Round Robin (22 page)

Chapter 20

The second week in December, Tone Morello went to hire a private investigator.

By now, Tone was a well-established and popular feature on the Iggy Gross show. He got his own fan mail, some days, much to Iggy’s fear and loathing, more than the shock-jock did. Tone didn’t overplay his hand, though. He never made a big deal about the mail, and he didn’t tell Iggy that the station manager of a local TV network affiliate had asked him out for drinks two nights ago. Nothing had been offered directly to Tone at that meeting, but the man had spent much of the evening talking about his pending divorce, how much his wife would be taking him for, and how castrating some women could be; he was sure Tone could sympathize. Showing unusual restraint, Tone had limited himself to a polite nod. Then the guy had brought up the other big problem in his life, how the jerk he had doing his sports was the weak link in a broadcast that would otherwise be number one in its time slot, and how, even though the jerk’s contract was up next spring, he didn’t know who was around to replace the guy. Again, Tone refused to jump at the bait. He just sipped his drink and shrugged.

This same yutz had refused to take Tone’s calls six weeks earlier.

Humiliation had made Tone humble, or at least more so than he’d ever been, and if humility hadn’t actually made him smarter it had let him see things more clearly than before. As a result of this new clarity, Tone was learning some new moves. Being patient for one. He was sure he’d be free of Iggy and back on TV in a few months. No need to rush, no need to force it, no need to pass up enjoying someone else’s discomfort.

And in the meantime, he had some business to attend to.

Tone entered the IBM building where the private investigator had his offices. No gumshoe above a storefront for him. He rode the elevator up to a suite of offices that might have belonged to a law firm. Several copies of the
Wall Street Journal
were neatly arranged on a coffee table in the reception area. The receptionist was a knockout, but she was dressed so conservatively and groomed so severely that no one would ever think of hitting on her. Especially not Tone. Restraint with women — okay, fear of women — was another of his new moves.

He announced himself and was taken directly back to the corner office of Aubrey Tannis, president of the company and chief of investigations. Tone shook Tannis’ hand and declined the offer of coffee. When the receptionist left, Tone got down to business.

“Do you know who I am?” Tone asked.

The investigator gave a perfunctory smile. His teeth were like the rest of him: small, tidily arranged and immaculately kept.

He said, “I know of you, somewhat. You’re a media personality, formerly on television, presently on radio.”

A fancy computer sat on the return of Tannis’ desk. To Tone, the investigator looked and talked like the kind of guy who did all of his work right there. Digging dirt with his keyboard, never ruining his manicure or putting a hair out of place. Tone wondered if he and the receptionist were getting it on, phoning in the sex over the intercom.

Tannis was supposed to be the best, but maybe he wasn’t the kind of guy who could sympathize with Tone’s problem.

“I’d like you to check out a woman for me.”

“Regarding?”

“Regarding whether she has it in for me personally.”

“You’re speaking of Ms. Robin Phinney?”

Tone wasn’t too surprised that the investigator had learned of his ignominy.

“You checked me out?”

“Whenever a prospective client comes to us we do a light background check before the initial appointment. It gives us something to talk about ... and insulates the company against any unpleasant surprises or unwanted legal proceedings.”

“Then you know what happened?”

“The popular press intimated that Ms. Phinney may have been indirectly involved in your recent career change.”

“She gutted me,” Tone said. “She did it in public, and she cost me a three hundred and fifty grand paycheck!”

Tone lost it there for a second as the heat of the memory came back in a rush. Then he got a grip on himself and calmed down before Tannis started looking at him funny.

“What I want to know is, did she do it because of something personal. She kept my picture over her bed and was pining away for me? Or is she some kind of sadist that ruins guys on a regular basis? I want to know anything and everything that makes her tick. You think you can do that for me?”

“To what use would you put such information?”

Tone was ready for that one.

He couldn’t come right out and say what he wanted to do, he knew that.

“I want to know if there’s any point suing her.”

“A woman who works in a delicatessen isn’t likely to have many recoverable assets.”

“I want my day in court, if I can get one, that’s all. I want my good name back.”

Tannis cupped his chin in his right hand and looked at Tone.

Tone kept his face straight, but he knew all the way down to his bone marrow that this neat little creep didn’t believe a word he’d said. The guy was just trying to decide if Tone had given him enough cover in case Robin were to come back at him.

Tannis reached his decision and folded his hands in front of him, like a parochial school kid getting ready for morning prayers.

“Very well, Mr. Morello, I’ll find out everything there is to know about Ms. Phinney for you. Everything relevant to your request.”

“Everything, period.”

For a moment, Tone thought that demand would be the deal-breaker ... but then Tannis nodded and smiled again.

And told Tone how much the job would cost.

David had caught a cold, so instead of taking Bianca to a cartoon festival at Columbia College he brought her home early. Bianca said she would be fine alone in her apartment for the forty-five minutes until her father got home from school. David insisted he would wait with her until Manfred arrived, and then he’d go home and drown himself in his mother’s chicken soup. When they stepped through the outer door of Robin’s house, Bianca gasped.

“What?” David asked, alarmed. “What is it?”

Bianca pointed.

David looked through the glass panes of the inner door and up to the first floor landing. The door to the apartment there was ajar.

Bianca said, “The door to the Magic Garden is open, and it is never left open.”

“Magic Garden?”

“You haven’t seen it?” Bianca asked.

“No.”

“Oh, you must see it. It is wonderful.”

“You have a key to this door?” David tried the inner door, it was locked.

“Manfred does,” Bianca said with an impish grin.

She let herself into her apartment, for which she did have a key. She hurried to the kitchen and pulled a ring of keys out of a drawer. Then she ran back to David and handed the keys to him.

He said with more than a little uncertainty, “You really think Robin would want us to do this?”

Bianca played him like a fiddle.

“That door is never left open ... something could be wrong ... terribly wrong ... she might be lying there hurt ... in great pain ... perhaps crawling upstairs ... collapsing before she can reach the phone.”

“All right, all right,” David said. A life-long city dweller, he was highly suggestible to images of urban violence.

He looked at the brand name on the lock, found the appropriate key and let the two of them in. Bianca shot past him like a streak. David followed more cautiously, softly calling Robin’s name.

He got no answer. Checking, he saw that Robin was not lying unconscious on the stairs and that the door to her apartment was tightly shut. When he stepped into the park, he saw no immediate sign that Robin was there either. Bianca was sitting on the edge of a fish-pond, trailing her hand in the water.

She smiled at David.

“Isn’t this the most wonderful Magic Garden? I shall have one just like it someday.”

“I can’t find Robin anywhere,” David said.

That was the least of Bianca’s concerns. The only thing better than having the Magic Garden to herself was sharing it with David. She wanted the moment to last.

“Don’t worry. She’ll turn up. She always does.”

Bianca’s grasp of colloquial English had grown by leaps and bounds since she’d become a regular at Mimi’s, especially with David there to fill in the gaps.

David was not comforted by Bianca’s blithe reassurance. He walked slowly to the back of the park, looking under thick clumps of plantings, half-fearing he’d find Robin lying in a pool of blood, done in by some vicious home-invader. With increasing trepidation, he made his way to the rear of the space — and almost jumped out of his skin when someone tapped him from behind.

He whirled to find that Bianca had stolen up behind him.

“Don’t worry,” she said in German, “who could hurt such a
hag
as her?”

Then she scurried to a nearby park bench and patted the space next to her for David to take, which he did.

“Isn’t this a beautiful place,” Bianca asked looking around, still speaking her native tongue.

David replied in the same language, but not to the question she’d asked.

“You think Robin is a
hag?”

Bianca heard the note of disapproval in his voice and grew defensive.

“Do you think she is beautiful?”

“Well, yes ... yes, I do. I always have.”

“Then you need new glasses,” Bianca said dismissively.

She had learned there were times when you simply had to let a man feel your scorn.

David frowned.

He had his book bag with him, as he always did on school days. In the bag was his sketchpad. On one of its pages was one of his “princess” drawings of Robin. He was still convinced that it was an accurate representation of how Robin had appeared at one time. He was tempted to show the drawing to Bianca.

The problem was that since Bianca had begun telling him stories of life in the demi-monde he’d been illustrating the images those stories had conjured up in his mind. That was why he no longer felt safe leaving his sketchpad locked up in his desk at work, and took it with him everywhere he went. The last thing he wanted was for Bianca to see those drawings.

“Actually,” Bianca said, continuing her theme, “I sometimes think
hag
is too kind a word for her. Witch comes closer, I think.”

That did it for David. This smug little brat was insufferable. He dug into his book bag and pulled out his sketchpad. Taking great care to reveal only the drawing he desired, he thrust the page at Bianca’s nose.

“This, this is what Robin once looked like! This is what she looks like inside, and if
you
could see better, you would know it.”

Bianca instinctively pulled her head back from the object thrust at her. She was about to glare at David when the image he’d drawn captured her attention. Yes, this woman was beautiful, and if you looked very closely you could see some resemb—

“Hey, who’s there?” a voice called out.

“Robin?” David asked.

He snapped the sketchpad shut and quickly jammed it back into his book bag. He stood up just as Robin came into sight.

She saw the two of them, David and the kid ... and the kid was staring at her, like she’d never seen Robin before and was trying to, what, look right through her or something.

Well, the kid was weird. Robin knew that, and she wasn’t going to let it bother her.

“What are you two doing here?”

David sneezed, sniffled and blew his nose.

“I brought Bianca home early, and we saw the door to this ... this place was open. Bianca said it was never open so we came in to see if everything was all right.”

Robin gave the explanation a two-bit analysis to see if it rang true, and in the end she bought it.