I’ve got another piece of dirt that might interest you.”
“How’s that?”
“Lena Prosnicki, his mother, is dead.”
Poole rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms, feeling that the further along this went, the less he liked it. “How did she die?”
“They pulled her out of the river.”
Poole nodded. “So they put me through the ringer and then they kill his mother. They don’t want this kid found. Why?”
Frings shrugged, playing it cagey. “Could be any number of reasons.”
Thanks, Poole thought. He said, “The guy that cut you. Did it have to do with Casper Prosnicki, your meeting with him?”
Frings’s hesitation was his answer.
Poole continued, “Big guy. Blond hair. Scar on his lip?”
Frings nodded.
This was spiraling out of control.
“I’m going to find that kid,” Poole said. “You think he’ll be down in the warehouses tomorrow?”
“Could be.” Frings’s eyes were dead again, though this time Poole guessed it was a ploy. Frings seemed to have reached his limit. He wasn’t going to divulge any more.
“I’ll hold on to those photos for a while,” Poole said.
“Appreciated.”
“You played straight with me. I’ll do that for you. For a while.”
Frings frowned and nodded his head. “I don’t need long.”
Poole got up from the table and did not shake Frings’s hand. “What if I need to get in touch?”
“Call me at the paper. We can set up a meet. I’m not going to give you up. I start giving up sources and I’m through.”
So Poole was a source now. “All right.”
He found the night considerably colder than when he had arrived. The sidewalks were empty. The streetlights illuminated bright circles in the hard pavement and asphalt. A lorry rattled by and a hack slowed to see if Poole was a fare. He shook his head and the cab crept on. He pulled his collar up against the wind and started the long walk home.
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
Frings sat alone at the table contemplating and trying to sip his coffee with the good side of his mouth. Why didn’t they want Casper Prosnicki found? It didn’t make any sense. Did they know that he was the bomber? Wouldn’t it make more sense, if they did know, to catch him and show that they had the City under control? And if they didn’t know he was the bomber, why did they care if anyone found him? Frings was missing something, some deduction or some information.
Was the key in Casper’s bizarre claim that the mayor’s cohorts owed him money? Did this destitute boy had some leverage on the most powerful men in the City? If Casper Prosnicki had such knowledge, why didn’t he spill it last night? Frings wondered if Casper could communicate well enough to tell anyone his secrets.
Frings finished his coffee and ordered a bourbon on the rocks. Prosnicki. Bernal. Samuelson. Twenty murderers free. What did it mean? Prosnicki and Bernal. Bernal and Samuelson. Prosnicki and Samuelson? Was that the key? Wasn’t Casper Prosnicki’s father murdered by someone on that list of men who weren’t in prison? Was this all of one piece or was Bernal a common factor in two otherwise unrelated issues?
It was frustrating and Frings’s buzz was waning. He popped another painkiller as the hint of a burning sensation licked at his lip.
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
Part of the new regime, Puskis was learning, was to eat meals out, which was fine. He sat with his two minders at Kostas’ Diner, eating pasta with tomato sauce and garlic bread. The two men ate sausage sandwiches and drank coffee.
Puskis asked, “How can I afford to eat like this every day?”
The smaller of the two men, sporting a trim mustache, seemed to be in charge. “You get a per diem.”
“Do you have it?”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you have it? Do you have my per diem?”
“Of course. Lead man on each shift will have it.”
“Can I have it?”
“Your per diem?”
“Yes. Can I have the money? I would prefer to be responsible for my own finances, if that is acceptable.”
The mustache shrugged. “I don’t see any harm.” He pulled a clip of bills from the breast pocket of his jacket and handed two fives over to Puskis.
“Thank you.”
The junior of the two men was uncomfortable in silence. “You must have seen it all, Mr. Puskis.”
This seemed an odd thing to say. “I haven’t actually seen anything,” he replied. This, he reflected, was true and not true. He had not witnessed anything beyond the incoming and outgoing paperwork that made up his life. But the sheer volume of knowledge that he possessed did probably