to talk to you, Post.’
‘Why’d you let me in?’
‘A moment of weakness. Have you got any credible leads on Match’s killer?’
Post snorted.
‘What makes you think I’d give you confidential information about an ongoing police investigation?’
‘You have before.’
He scowled.
‘And it worked well for us, didn’t it? I mean, we’ve got some kind of synergy, Post. Think about it. You just don’t recognize it.’
He crumpled the paper towel I’d given him to use instead of a plate for his pizza and tossed it onto the coffee table between us. ‘Spill, Ventana. What have Teagues and Malone got to say?’
‘Why don’t you interview them yourself?’
‘We have.’
‘And?’
‘Just tell me what they told you.’
‘Are we comparing notes?’
He hesitated, then nodded. His thick mane of hair swayed as his head moved.
‘You’re assuming I’m investigating Match’s murder. I’m not. I do have one question for you, though. Why did the ME release Match’s body already?’
Post straightened in his seat. His bushy eyebrows furrowed. ‘What?’
‘I thought five days was your own personal hard and fast rule. Who changed your mind?’
‘What are you saying?’
‘I’m saying I was with Sharon Margolis today when she put Match’s ashes in their final resting place.’
Post sprang to his feet and yanked out his cell phone in one deft motion. He was punching buttons on it as he rushed out the door. By the time he was halfway down the stairs, he was bellowing at some poor soul on the other end who’d drawn the short straw of luck for the night when he picked up the phone and got Post.
Myself? I was just happy he was gone.
15
I t’d been a full day but I wasn’t tired. Jazz kept floating through my head, so I looked around and put on one of Match’s CDs. Two minutes was all I could stand, though, before I shut it off. The music made me sad.
I was writing up a report that was way past due on an insurance thing I’d worked last week when the phone rang. ‘Ronnie! What are you doing?’
‘Mitch?’
‘Yeah. What are you doing?’
‘Working.’
‘Great. Listen, Ron, look out your window, okay?’
‘Why?’
‘Just look, will you? Walk over to your window and look out.’
I knew Mitch. He wasn’t going to go away until I did. So I dragged the phone over to the curtainless window. I looked. Neon gleamed down the street off Columbus Avenue. The stars were out overhead.
‘Down,’ Mitch said through the receiver. ‘Look down. Across the street.’
I did. There, double-parked, forcing every single car coming down the narrow, one-way street to slowly eke its way past, sat a shiny but vintage blue bathtub Porsche. There was a man inside it, a real knockout of a guy. I looked closer. He was waving at me with one hand, clutching a silver cell phone in the other. Mitchell.
The voice on the line chuckled.
‘What do you think?’ he asked.
‘About what?’
‘The car, Ron. It’s me down here, can’t you see me? I’m in the Porsche.’
‘You bought another car?’
‘Yeah.’
‘What’s that make, eighteen?’
He laughed and kept waving. The passers-by - tourists and drunks - were starting to stare.
I said, ‘That’s great, Mitch.’
‘Yeah.’ He sounded satisfied. ‘Why don’t you come down? We’ll go for a ride.’
‘I’m working.’
‘We can ride around.’
‘Sounds great, Mitch, but I’d rather not.’
‘Come on, Ron. There’s something else I wanted to run by you.’
Mitchell never saw me without ‘having to talk’ or ‘run something by.’ He seemed to forget we weren’t married anymore, and one of the reasons we weren’t was because we’d ‘talked’ ourselves out of being married.
I looked at my watch. It was ten o’clock. Mitch’s crisis was probably about which kind of foreign car he should buy next. ‘Some other time, Mitch.’
‘All right. I’ll come up. But if I get a ticket, man, it’s on your head.’
He hung up
‘Why’d you let me in?’
‘A moment of weakness. Have you got any credible leads on Match’s killer?’
Post snorted.
‘What makes you think I’d give you confidential information about an ongoing police investigation?’
‘You have before.’
He scowled.
‘And it worked well for us, didn’t it? I mean, we’ve got some kind of synergy, Post. Think about it. You just don’t recognize it.’
He crumpled the paper towel I’d given him to use instead of a plate for his pizza and tossed it onto the coffee table between us. ‘Spill, Ventana. What have Teagues and Malone got to say?’
‘Why don’t you interview them yourself?’
‘We have.’
‘And?’
‘Just tell me what they told you.’
‘Are we comparing notes?’
He hesitated, then nodded. His thick mane of hair swayed as his head moved.
‘You’re assuming I’m investigating Match’s murder. I’m not. I do have one question for you, though. Why did the ME release Match’s body already?’
Post straightened in his seat. His bushy eyebrows furrowed. ‘What?’
‘I thought five days was your own personal hard and fast rule. Who changed your mind?’
‘What are you saying?’
‘I’m saying I was with Sharon Margolis today when she put Match’s ashes in their final resting place.’
Post sprang to his feet and yanked out his cell phone in one deft motion. He was punching buttons on it as he rushed out the door. By the time he was halfway down the stairs, he was bellowing at some poor soul on the other end who’d drawn the short straw of luck for the night when he picked up the phone and got Post.
Myself? I was just happy he was gone.
15
I t’d been a full day but I wasn’t tired. Jazz kept floating through my head, so I looked around and put on one of Match’s CDs. Two minutes was all I could stand, though, before I shut it off. The music made me sad.
I was writing up a report that was way past due on an insurance thing I’d worked last week when the phone rang. ‘Ronnie! What are you doing?’
‘Mitch?’
‘Yeah. What are you doing?’
‘Working.’
‘Great. Listen, Ron, look out your window, okay?’
‘Why?’
‘Just look, will you? Walk over to your window and look out.’
I knew Mitch. He wasn’t going to go away until I did. So I dragged the phone over to the curtainless window. I looked. Neon gleamed down the street off Columbus Avenue. The stars were out overhead.
‘Down,’ Mitch said through the receiver. ‘Look down. Across the street.’
I did. There, double-parked, forcing every single car coming down the narrow, one-way street to slowly eke its way past, sat a shiny but vintage blue bathtub Porsche. There was a man inside it, a real knockout of a guy. I looked closer. He was waving at me with one hand, clutching a silver cell phone in the other. Mitchell.
The voice on the line chuckled.
‘What do you think?’ he asked.
‘About what?’
‘The car, Ron. It’s me down here, can’t you see me? I’m in the Porsche.’
‘You bought another car?’
‘Yeah.’
‘What’s that make, eighteen?’
He laughed and kept waving. The passers-by - tourists and drunks - were starting to stare.
I said, ‘That’s great, Mitch.’
‘Yeah.’ He sounded satisfied. ‘Why don’t you come down? We’ll go for a ride.’
‘I’m working.’
‘We can ride around.’
‘Sounds great, Mitch, but I’d rather not.’
‘Come on, Ron. There’s something else I wanted to run by you.’
Mitchell never saw me without ‘having to talk’ or ‘run something by.’ He seemed to forget we weren’t married anymore, and one of the reasons we weren’t was because we’d ‘talked’ ourselves out of being married.
I looked at my watch. It was ten o’clock. Mitch’s crisis was probably about which kind of foreign car he should buy next. ‘Some other time, Mitch.’
‘All right. I’ll come up. But if I get a ticket, man, it’s on your head.’
He hung up
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