Bury the Lead - By David Rosenfelt Page 0,10
our case.”
He keeps calling it a case, which it certainly isn’t. “Oh, that?” I say. “I’ve got it all figured out. It was Mrs. Plum in the library with a candlestick.”
Click.
I’ve probably talked to Vince on the phone a hundred times, and the next time he says goodbye will be the first.
“You might want to take a look at this,” Edna says.
She’s pointing to a story on her computer. Edna has it set up so that various financial Web sites e-mail her when significant events in her area of interest happen. This one has to do with a merger that has fallen through in the telecommunications industry, sending all similar stocks tumbling in sympathy. Mine is down a point and a half.
“Thanks for sharing that,” I say.
She smiles. “Want me to make you some coffee? It might make you feel better. Everybody’s drinking it these days, you know.”
Stifling my impulse to strangle Edna with my bare hands, I head over to the foundation. I walk in on Willie looking positively giddy; when he sees me, he rushes over and gives me a high five. He’s probably heard that my stock went down.
That’s not it. “Carrie just walked the fuck out the door!” he screams.
Carrie is a seven-year-old Brittany spaniel, blind in one eye and as sweet as they come. Willie has just colorfully told me that she’s been adopted, and he goes on to say that her new parents are an elderly couple who are going to take her to live with them on their boat.
I’ve learned that there are few feelings better than rescuing a dog facing certain, anonymous death in an animal shelter and then sending that dog off to a happy life. It immediately cheers me up, and not even Willie’s question a few moments later can fully detract from that.
“You want some coffee?” he asks. “We’ve got Colombian roast, vanilla nut, cinnamon, hazelnut, and three kinds of decaf. I ordered one of those machines that make lattes, but it’s not here yet.” He pronounces “lattes” to rhyme with “fatties.”
For some reason, I don’t feel like coffee, so I leave for the airport to pick up Laurie, even though I’ll probably get there two hours early. My mood is not improved by the fact that I pass two hundred and thirty-seven Starbucks on the way, give or take a couple of hundred.
For years, Newark Airport stood as a monumental tribute to the arrogance of New Yorkers. It has always had great access by highways, ample parking, and not that much air traffic, so planes generally run on time. By comparison, the highways feeding JFK Airport are so jammed that it’s almost faster to walk, parking is a total pain, the terminals look like they were positioned by blindfolded dart throwers, and the planes are always late. Yet for a very long time, many upscale Manhattanites wouldn’t dream of taking off from or landing in Newark. The mere suggestion of it drew frowns, as if they were afraid they’d get cow dung on their shoes when they left the terminal. These attitudes have changed somewhat, but if you see somebody check the bottom of their shoes when they reach their car, you can still bet they’re heading toward Manhattan.
Being from New Jersey, I’m used to cow dung, so I don’t even look down as I walk to the terminal. Once I get there, boredom sets in, since the tightened security makes it impossible to get to restaurants or newspaper stands or even chairs, for that matter. All of those things are in that glorious land beyond security.
About twenty minutes before Laurie’s flight is scheduled to arrive, my cell phone rings. I think it might be her, calling to say she’s landed early and wondering where I’m waiting.
Instead, it’s Vince. “Where are you?”
“Newark Airport.”
“How fast can you get to Eastside Park?” he asks.
“I hope that’s a rhetorical question.”
“What?”
“How does a week from Tuesday sound?”
“Andy, I need you down here. There’s been another murder.”
I’m very sorry to hear that, of course, but there’s no way I’m leaving this airport alone. “Vince, I’m a lawyer. I don’t go to crime scenes. I hold up photographs of them in court.”
“Andy . . .”
It’s time to be firm. “I’ll have to read about it in the paper, Vince. Laurie is coming in, and—”
He cuts me off. “The victim is Linda Padilla.”
I’m outta here.
• • • • •
I’M OUT OF THE AIRPORT in five minutes, leaving Laurie to fend for herself. If Linda Padilla