I’m predicting a pass.”
Stooping
to pet, he sat at the table, unlatched the case. “The general contractor was an
outfit named Beaudry, out in La Canada, theyspecialize
in big projects, got a website full of ’em. Not including Borodi.”
“Another
confidentiality agreement?”
“I
pressed a V.P., couldn’t pry a damn thing out, including any subs. And no
knowledge of anyone named Monte. As if he’d tell me different.”
The
attaché case rattled, twitching atop the table like a frog in a nasty
experiment.
He
pulled out his cell phone. “Sturgis … you’re kidding… on my way.” Standing and
brushing bits of chicken from his shirt. “Bit of conflict at the dream palace.”
Scraps
of yellow tape blew in the breeze. Two uniformed patrolmen held Doyle
Bryczinski by his skinny arms. Thirty feet up, another pair of cops restrained
a well-dressed, white-haired man, who wasn’t going down easy. Shouting, one
foot stomping; the uniforms looked bored.
Bryczinski
said, “Hey, Lieutenant. Could you tell them this is my turf?”
Milo
addressed a female officer tagged Briskman . “What’s up?”
“This one and that one took issue with each other’s
presence. Loud issue, a neighbor phoned 911. We got it as a 415, possible
assault. When we arrived, they were just about ready to tussle.”
“No
way I tussle,” said Bryczinski. “Why would I tussle? He’s an old fart ,
this is my turf .”
Milo
placed a finger near Bryczinski’s lips. “Hold on, Doyle.”
“Can
they at least let go of me? My arms hurt and I need to get off the leg.”
Milo
glanced past Bryczinski, at something big and green-handled, lying just outside
the fence. “Bolt cutters, Doyle?”
“Just
in case.”
“In
case of what?”
“An
emergency.”
“I
put that chain there, Doyle.”
“I
wasn’t going to cut nothing. It was just in case I had to go in.”
“For what?”
“What
I said, an emergency.”
“Such
as?”
“I
dunno, another crime? A fire?”
“Why
would there be another crime or a fire, Doyle?”
“There
wouldn’t, I’m just saying.”
“Saying
what?”
“I
like to be prepared.”
“If I
search your car, Doyle, am I going to find anything criminally useful—or
flammable?”
“No way.”
“Do I
have permission to search your car?”
Hesitation.
“Doyle?”
“Sure,
go ahead.”
“Let
go of him, guys, so he can give me his car key.”
Milo
rummaged in the Taurus, came back. “Nothing iffy, Doyle, but I’m gonna have
these officers bring you to my office so we can chat some more.”
“I
didn’t do nothing , Lieutenant. I can’t leave, I’m on the job—”
“The
job’s temporarily suspended, Doyle.”
“What
about my car? I leave it there, I’ll get a ticket.”
“I’ll
put a sticker on the windshield.”
Bryczinski’s
eyes watered. “If I don’t work, company’ll can my ass.”
“We’ll
talk at the station, Doyle, everything works out, you’re back here today. But
don’t mess with neighbors.”
“He
ain’t a neighbor, he’s a maniac. Claims he owns the place and tried to hit me
upside the head when I told him to buzz off.”
“Charles Ellston Rutger.”
The
man cleared his throat for the third time, smoothed back thin white hair, cast
a derisive look.
His
houndstooth sport coat was high-grade cashmere with workingleather buttons, suede elbow patches, and a cut that said
tailor-made, but the lapels were several decades too wide. Knife-pressed cream
slacks broke perfectly over spit-shined oxblood loafers. His shirt was
once-blue pinpoint oxford faded to lavender-gray and frayed along the rim of
the collar. A gold gizmo shaped like a safety pin held the collar in place,
elevating the Windsor knot of a pine-green foulard patterned with bugles and
foxhounds. More fabric erosion fuzzed the tie. Same for a canary-yellow pocket
square.
Charles
Rutger’s driver’s license made him sixty-six. Skin as cracked and dry and
blotched as the seats of a convertible
Stooping
to pet, he sat at the table, unlatched the case. “The general contractor was an
outfit named Beaudry, out in La Canada, theyspecialize
in big projects, got a website full of ’em. Not including Borodi.”
“Another
confidentiality agreement?”
“I
pressed a V.P., couldn’t pry a damn thing out, including any subs. And no
knowledge of anyone named Monte. As if he’d tell me different.”
The
attaché case rattled, twitching atop the table like a frog in a nasty
experiment.
He
pulled out his cell phone. “Sturgis … you’re kidding… on my way.” Standing and
brushing bits of chicken from his shirt. “Bit of conflict at the dream palace.”
Scraps
of yellow tape blew in the breeze. Two uniformed patrolmen held Doyle
Bryczinski by his skinny arms. Thirty feet up, another pair of cops restrained
a well-dressed, white-haired man, who wasn’t going down easy. Shouting, one
foot stomping; the uniforms looked bored.
Bryczinski
said, “Hey, Lieutenant. Could you tell them this is my turf?”
Milo
addressed a female officer tagged Briskman . “What’s up?”
“This one and that one took issue with each other’s
presence. Loud issue, a neighbor phoned 911. We got it as a 415, possible
assault. When we arrived, they were just about ready to tussle.”
“No
way I tussle,” said Bryczinski. “Why would I tussle? He’s an old fart ,
this is my turf .”
Milo
placed a finger near Bryczinski’s lips. “Hold on, Doyle.”
“Can
they at least let go of me? My arms hurt and I need to get off the leg.”
Milo
glanced past Bryczinski, at something big and green-handled, lying just outside
the fence. “Bolt cutters, Doyle?”
“Just
in case.”
“In
case of what?”
“An
emergency.”
“I
put that chain there, Doyle.”
“I
wasn’t going to cut nothing. It was just in case I had to go in.”
“For what?”
“What
I said, an emergency.”
“Such
as?”
“I
dunno, another crime? A fire?”
“Why
would there be another crime or a fire, Doyle?”
“There
wouldn’t, I’m just saying.”
“Saying
what?”
“I
like to be prepared.”
“If I
search your car, Doyle, am I going to find anything criminally useful—or
flammable?”
“No way.”
“Do I
have permission to search your car?”
Hesitation.
“Doyle?”
“Sure,
go ahead.”
“Let
go of him, guys, so he can give me his car key.”
Milo
rummaged in the Taurus, came back. “Nothing iffy, Doyle, but I’m gonna have
these officers bring you to my office so we can chat some more.”
“I
didn’t do nothing , Lieutenant. I can’t leave, I’m on the job—”
“The
job’s temporarily suspended, Doyle.”
“What
about my car? I leave it there, I’ll get a ticket.”
“I’ll
put a sticker on the windshield.”
Bryczinski’s
eyes watered. “If I don’t work, company’ll can my ass.”
“We’ll
talk at the station, Doyle, everything works out, you’re back here today. But
don’t mess with neighbors.”
“He
ain’t a neighbor, he’s a maniac. Claims he owns the place and tried to hit me
upside the head when I told him to buzz off.”
“Charles Ellston Rutger.”
The
man cleared his throat for the third time, smoothed back thin white hair, cast
a derisive look.
His
houndstooth sport coat was high-grade cashmere with workingleather buttons, suede elbow patches, and a cut that said
tailor-made, but the lapels were several decades too wide. Knife-pressed cream
slacks broke perfectly over spit-shined oxblood loafers. His shirt was
once-blue pinpoint oxford faded to lavender-gray and frayed along the rim of
the collar. A gold gizmo shaped like a safety pin held the collar in place,
elevating the Windsor knot of a pine-green foulard patterned with bugles and
foxhounds. More fabric erosion fuzzed the tie. Same for a canary-yellow pocket
square.
Charles
Rutger’s driver’s license made him sixty-six. Skin as cracked and dry and
blotched as the seats of a convertible
Similar Books
