politics
and natural disasters, a horrific child abuse case that made me turn off the
tube and hope I wouldn’t be asked to get involved.
I
played guitar and read psych journals and hung with Blanche and listened to a
disk of Anat Cohen wailing on her clarinet and saxophones. Replaying “Cry Me a
River” a couple of times because that was a great song, period. Robin and I ate
chicken and mashed potatoes,took a long bath, did lots
of nothing. When she yawned at midnight, I joined her and managed to stay
asleep until seven a.m.
I
found her eating a bagel and drinking coffee in the kitchen. The TV was tuned
to a local affiliate morning show. Pretty faces prattling about celebrities and
recipes and the latest trends in downloadable music.
She
said, “You just missed that girl’s face in the news.”
“Good
rendition?”
“I
don’t know what she actually looks like but the overall draftsmanship was okay.
In that sidewalk-artist way.”
I
surfed channels, finally found an end-of-broadcast segment. Henry Gallegos
wouldn’t be giving up his day job but the resemblance was good enough.
I
tried Milo’s desk phone. He’d installed the recorded message that thanked
tipsters in an appropriately professional tone and promised to get back as soon
as possible.
The
onslaught had apparently begun.
I
finished a couple of reports, e-mailed invoices to attorneys, took a run,
showered. Milo called just as I was getting dressed.
“Tip-storm?”
“Forty-eight
helpful citizens in the first hour. Including twenty-two flagrant psychotics
and five psychics posing as helpful citizens.”
“Hey,”
I said, “politicians rely on the psychotic vote.”
He
laughed. “Binchy and Reed and I have been talking to a slew of well-meaning
folk absolutely convinced Brigid is someone they know. Unfortunately, none of
the facts fit and they’re all wrong. The only decent bit of possible is a
you-guessed-it anonymous tip from a pay phone. Listen.”
A
burst of static was followed by ambient hum. Rising traffic noise drowned out
the first few words:
“…
that girl. At that unbuilt house.” Shaky male voice. Old or trying to sound old. Ten-second gap, then: “She
been with Monte.”
I
said, “Those hesitations sound like fear. It could be real.”
“Too
scared to use his own phone and leave a name, gee thanks.And
just to keep you current, my most weak-willed judge said nyet to
subpoenaing the Holmans’ financials so it’s air sandwich for brunch.”
“Could
you play the message again?”
When
the tape ended, I said, “He knows this Monte well enough to use a name, has
seen her with Monte but doesn’t know her well enough to use her name. Maybe
I’ve been wrong, the two of them had no relationship and this’ll turn out to be
one of those wrong-time, wrong-placers.”
“Bite
your tongue, right now I’m going with Mr. Tipster being too freaked to give me
everything he knows. Damn pay phone—guy was lucky to find one that works.”
“Where
is it?”
“Venice
Boulevard near Centinela. Lots of apartments all around.”
I
said, “He sounded elderly. The pre-cell generation.”
“Brigid’s
been seen at Borodi by herself, maybe she had some connection to it—worked for
one of the subs and she was the one who initiated the tryst with Backer. And
maybe she knew Monte—or he knew her because your guess about a tradesman was
right on. I’m going downtown, get a hands-on with all the permits for the job.
Who knows, maybe it’ll be constructive.”
At
two p.m., he showed up at my house, lugging his scarred vinyl attaché case. The
customary kitchen scrounge produced last night’s chicken and mash, a bottle of
ketchup, stalks of celery in need of Viagra. Everything ingested at warp speed
while standing at the counter then chased with a carton of orange juice. When
he offered Blanche a scrap she turned away.
“Picky?”
“She
doesn’t want to deprive you.”
“Empathic.”
“She
takes the psych boards this year.
and natural disasters, a horrific child abuse case that made me turn off the
tube and hope I wouldn’t be asked to get involved.
I
played guitar and read psych journals and hung with Blanche and listened to a
disk of Anat Cohen wailing on her clarinet and saxophones. Replaying “Cry Me a
River” a couple of times because that was a great song, period. Robin and I ate
chicken and mashed potatoes,took a long bath, did lots
of nothing. When she yawned at midnight, I joined her and managed to stay
asleep until seven a.m.
I
found her eating a bagel and drinking coffee in the kitchen. The TV was tuned
to a local affiliate morning show. Pretty faces prattling about celebrities and
recipes and the latest trends in downloadable music.
She
said, “You just missed that girl’s face in the news.”
“Good
rendition?”
“I
don’t know what she actually looks like but the overall draftsmanship was okay.
In that sidewalk-artist way.”
I
surfed channels, finally found an end-of-broadcast segment. Henry Gallegos
wouldn’t be giving up his day job but the resemblance was good enough.
I
tried Milo’s desk phone. He’d installed the recorded message that thanked
tipsters in an appropriately professional tone and promised to get back as soon
as possible.
The
onslaught had apparently begun.
I
finished a couple of reports, e-mailed invoices to attorneys, took a run,
showered. Milo called just as I was getting dressed.
“Tip-storm?”
“Forty-eight
helpful citizens in the first hour. Including twenty-two flagrant psychotics
and five psychics posing as helpful citizens.”
“Hey,”
I said, “politicians rely on the psychotic vote.”
He
laughed. “Binchy and Reed and I have been talking to a slew of well-meaning
folk absolutely convinced Brigid is someone they know. Unfortunately, none of
the facts fit and they’re all wrong. The only decent bit of possible is a
you-guessed-it anonymous tip from a pay phone. Listen.”
A
burst of static was followed by ambient hum. Rising traffic noise drowned out
the first few words:
“…
that girl. At that unbuilt house.” Shaky male voice. Old or trying to sound old. Ten-second gap, then: “She
been with Monte.”
I
said, “Those hesitations sound like fear. It could be real.”
“Too
scared to use his own phone and leave a name, gee thanks.And
just to keep you current, my most weak-willed judge said nyet to
subpoenaing the Holmans’ financials so it’s air sandwich for brunch.”
“Could
you play the message again?”
When
the tape ended, I said, “He knows this Monte well enough to use a name, has
seen her with Monte but doesn’t know her well enough to use her name. Maybe
I’ve been wrong, the two of them had no relationship and this’ll turn out to be
one of those wrong-time, wrong-placers.”
“Bite
your tongue, right now I’m going with Mr. Tipster being too freaked to give me
everything he knows. Damn pay phone—guy was lucky to find one that works.”
“Where
is it?”
“Venice
Boulevard near Centinela. Lots of apartments all around.”
I
said, “He sounded elderly. The pre-cell generation.”
“Brigid’s
been seen at Borodi by herself, maybe she had some connection to it—worked for
one of the subs and she was the one who initiated the tryst with Backer. And
maybe she knew Monte—or he knew her because your guess about a tradesman was
right on. I’m going downtown, get a hands-on with all the permits for the job.
Who knows, maybe it’ll be constructive.”
At
two p.m., he showed up at my house, lugging his scarred vinyl attaché case. The
customary kitchen scrounge produced last night’s chicken and mash, a bottle of
ketchup, stalks of celery in need of Viagra. Everything ingested at warp speed
while standing at the counter then chased with a carton of orange juice. When
he offered Blanche a scrap she turned away.
“Picky?”
“She
doesn’t want to deprive you.”
“Empathic.”
“She
takes the psych boards this year.
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