The Mortal Groove (9 page)

“How much more?”

“Fifty thousand. The woman was a real piece of work. She maintained she had high ethical standards, but then it came out that she also had some nasty debts. For fifty large, we'll not only get her silence, but the file she's worked up.”

“She said that?”

“Not in so many words, but we understood each other. Once we get our hands on the info, we'll know where the holes are. We need to plug them, if you catch my drift. Hope you've got deep pockets, bro, ‘cause that's what it's gonna take.”

Randy's head sank to his chest. “I thought it was all over years ago.

“Well, it ain't, so get used to it.”

“If I give you the fifty, do you trust this woman to play ball with us?”

“Yeah, I do. Fifty thousand's a bunch of cash. I told her I'd need some time. I didn't know whether you'd go for it or not.”

Randy blew out a heavy breath. “I've got the money. I'm just . . . worried. If we get caught offering a bribe to a member of the press, we'll all go down in flames.”

“I understand, man. But look, if I get nailed, I'd never rat you and Del out, you know that. It's your call. But one way or another, she's gotta be dealt with.”

“Did she give you any indication what she has?”

“She's been digging into the Sue thing—you know, the
trial.”
The
Sue thing,
thought Randy. He'd never put it that way, not in a million years. But then Larry had never known Sue all that well. When they were in Nam, Randy would read certain parts of the letters she wrote him to Larry and Del, but mainly he kept her locked away in his heart. Safe. Away from the flies and the heat, the boredom and the terror. She was his secret weapon. He kept her gold locket in his pocket the entire time he was in country. She'd given it to him the day he got on the bus to leave for boot camp. Inside was a tiny pressed violet. He was positive it was the reason he could walk through a firefight and not get shot, walk down a road laced with Bouncing Betties and not get his legs blown off. Lots of guys were superstitious. It was hard not to be. He still had the locket in a desk drawer, not that he ever looked at it anymore. It was too painful now. And besides, the magic was gone. She'd taken it with her when she died.

“Okay,” said Randy. “I'll get the money to you by tomorrow.”

“You gotta go to a bank?”

“Just let me take care of it.”

“Whatever you say, man.” He stretched his arms over his head. “I'm famished. Thought maybe I'd eat what was left of last night's pizza.”

“Bad idea,” said Randy, glancing at the time. It was going on five. “Let me take you out. After what you did today, I owe you big. But I'd like to go running first. You're welcome to come along.”

“Christ, no,” said Larry, choking on the smoke as he let out a laugh. “I get all the exercise my lungs can handle just walkin' around. Think I'll just mosey on upstairs and help myself to a
beer. Maybe do up last night's dishes. Take your time. I'm happy to hang out.”

 

Ethan appeared in Randy's bedroom doorway just as Randy was pulling on his sweatpants. He didn't say anything, he just stood there, hands at his sides, looking morose.

“What's up?” asked Randy. He sat down on the bed to put on his running shoes.

“I heard you and Larry downstairs. You were talking about Sue.”

Randy stopped tying his shoelace and looked up. “It's nothing for you to worry about.”

“Why'd you say her name?”

“We were just talking.”

“Something's going on. Why's Larry here? I don't want it to be about Sue.”

“It's not. He just came to Minnesota for a little vacation.”

“I loved her.”

“I know you did.”

“I didn't hurt her, did I?”

“No, of course not.”

“But those people . . . they all said I did.” He began to rock from side to side.

“You didn't,” said Randy. “We've been through this a million times.”

“But I can't
remember,”
said Ethan, his voice deep yet soft.

“Come in here. Sit down on the bed with me.”

“No.”

Randy could tell his brother was starting to cry. “Ethan, you didn't do anything wrong. You have to trust me.”

“But why can't I
remember?”

“You had too much to drink. You blacked out.”

“I drank, yeah. I was scared.”

“Scared of what?”

Ethan shook his head.

“Sue's in heaven now. You don't have to worry anymore.”

“Is she with Mom?” he said, wiping a hand across his eyes.

“Yes, Ethan, she's with Mom and Dad. They're taking good care of her.”

“But I was supposed to do that! You told me to take care of her when you left to go be a soldier.”

Randy regretted ever saying those words. “You did take care of her.”

“Not the way you wanted. I screwed up. More than you know.”

“You always say that, but you
didn't,
Ethan.”

“You don't know. You don't understand. I'd never hurt her, Randy.”

Randy put his head down and tried to breathe through the pain. “I know, Ethan. All you did was help her.”

Ethan stood in the doorway a moment more, then turned and walked away.

 

Randy ran full out for well over a mile. He didn't want to think, he just wanted to sink into the sensations of his body, exhaust himself until nothing mattered but the next breath. And yet no matter how fast and how far he went, he couldn't run away from himself. Stopping finally, he bent over and rested his hands on his knees, then looked up at the hard, slate-colored clouds drifting across the sky from the west. In the distance came a rumble of thunder. He hadn't listened to the weather report, but it looked like a storm was brewing. Easing upright, he unzipped his
jacket, then took off again, this time more slowly. He was working out the kinks in his legs when he saw it, the charred wreckage of a car down in a deep ditch.

“What the hell,” he whispered. Moving sideways down the embankment to get a closer look, he saw that it was a newer car. A Mazda or a Honda. There was no sign of the driver inside, so hopefully he'd gotten out. Randy tried to imagine what had happened. An overheated engine? Or maybe the gas tank had caught fire when the car hit the ditch.

Walking through the wet, matted weeds, he saw that some of the brush around the car was blackened, but thankfully it had been a wet spring, otherwise the flames might have caused a grass fire.

Randy stood for a moment more, wondering if he should call the cops. There was no rational reason not to, except that every time he reached for the cell phone in the pocket of his jacket, something stopped him.

“This is ridiculous,” he said finally. He tapped in 411 and asked to be connected to the police. He reported the car, gave his name and address, the approximate location along Potter Road, then hung up.

“Stupid,” he said as he climbed back up to the road and continued with his run.

 

Cordelia waited outside the the two-story building on Lyndale Avenue, where
City Beat's
offices were located. She'd been there for all of two minutes when Melanie walked out.

“Hey, Gunderson,” she called, her back pressed against the side of her Hummer.

Melanie gave her an annoyed look and walked in the opposite direction.

“You can outrun me, but I'll hunt you down. You know I will.”

Melanie stopped, turned around. “I'm not interested in an argument.”

Cordelia held up her hands. “Just wanna talk. Nice and friendly.”

“Yeah, I'll bet.”

“Come on. Do I look
that
disagreeable?” She'd worn her favorite new outfit—brown gaucho pants that ended just below the knee, long black leather boots with one-inch heels, a blousey embroidered silk tunic tied at the waist, and to top it off, a flat-brimmed black gaucho hat. She looked spectacular, if she did say so herself.

“I've got an appointment,” said Melanie.

“Yeah. With me.”

“You are so frustrating!”

“Can't we just talk about your investigation like two adults?”

“I'm an adult. Where are we gonna get the other one?”

“Funny.” Cordelia wiped a spot off the hood of her Hummer.

“That thing belong to you?”

“Yup.”

“What's wrong with you?”

“I suppose you drive a Prius.”

“As a matter of fact, I do.”

“Boy, I can see why we split. We've got nothing in common.”

“Amen.”

“I make all the stupid choices and you make all the smart ones. Like smoking.”

“I'm not having this conversation.” She turned, but before she got more than a few feet, Cordelia was next to her.

“You hungry?” she asked.

“As a matter of fact, I'm starving.”

“Well, there. We agree on that. There's a restaurant just up the street. I'll buy you dinner.”

Melanie groaned. “If I have dinner with you, will you leave me alone, not bother me anymore?”

“Deal.”

 

Over tapas, they talked turkey about Melanie's investigation. After a good hour of heated conversation, they agreed that they were unlikely to reach a detente, but by then they were both in much better moods due to the bottle of red wine they'd consumed. The discussion moved back to their breakup—how different they were, and why they could never live together.

“We were so young,” said Cordelia.

“And pigheaded.”

“Want some dessert?”

“Maybe we could split something. You like creme brulee?”

Cordelia turned up her nose. “How about the molten chocolate cake.”

“I can't eat chocolate anymore. It gives me heartburn.” “That's it in a nutshell.” She played with her napkin.

Melanie picked up the small dessert menu, looked it over. “I should probably just get home. I'm into the second season of
Six Feet Under.
Have to say I'm kind of addicted.”

“Wow,” said Cordelia. “I loved that show. I've never seen anything I thought was more brilliantly written, acted, or directed.”

“Really?”

“What's the best book you've read recently?”

“I'd have to think.” She picked up her wineglass, swirled the dregs. “Probably . . . oh,
The Time Traveler's Wife.
By a woman named Niffenegger. I think it was a first book. I loved it.”

“Amazing,” said Cordelia, looking deep into Melanie's eyes. “I adored that book.”

“I'm stunned.”

They eventually moved the conversation back to Cordelia's loft. Melanie was impressed by the space, but she said she didn't like Swedish modern furniture.

“Me either,” said Cordelia.

“Then why's the loft filled with it?”

“It's my current idiom. It's so functionally boring, it kind of appeals to me. ”

“You really are strange, you know that?” Melanie drifted around the living room. Picking up a picture of Hattie, she said, “Who's this?”

“My sister's daughter, Hattie Thorn Lester. She lived with me for two years. I've been more of a mother to her than Octavia ever has.”

“I remember your sister. I can't imagine her with a kid.”

“Takes a special person.”

“You hate kids.”

“Not anymore. Hattie is the most important person in my life. She'll be back, just wait and see.”

When Melanie turned around to look at Cordelia, her eyes had softened. “This is a whole new side to you.”

“I am
truly
multifaceted. Can't remember if you're a kid person or not.”

“I adore children.”

They sat down on the couch, entranced by each other.

“You should do something different with your hair,” said Melanie.

“Think so?”

She touched it.

They polished off another bottle of wine, just sitting and talking. And later, in the wee hours of the morning, after a long, fierce argument about the merits of oaked versus unoaked Chardonnay, they put their relationship back on track.

 

 

L
ate the following morning, Peter was on his third cup of coffee, reading the paper at the kitchen table, when he got a call from the private investigator he'd hired.

“It's Snifflet. You get my invoice?”

“We're not done.”

Shifflet laughed. “You got that right, pal. I dug up some new info.”

“Give.” Sigrid had already left for work, so Peter could talk freely.

“I checked out the Tanhauer who lives on the Upper West Side. No other Matt Tanhauer in Manhattan, and this man's wife's name is Carrie, so I think we got the right guy. He's been working his way up the investment banking ladder for years. He's a VP now at BKL.”