Read Online The Manipulated (Joe Portugal Mysteries) by Nathan Walpow - Free Book Online Page A

“Uh-huh?”
    “Don’t ever say anything you’re gonna say’s gonna sound stupid. Puts you at a disadvantage. You got something stupid to say, be proud of it.”
    I smiled. I liked this guy. Kind of like my father, but without the familial baggage. “Good advice. I’ll try to remember.”
    “Good. Go ahead.”
    “This friend of mine … his wife disappeared four years and some ago on a trip to China. She’s never been found. Sunday night, we were at Staples together, and he was looking though his binoculars, and he happened to see someone he was convinced was his wife.”
    “Guy needs to let go.”
    “I agree. But I’ve gotten involved in a couple of things in the last couple of years that made him think I could find this woman, and either it would be his wife or it wouldn’t, but at least he’d know. So I pulled a couple of strings and found out—”
    “That they’re my tickets, where she was sitting.”
    “That’s it.”
    “And you want to know who was using them that night.”
    “I know, it’s—”
    He gave me a look. Don’t be ashamed of your stupidity. I shut my yap.
    “You’re a good friend,” he said.
    I shrugged.
    “And kind of a good detective too.”
    “I suppose.”
    John Santini was watching me, and again I was reminded of my father, and how when he inspects me I feel like a teenager.
    “My assistant,” he said.
    “I don’t get you.”
    “My assistant, her name’s Alma Rodriguez. It was her I gave the tickets to. I mean usually they go to customers, you know, that’s mostly what they’re for, but her brother was in town from New York. Big Rangers fan, so I gave her the tickets for her and her husband and him and his wife.”
    “I see. Any way I could—”
    “Sure. She’s up on the third floor. Fucking place is a mess up there, we got a crew cleaning up, she’s making sure they do the job right. I’ll get her down here.” He got up, picked up the phone, punched three keys. “It’s me. Come on down a minute. I got someone I need you to meet.” He hung up. “On her way.”
    “I really appreciate this, Mr.—”
    “John.”
    “John. I really do appreciate it.”
    He waved my thanks away. “Nothing. It’s nothing. Hmm. Portugal. Hey, you wouldn’t happen to be related to Harold Portugal, would you?”
    Where had this come from? “As a matter of fact, he’s my father.”
    “You’re Harold the Horse’s kid?”
    “Sure am.”
    “How the hell is he?”
    “He’s fine. How—”
    A knock at the door.
    “Alma? Come on in.”
    The door swung open. A dark-haired woman stood there. I found myself on my feet.

Ten
    It wasn’t her.
    There was some resemblance, general size and shape, hair color, something about the contours of the face. But Alma Rodriguez’s eyes were closer together than Donna’s. And she was at least five years older than Donna would be, and her face was much harder.
    But across an arena through a pair of binoculars, with everyone on their feet and jumping around at the end of a game, when you’re still pining for the woman you lost four years ago? I supposed someone could make that mistake.
    I walked forward, shook her hand. “Ms. Rodriguez.”
    “Mrs. It was good enough when Mario and I got married, it’s good enough now.”
    “Thank you for coming down. I …” I didn’t know what to say. I turned to John Santini for help.
    “The other night, at Staples,” he said, “this friend of his thought he recognized you. There’s more than that, but you probably don’t care.”
    “If you say so, John.”
    “You done with her, Joe? ’Cause she’s got a lot to do, and with her down here the idiots upstairs are probably goofing off.”
    “Yeah,” I said. “I’m done.” I turned back to her. “Thanks for … well, just thanks. From me, and from my friend.”
    “You’re welcome.” She left the room, flicking the light switch off on her way out. The useless overhead bulb went dark.
    I returned to the couch, sat, got up again.“I