Only Child (10 page)

• • •

I
didn't move from where I was seated, contenting myself with a visual sweep of the room. It was neat and clean, but without that demented gleam you get under a No People, No Pets, No Playing regime. The room was clearly for company, but not the kind that kicked back with a few beers and watched a football game with their feet on the coffee table.
I'd been in homes where people had lost their child to violence before. I expected at least one photo of the girl— a shrine wouldn't have surprised me.
Nothing.
When the mother came back, she was carrying a large gray plastic box by the handle. When she opened the top, I could see it was filled front-to-back with file folders. She knelt, placed it on the floor in front of my chair, said, "I have three more," and walked off again.
I didn't think about offering to help her any more than I did about looking through the files outside her presence.
"It's all there," she said, finally. If lugging all those boxes had tired her, she kept it off her face. Her breathing was as regular as if she'd never left the couch. "The first one is everything that was in the newspapers, and everything I got from the police. The others are all . . . Vonni. From her baby stuff to just before . . ."
"I—"
"The reason they're like that," she interrupted, "is because of . . . what happened. I always kept Vonni's . . . everything. Every report card, every note from school, every doctor's visit . . . I always took pictures, too. But I didn't have them in this . . . this filing system, before. I was trying to help the police. They had so many questions, they kept coming back and back and back. Finally, I put this all together for them. But it wasn't what they were interested in, I guess."
"They wanted to know about her boyfriends, right?"
"Yes."
"And yours?"
"Yes." No reaction, flat.
"Her teachers? School friends?"
"Yes."
"Her computer?"
"Oh yes."
"Drugs? Parties? Gangs?"
"Of course," she said, a tiny vein of sarcasm pulsing in her voice.
"And they drew a blank with all of that?"
"That? There
were
no drugs. There
were
no gangs."
"They said this? Or you just know from your own—?"
"
I
said it. They didn't believe it. They didn't say so, not out loud. But I could tell. After a . . . while, after a while, though, they believed it."
"And they apologized for—?"
"Be serious," she said.

• • •

S
he didn't offer me so much as a glass of water. Just sat there watching me go through the files, one at a time. I wanted to start at the latest ones and work backwards, but I could sense that would sever the single frayed thread between us.
I tried to engage her in conversation as I worked. Several times. All I got for my efforts was monosyllables. And when I suggested that I could maybe take the files with me, return them later, I got a look that would have scared a scorpion.
Okay.
The birth certificate was strangely impersonal.

I'd seen New York birth certificates from the Fifties. They were a lot richer in detail, and a lot less socially correct. They used to give you the time of birth, the number of children "previously born alive" to the mother, the race and occupation of the parents . . . even where they lived. But I thought that even the little bit of information on this one might open a door, if I could just engage the mother. . . .
"I thought her name would be spelled differently," I said.
"Vonni's name?"
"Yes."
"I don't understand."
"I thought it was . . . a reference to Giovanni."
"Yes, that's right. But I spelled it the way it should be
pronounced,
so her friends wouldn't get it wrong. Or her teachers, when they called on her in class. Vonni might not have felt comfortable correcting people all the time, just gone along with whatever they called her. When she was little, I mean. I didn't want that. I mean, if I spelled it like 'Vanni,' they'd all think they should say it like 'Vanna' with a 'y.' Vanny. Then she'd have no connection to her father at all. No child would want that, would they?"
"No," I assured her, "they wouldn't." Thinking of my own birth certificate. The one that said "Baby Boy Burke." Time of birth: 3:03 a.m. If I ever wanted my first name to link me to my father, I'd have to change it to "Unknown."
I kept looking. A color photo marked "5/13/91" on the back showed a pretty, slightly chubby little girl, more darkly complected than her mother, with long wavy hair. The child had almond eyes, and a smile you could arc-weld with.
If an activity existed on this earth Vonni hadn't been exposed to, I'd never heard of it. Piano lessons, T-ball, dance, karate, gymnastics, soccer, glee club, drama society.
Only the last one had gone the distance, though. At the very end of the "Activities" file, there was a program for the school play for her junior year. Under "Cast," I found:
Amanda . . . . . .. . . .. Vonni B. Greene
The play was scheduled for the night of May 23. They'd found the girl's body the day before.
The files looked like raw data. It didn't seem like any of it had been sanitized by a loving parent's hand, but I still had to ask.
"Ms. Greene, I apologize if this question offends you in any way. I hope you understand why I'm asking. This material, it shows an almost . . . idyllic life. I wonder if there was any other . . ."
"You and the police," she said, an ugly little twist to her upper lip.
I didn't say anything.
"This is
everything,
" she said. "I'm so sorry Vonni wasn't having an affair with a married man. Or smoking crack. Or running with a gang."
"All right."
"Is it? Are you satisfied, sir? Are you going to tell Giovanni I 'cooperated'? I'm sure he'll be asking you about that."
"Ms. Greene, anything you share with me is privileged."
"What does that mean, privileged?"
"It means two things," I said, keeping the volume down, but putting some weight into my voice. "One, you have no obligation to share
anything
with me, and I'm well aware of that. So whatever I might learn from you
is
a privilege. Not a right, a privilege. A privilege I would respect. Two, anything you say to me
stays
with me. It's a privileged communication, just as if you spoke it to a priest."
"You're no priest."
"No, I'm not. I'm not a lawyer or a doctor or a social worker or anything the
law
would prohibit me from repeating what you tell me. I'm just a man. But what I am is a man of my word."
"You say so."
"Yes. I say so."
"That's all you have, your word?"
"That's all anyone has. Question is, how good is it."
"That
is
the question. How would I find the answer?"
"Watch me," I told her. "Watch me close."

• • •

"W
hy should I do it?" the pudgy-faced guy asked me. He was wearing a rumpled white shirt under wide red suspenders, a battered dark-brown fedora tipped back on his head. A cigar that wasn't from the same hemisphere as Havana was planted in the corner of his mouth. Dressing the part.
"I'm not asking you to
do
anything," I told him. "Like I said, all I want is the assignment. On spec. You're a journalist, right? Your whole operation, it's about investigative reporting. That's what I'll be doing."
"Solving that murder?" he asked, sarcasm smearing his thick lips. "The case is over a year old. Maybe you'll find who killed Chandra Levy, while you're at it."
"I'll solve it, or I won't," I said, matter-of-factly. "It's my time. I'm not asking you for a dime in front. Not even expenses."
"And if you
did
manage to come up with the killer . . . ?"
"It would be yours. A total exclusive."
He puffed on his cigar, trying to get the hang of it. Said, "We can't issue press credentials. Internet journalists don't get the same respect our brothers on the print side do."
"The only credential I want is, if the cops call, you say I'm working for you. On this assignment."
"What do you need us for? Just tell anyone who asks that you're freelance."
"Sure, I could do that. But I'll get treated better if I'm working on an assignment."
"You might," he conceded. "But a story like that . . . I mean, if you actually found the killer, it'd be worth a lot. Why should I trust you to bring it to us?"
"I've got references."
"Is that right?" he said, just short of snide. "Who would they be?"
"I'll have them call you," I said.

• • •

"W
hy should I believe you?" Wolfe.
"I can prove it," I said into the phone. "If we could just—"
"Arm's-length," she said, sugarless.
"Whatever you say."
"I won't say it twice," she warned.

• • •

"G
uy's down here, looking for you."
Gateman, whispering into the phone he kept in the room behind the front-desk area.
"Me? Or a name?"
"Burke."
"Ever see him before?"
"No. Big guy. Dresses like a fucking lumberjack. Stands like a fighter, though."
"Send him up, okay?"
"You're the boss."

• • •

M
ick came up the stairs slowly, hands open at his sides, distributing his weight carefully. He saw me watching through the open door, walked in.
"I was expecting Wolfe," I said.
"After I look around."
I waved my hand to indicate he could look wherever he wanted. Giving up my address to Wolfe was the only way I could get her to meet with me. Mick was part of the package.
"You got another dog?" he asked, wary.
"No."
"Sorry," is all he said. More than I thought he would.

• • •

"H
i, chief!"
Pepper. Sporting a red beret and a white jumpsuit with a matching red belt.
"Hey, Pepper. You guys going to keep coming in waves, or what?"
"She'll be here. In a minute. I'm just picking up Mick. Today's our anniversary, and I thought we'd—"
I shot a quick glance at Mick. I'd known him for years, and I was sure that nothing that walked the earth could make him nervous. But I didn't think that bulge in his jacket was an anniversary present. And there was a definite look of alarm on his face. He disappeared in the direction of the bedroom.
"Pepper, can I ask you a question?"
"Talk's cheap," she said, then giggled to take the sting out of it.
"Wolfe doesn't really think I'd ever—"
"Ah, don't go there," she advised, not unkindly. "I'm not here for nothing."
Just as I opened my mouth to ask her what she meant, Mick came back to where we were sitting, and a barrel-chested Rottweiler strutted through the open front door. The beast came toward me, making little trash-compactor noises.
"Bruiser!"
Wolfe. In a tightly belted silk trenchcoat of pale lilac and matching spike heels with ankle straps. Her long dark hair was streaked with auburn highlights now, but the trademark white wings still flared out from her high forehead. Gray gunfighter's eyes took my temperature.
"Thanks for coming," I said.
She clapped her hands, one short, sharp sound. The Rottweiler hit the deck, never taking his baleful gaze off me.
"Bruiser has a good memory," she said.
"Then why doesn't he relax?"
"Oh, he
never
liked you," Wolfe said, no trace of a smile on that gorgeous mouth.

• • •

I
t took less than half an hour for me to lay the whole thing out for her. Mick went back to roaming around the apartment, but Pepper never left Wolfe's side.
All business, then.
Fair enough. Where I come from, whatever train you want to ride gets to call the price of the ticket.
"You want what, exactly?" Wolfe asked. Then added, "What do you want to buy?" avoiding a mixed message.
"Whatever you can get me on the crime that I couldn't get for myself out of the papers."
"The same stuff a defense attorney would get if they'd ever brought anyone to trial?"
"No. Not just the
Brady
stuff. McVeigh-type discovery. The whole thing. Investigative reports, suspects ruled out, blind alleys. Everything."
"I'm not sure I can get all that. Some of it, sure. But I don't have the same contacts on Long Island that I do in Queens."
"Why Queens?"
"That's where the body was dumped," she said, a faint note of surprise in her voice. "You didn't know that?"
"No. No, I didn't. So Long Island's connection with the case is only because that's where the girl was from?"
"I don't know. I took a
quick
look. Maybe there's more to that, but I can't say right now."
"All right."
"And what else?"
"Whatever you can get me on Giovanni Antrelli and Felix Encarnación," I said, not pretending surprise that she knew there was another reason for me calling her in.
"Didn't you just say they were your clients?"
"Yeah. I did."
"So . . . ?"
"So I meant what I told you on the phone. This is straight-edge. Me, anyway, I am."
"So you think your clients might have had something to do with—?"
"No. Not in the way you mean. But
they
think it's about them. That's one out of three."
"Burke . . ." she said, with just a trace of impatience.
"One," I said, holding up a finger, "it was a random thing. Young girl's out, doing whatever, runs into Mr. Wrong. Anyone from a roving tramp to a Ted Bundy. Two, it was somebody in her life," I went on, "somebody she knew. The way she was killed, it fits either one. Serial killers, it's nothing unusual for them to be in a rage when they work, right? And a boyfriend, or anyone who thought he'd been betrayed, they might get into a frenzy, too. But the third choice is what my clients themselves suspect— a professional job. Someone sending Giovanni a message. 'We know
everything
about you. And we're
very
serious people.' Killing a daughter nobody was supposed to know he even had, that would make both those points."
"And Antrelli, he thinks it's the feds?"
"That's maybe not as crazy as it sounds," I said, catching the defensiveness too late to choke it off.
"The feds hiring psycho sex-killers?" she said, the sarcasm all the heavier for its absence in her tone.
"First of all," I told her, "the feds are masters of the means-justifies-the-end strategies. How many times have they left a child molester running around loose, even when they
knew
he was doing kids left and right, because they wanted to build a case against some of the people in his ring? Or just gather more evidence, make a stronger case? They let Klansmen they had in their pockets go along on lynchings, didn't they? They stirred up that war between the Panthers and Karenga's group— a lot of bodies behind that one. I don't know about outright assassinations, but how many people did Hoover
get
dead with the games he played?"
"You're a historian now?" she said, letting the sarcasm surface. "And you actually think they'd sex-murder a teenage girl just to drive a wedge between some narco-traffickers?"
"A whole agency? No way. Even if some supervisor had an aneurysm and hatched a plan like that, they'd put him in a padded room. But Giovanni thinks it's a rogue."
"In the FBI?"
"Ask the agent doing life for selling secrets to the Russians. What's his name, Hanssen?"
"Yes. But he was a whore. This, what you're talking about, it would
have
to be personal."
"That's what Giovanni thinks, too," I said. "But if he's telling it straight, it's nothing more than a feeling— he doesn't
know
anything."
"Does he have someone in mind?"
"Not even a guess. He's . . . confused, is the best way I could put it. If someone in law enforcement hated him
that
bad, why not just take him out? Trap him in an alley, ventilate him, flake the corpse with whatever they need— pistol and powder would do it— and walk away giggling. If a beat cop guns down a homeless black guy, there's people in this city who'll get in the street behind it, raise all kinds of holy hell. But a known gangster? A made man? Where's the Al Sharpton for that? Columbo tried it years ago. And remember how he ended up."
"So it's some kind of deeper game, and the girl was a pawn?" Wolfe asked, hunter's eyes hard under skeptically raised eyebrows.
"Maybe," I said, not committing myself. "That's
if
it wasn't a random freak, or someone with a specific motive to kill her. Giovanni's big reason for believing it was aimed at him is the biggest reason for anyone else believing that it
wasn't
."
"That nobody knew she was his daughter?"
"Yep."
She shifted in her chair to face me more squarely. The Rottweiler did the same from the floor. "You said, on the phone, that this was back to being what you once were."
"I did."
"That's a long jump. What's so high and mighty about this job that gets you there?"
"I'm not saying anything like that. You know I used to . . . look for kids, things like that. I know this one's dead. So it's not about protecting her, sure. But this
isn't
crime I'm doing, right? A job like this, it's about as legitimate as a man like me could ever hope to get."
"A man like you?" She dry-laughed.
"What do you want from me?" I said.
"From you?" she said, icily. "Half up front, half when I deliver."