"Where? In the park?"
"No."
It's my turn to get annoyed. "Dammit, Oscar, where the hell were you?"
He proceeds to tell me a rather uneventful tale of retail drug peddling in and around the park, with a little pimping thrown in. All of this took place until about one A.M., and he claims that some of the people he mentions would testify if called upon, but even without meeting them I can safely assume that none would have any credibility before a jury.
After one A.M. the rendition gets fuzzy. Only through repeated questioning am I able to piece together that he went to make a payment to the entity that grants him permission to function. In other words, he had to pay his mob bosses their standard piece of the action, and he was doing just that after one A.M.
"I need names, Oscar. Of the people you saw while you were making this payment."
Oscar actually laughs at the absurdity of the request. "Forget it. No fucking way. I give you those names, and you're defending a dead man."
I could give him another lecture on attorney-client privilege, and how the information would be safe with me, but I know it won't help. So I try to get at it a different way. I ask him to tell me the neighborhood, the street, that he was on during this business transaction. Eventually, he does, though he doesn't want to take any chances, so he narrows it to within a two-block radius. The area is a neighborhood that even I am aware is considered by organized crime to be home base.
"How long were you there?" I ask.
"'Bout three hours."
"To make a payment?" It seems like an inordinately long time.
"They were busy," he explains. "They kept me waiting."
"Is that unusual?"
"Usually, it don't take as long," he says, then qualifies it with, "When I go to them."
"You mean there are times they come to you?"
I can see him regain a measure of pride. "Sure. Most of the time."
I take him through the three hours he spent in the neighborhood in question. Basically, he hung out in the cellar of the house he was visiting, except for about a half hour when he went out to get something to eat.
"Did you eat at a restaurant?" I ask.
"Nah, I went to one of those big supermarkets--Food Fair, I think it's called. They make these really good sandwiches."
"Did you pay with a credit card?"
"A credit card?" he asks, indicating how absurd the question is. I might as well have asked if he had paid with a walrus.
He doesn't think anybody in the store would remember him, and the truth is, it's not as if Brad Pitt had come in that night for the sandwich. Oscar is a number of things, but memorable is not one of them. I let him off the hook with no more questions for now and tell him we'll be meeting again in a day or two.
As I'm leaving, he asks, "Man, I got things to work on. Am I gonna be stuck in here long?"
"I think it makes sense to go ahead and order furniture and drapes, if that's what you're asking."
It turns out that wasn't what he was asking.
GEOFFREY STYNES IS NOWHERE TO BE FOUND.
Not that I'm spending a lot of time looking for him. But I've more than half expected him to look me up, to complain about my taking on Garcia as a form of breaking privilege, or at least a conflict of interest. I don't think such claims would have merit, but I did expect him to make them.
These kinds of thoughts are running through my mind as Laurie and I are having dinner at my house. She mentions that I'm being quiet, but doesn't push to find out what's on my mind.
We are just finishing dinner when Vince Sanders calls. "I checked out Geoffrey Stynes," he says.
"And?" I ask.
"And I also checked out the tooth fairy, Rumpelstiltskin, and Tinker Bell. They don't really exist either."
"You're losing me."
"That must happen to you a lot," he says. "Maybe you should wear a bell around your neck."
"What the hell are you talking about?" Vince can be somewhat difficult to chat with.
"There are two registered Geoffrey Stynes with that spelling," he says. "One was born four months ago Wednesday, and the other is ninety-two and in a rest home. In addition to that, none of the sources I checked, and I checked a shitload of sources, have heard of him. Which causes me to wonder why the hell you're wasting my time."
I can't say too much, because Laurie is sitting right near me and I don't want to answer a lot of questions. "Interesting" is all I can muse out loud.
"You sure you want to share a major piece of news like that?" Vince asks. "What if I got captured and tortured? They might force out of me the fact that Andy Carpenter thought it was interesting."
"Hold out as long as you can. Your country needs you."
"Don't forget," he says, "if there's a story here, it's mine."
"You know, for some people, doing a favor for a friend is payment enough."
"Then you should have asked them," he snarls, just before he hangs up.
The rest of the evening is quiet. Laurie reads, and I pretend to read while all the time thinking about the case. It's uncomfortable for me that there is a great deal I can't share with her, it's the first time I've had this experience. My sense is also that there are things she isn't sharing with me, most of them centering around Oscar Garcia.
In fact, for all I know, she might also be pretending to read. If she is, then she's more intellectual than I am; she fake-reads higher-quality stuff. Tara is more honest than either of us; she doesn't just pretend to chew on a toy, she actually chews on it.
It's about eleven o'clock when I get tired of fake-reading and Laurie and I go to bed. Once we get into bed, we go to sleep. We have passed the point in our relationship where we have sex at every opportunity. We're still up in the eighty percent range, but sometimes I find myself longing for the good old days.
I get up earlier than Laurie, because I had arranged to meet with Kevin at eight in the office. When I arrive, he is polishing off his standard breakfast: one bagel, toasted, with cream cheese, one bagel, not toasted, with butter. There are people who can stuff their faces and not gain a pound; Kevin is most definitely not one of those people. The main eating difference between Kevin and Vince Sanders is that Vince overeats only fattening, unhealthful foods. Kevin will eat anything: put a barrel of wheat germ in front of him and he'll inhale it.
Kevin and I are alone; Edna isn't in yet. We could have met at ten and we'd still be alone. Since Edna doesn't do any actual work, she doesn't see the need to put in long hours. There's an irrefutable logic to that which I have given up trying to refute.
Kevin met with the coroner yesterday, and even though there isn't much information of value, he is confident that he got all there was to get. The condition of the body makes it impossible to be definitive in the findings, but it appears that the cause of death was the decapitation, that Dorsey was alive when it was done. The lividity, and the resulting effects of the fire, make the coroner quite confident that death came within an hour before the fire. This fits in neatly with my knowledge that the murder took place behind Hinchcliffe Stadium, which is about forty-five minutes from the warehouse.
Since the police know when the fire was set, they can make their estimate of the time of death unusually precise: Dorsey was murdered between two-thirty and three A.M. Right in the middle of the time Oscar says he was all the way on the other side of town, making his weekly payment to the mob.
It is there that Laurie and I meet to begin the process. I am the attorney and Laurie is the investigator; I have no illusions about our roles and no desire to reverse them. But I like to be present at the scene at the beginning of each investigation; it connects me to the case in a way that feels helpful.