the mourners, you might actually show. But I'm hoping you'll come because it's the decent thing to do.”

“What would you know from decent?” Ape asked him. “How about you and Ella, was that decent?”

Irwin turned to me to explain.

“This is going to be good,” Ape added. He had a high voice for such a big man.

“He's referring to a faux marriage I had at one time with a Miss Ella Vanilla, the fat lady in a circus I was with back then. He thinks I done her wrong, leaving the way I did, Ella still madly in love with me.” He turned to Ape. “Nothing lasts forever,” he said. “Except maybe death.”

“No maybe about it,” Ricky said. He got up and went to the kitchen. A moment later I realized he'd actually gone to the bathroom because he'd neglected to close the door.

“Comes from living in a tent,” Irwin told me.

“He was with you in the circus?”

“A rigger,” he said. “When sober. And not in jail.” He tapped the deck of cards on the table twice. “Where's Andy? I thought he said he was coming.”

Parker shrugged. “He did. Must be not. Or coming late. You know how he is.”

“Time and poker wait for no man.” He was sitting on two pillows so that he could reach the table. He shuffled the deck and asked me to cut. I tapped the top card. Irwin announced the game and dealt. The conversation, if you can call it that, was clearly over. We anted, bet, folded, played the game. When an hour was up, I decided to stay another. When it was time to go, I was $175 ahead.

Irwin gave me a pat on the ass when I got up. “It's customary to tip the house before you leave,” he said. “You know, for the beer, the chips and the dips.”

I dropped two twenties on the table. Easy come, easy go.

“Next Thursday?” he asked.

“Wouldn't miss it for the world. See you gentlemen on Saturday, I trust.”

None of the gentlemen at Irwin's poker table got up when I did. Parker, in fact, even failed to say good-bye.

As Dash and I headed down the stairs, someone was coming up. He was just at the age when hard living starts to show, his skin rough, his face deeply lined, his hair faded and dull, eyes as old as a cop's eyes. Or a drifter's. Hands deep in his
pants pockets, he just kept coming, as if I weren't there. I stood aside and let him pass. When I got to the first floor, I heard Irwin's door open. I unlocked O'Fallon's door, grabbed the leash and the briefcase and headed home.

Something called the Certificate of Preliminary Letters of Testamentary was in the mail from Melanie Houseman's office. So was O'Fallon's death certificate. Dashiell began to explore the garden as if it were a brand-new place, every inch of it worthy of his attention. I sat on the steps and opened the mail, but it was too dark to read. I didn't think reading a death certificate was exactly what Jin Mei had in mind, even though I was, as she had suggested, in a garden.

I decided to do a round of tai chi, to see if that would clear my mind. As soon as I took the first stance, Dashiell came to stand near me to bask in my increased energy. By the time I'd finished the form, I felt clearer. I went inside to read the mail.

There were only a couple of items on O'Fallon's death certificate that I was interested in, but I read every word. It seemed, somehow, disrespectful not to. The single sheet had been issued by the Department of Health, and after the identifying information, O'Fallon's full name, age and last-known address, there was a box that
said, “Date and hour of death or found dead.” The date he died was there. The time his body was discovered was there as well. There would be no exact time of death. There had been no witness, no broken watch, no one claiming to have heard the shot. Eventually the ME would record an approximate time of death, a period of several hours during which evidence reveals he might have died. Because Jin Mei had heard him crying early in the morning and Parker had called 911 around noon, the time of death would probably be recorded as between eight and twelve that morning.

I didn't know if any more specific information would be coming my way, unless I could pry it out of Brody. I imagined that because O'Fallon had been fully submerged in hot soapy water, the ME might make a narrower assessment of the time he'd died, that the particular deterioration caused by or prevented by the water would help him to pinpoint a tighter time frame.

After “Death was caused by…” there was a caution. It read, “Enter only one cause per line.” But only the first line remained, the other two having been crossed out so thoroughly that even holding the form under the light, I was unable to read what had been deleted. What was left was, “Immediate cause.” And typed alongside that, in capital letters,
PENDING FURTHER STUDIES
. It said the same thing, all in caps, farther down the page, after “Manner of Death.” None of the other choices—homicide, natural, suicide, undetermined—had been checked.

Near the bottom of the page were my name and
address, as executor, and the name of the funeral home designated in O'Fallon's will, Redden's on Fourteenth Street. After that, there was a statement certifying that all the foregoing information was a true copy of the record on file at the Department of Health. It also said the Department of Health did not certify the truth of the statements, that they had accepted the facts as stated but had not verified them. And even though, with this statement, they had neatly passed the buck for any sort of responsibility, their seal was affixed in the lower right-hand corner.

I had the feeling that Brody would tell me that “pending further studies” simply meant the tox screens weren't completed yet. I slipped the death certificate back into the envelope, pulling out and reading the preliminary letters of testamentary next. It was this document, issued by the Surrogate Court of the County of New York, which allowed me legal authority over Timothy O'Fallon's estate. The note from Melanie said that the checking account had been opened and that I could stop by my local branch of Chase to sign the signature cards. After I had done so, her office would begin to pay O'Fallon's bills, sending me the checks to approve and sign.

The mail included a postcard from my Aunt Ceil, who was on vacation in Denmark, a phone bill, a letter from my congressman and a check for $80 from AT&T. If I cashed it, they would automatically become my long-distance carrier. I tore it up, dropped it in the garbage and picked up the phone.

I called Maria Sanchez, figuring if I told her the
sad news sooner rather than later, she might be able to fill O'Fallon's time and not suffer the loss of income.

“You need cleaning?” she asked.

I told her no, I didn't.

“I'll give you a good price.”

I told her no again.

“You want the key back?”

I told her not to bother, that the lock had been changed.

There was a silence on the line, and then she said, “Because of me?”

“No,” I said, “not because of you. I did it before I knew about you.”

“Then because of Mr. Parker?”

“Yes,” I told her, “that's right.” It wasn't the whole story. But it would do.

“He was a pig,” she said.

“Pardon?”

“Mr. Parker. Always dishes in the sink, a dirty bathroom. He never let me vacuum the couch he slept on. A real slob.”

Jin Mei was right, I needed time off. Even after a round of tai chi, I was still on overload. I fixed Dashiell's dinner, looked longingly at the nylon bag with my swimsuit, cap and goggles, but there was no time for a swim, not if I was going to be here when Brody came. I grabbed an apple and curled up on the couch with O'Fallon's notebook to see if there was anything I could learn about Parker while I waited for the bell from the front gate to ring. But it was later than I thought. Or maybe Brody was early. I hadn't yet bitten into the apple or sampled O'Fallon's notes when he arrived.

Walking barefoot down on the cold stone flooring of the tunnel, I could see Brody waiting on the other side of the gate. He stood with his hands at his sides, looking as if he could do that all day. I imagine he could have gotten a job at Buckingham Palace, guarding the queen, or perhaps he could work as a mime, pretending to be the Statue of Liberty, his face painted green, his breathing barely discernible.

I unlocked the gate and pulled it toward me. For a moment, he stood there, still not moving.

“I don't have the answer to your question,” he said.

“Which question?”

“Why. What it was Tim wanted.”

“That makes two of us.”

He hesitated and for a moment I thought he was going to leave. I stepped back and waited. After another moment, he walked in. I watched him walk down the tunnel and head for the garden before I closed the gate and locked it with the key. I could have had a system where I buzzed people in without having to walk out to let them in, but then I'd be depending upon other people to make sure the gate clicked shut, people whose security didn't depend on it the way mine did. I had seen how people handled a similar situation at the dog run, being careful to secure the gate when they went in, being careless when they left. I didn't want to bet my life that the kid who delivered pizza or the UPS guy would give a shit if my gate was locked or not. I didn't want to be surprised one day by a visitor I would not have invited in, especially considering the work I did.

Brody walked to the center of the dark garden, stretched his back and then turned around to see where I was. I headed toward him, feeling suddenly that I was at least as hungry as I was tired, thinking it might not be such a bad idea to have to walk out to the gate one more time, to pay for a pizza or some chicken Milanese.

“Have you eaten?” I asked.

He shook his head.

“You forget meals, too?”

“Sometimes.”

“That's a bad habit. At least that's what my mother used to say.”

Brody smiled. A real smile.

“You have your phone with you?”

“I do.”

“Okay, dial this number.” I gave him the number of the pizza place, not even embarrassed that I knew it by heart.

“What do you want on it?” he asked.

He knew the number, too. I began to laugh. It felt really good. I waved a hand to him. “Whatever,” I said, “except anchovies,” and started to laugh again. “And mushrooms.”

He nodded.

“Don't get meatballs on it either,” I told him.

“How about sausages?”

I shook my head.

“You want a plain pie?”

“Okay.”

“Why didn't you just say so?” He took out his phone and just held it for a moment. “My wife used to say she didn't know how I was still walking around, all the meals I skip, the junk I eat.”

“Used to? You mean, except for tonight, your eating habits have improved? Or did she just give up on you?”

He nodded. “Totally. Three years ago.”

“I'm sorry,” I told him.

“Yeah. Me, too.” He dialed the pizza place. “Let's stay out here,” he said. “Is that okay?”

“Someone told me I should spend time in a garden today, that I needed to clear my mind.”

“Always a good idea.”

“Difficult to do.”

“Not for him.”

Dashiell was rolling on his back in the ivy.

“Guess he needs to empty his mind, too.”

He took off his jacket and put it over the top railing. “What's he got on his mind?”

“He hasn't said.”

He nodded. We sat for a while without talking. It had been a long day. Sometimes it seemed they all were. I bet Brody would have agreed but I didn't bother to ask his opinion. When the bell rang, we could hear the sound coming from behind the closed cottage door. While I was unlocking the gate, Brody took out money to pay for the pie. I tried to argue with him, but he insisted. The truth is, I never care about stuff like that. I could pay, or he could. I can open a door for myself, or be gracious when someone else does. My view of myself isn't locked into trivial expressions of courtesy or generosity. And I was too hungry to have a prolonged argument.

There were a table and chairs in the garden, but I sat on the top step. Brody followed me, putting the pie behind us, in front of the door.
Dashiell came over, his tail swinging happily from side to side.

“Ignore him,” I said. “No matter what he claims, he's eaten already.”

Speaking of gracious, I got up, stepped over the pizza box and went inside to get some beer, napkins and paper plates. While I was there, I picked up Parker's phone and the matchbook and slipped them into my pants pocket. I took O'Fallon's notebook and slipped it under one of the couch cushions.

“The reason I asked you to come here tonight…”

“I thought it was the other thing, about O'Fallon, about why he named you as executor. I didn't even know you could do that.”

“Do what?”

“Name an executor without permission. It seems…”

“Do you have a will, Detective?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I do.”

“Did your attorney ask you whether or not you had informed your executor of your decision and had received said person's approval to be so named?”

“I see your point. So, if not that, why did you call?”

“Dashiell found something at O'Fallon's apartment, something I thought you'd want.”

“What do you mean?”

“Parker's cell phone. I called it, to cancel the appointment I had with him. I'd told him he could come to Tim's tomorrow, to get his things. Then I changed my mind. I wanted more time to
look at things myself, before he started claiming them. The number he gave me, for his aunt's place, it was a wrong number.”

Brody nodded.

“I remembered seeing a cell phone number in Tim's address book, so I called that. I was at Tim's apartment at the time and the phone rang there. The only trouble was, I couldn't see the phone and I wasn't sure where the sound was coming from, so…”

“You asked Dashiell to find it.”

Dash looked at Brody when he heard the words, then looked at me for clarification. I waved a hand at him, to tell him he wasn't working, he was just waiting for pizza, nothing more.

“Right. And he did. And that's why…”

He was looking at Dashiell again. “You said you'd been a dog trainer?”

“That's right.”

“So you taught Dashiell how to do pet therapy?”

“No. He didn't need me for that.”

Brody raised his eyebrows.

“It's innate. All predators know how to tell the weak from the strong. For the wild ones, once they do…” I drew my pointer across my throat. “That's how they survive.”

“Sounds like the predators I deal with.”

“Except that domesticated predators, like dogs, don't think of humans as prey.”

“How do they think of us?”

“As family. So when we're hurting or in trouble, they don't have us for lunch. They nurture us.”

Brody looked at Dashiell.

“All I had to do was teach Dash manners so that when he goes to a nursing home or the church where I met Tim, he behaves appropriately.”

Brody took a pull on his beer. “What about protection work? Does he…?”

I nodded.

“Is that why you didn't need me at O'Fallon's when I offered to be there?”

I nodded again.

“That's good,” Brody said, “very good. What else?”

“It depends on the circumstances, on what's called for.”

“Any rescue work?”

“He wasn't down at Ground Zero, if that's what you're asking. And anyway, most of those dogs specialized in cadaver recovery.”

“And Dashiell, does he do that, too?”

“I've started him on that. It's not that it's really something new to him. If I give him a scent and send him, he'll do his best to find it, no matter what it is. Except…” I stopped, looking first at Dashiell and then at Brody, both of them concentrating hard on me. “Except that if a dog's only done rescue work, if he's only come up with living people, he can get really depressed after a day of finding bodies. Or body parts. So I'm getting him used to it, just in case.”

Brody turned away. Maybe he was skipping the news, too.

“Some people think it's the handler's reaction that causes the depression with cadaver work, that to a dog, it's all the same.”