Nick of Time (A Bug Man Novel) (9 page)
“You respect somebody besides yourself?” Nick said.
“Shocker.”
“As a matter of fact I do, Polchak. I respect the FBI, and I respect fellow law enforcement professionals like your friend here. What I don’t respect is a guy who pokes his nose where it doesn’t belong—even after he’s been told not to.”
“Are we done here?” Nick said. “Because I really need to go somewhere and have a good cry.”
“Get out of here,” Misco said. “It was a pleasure meeting
you
, Mr. Donovan.”
When they stepped out onto the sidewalk, Donovan said, “Well, Nick, I just hope you’ve learned your lesson.”
“You make me sick,” Nick grumbled. “ ‘Fellow law enforcement professionals’—I’m surprised the two of you didn’t go out for a couple’s massage.”
“You’re just jealous,” Donovan said. “Hey, I don’t see your car. Can I drop you somewhere?”
“Yes,” Nick said. “As a matter of fact you can.”
***
“You gotta be kidding,” Donovan said. “Are you trying to get me arrested too?”
They sat parked across the street from Pete Boudreau’s house in Upper Roxborough; the yellow crime scene tape barring the front door was clearly visible from the street.
“I’m not going inside the house,” Nick said. “I’m just picking something up.”
“What?”
Without bothering to reply, Nick exited the car and crossed the street. He walked around to the left side of the house and surprised an older woman trimming her shrubs with an old pair of wood-handled garden shears. Nick held up one hand and said reassuringly, “Don’t mind me—just a pervert passing through.” He walked along Pete’s hedge to the living room window, then squeezed between the bushes and retrieved the manila file folder he had dropped there the night before.
As he passed the old woman again she squinted at him suspiciously. “Does that belong to you?” she asked.
“It does now. Possession is nine-tenths of the law—and I always obey the law.”
“What is it?”
“It’s a list of all the people in the neighborhood who need to mind their own business. Have a nice day.”
Nick climbed back into Donovan’s car and set the folder on his lap. Donovan nodded at the folder. “What’s that?”
“That’s the reason Pete Boudreau is dead,” Nick said. “I left my car about three blocks from here—let’s swing by and pick it up on the way.”
“On the way to what?”
“I’m hungry,” he said. “You’re buying me breakfast.”
B
ill—it’s Nick Polchak.”
“Nick—you back in North Carolina already?”
“No, I’m still in town. I decided to stay over.”
“You sure beat a path out of Vidocq yesterday. I figured you couldn’t wait to get back to that fiancée of yours.”
“I had some things to take care of first. Look, I was wondering if you could do something for me.”
“Sure. What’s up?”
“I’ve missed a lot of the Vidocq meetings lately—haven’t made it up here since last fall. I’m looking for a list of presenters from the last six to nine months.”
“Yeah, we’ve got that. What are you looking for?”
“I need contact information: names, addresses—especially phone numbers. Case summaries would be helpful too.”
“Six months of case summaries . . . that could take a little time.”
“Then the summaries can wait—just send me the contact info.”
“How soon do you need it?”
“No hurry—the next three minutes would be fine.”
There was a chuckle on the other end. “Nick—can I tell you something about marriage?”
“Can you do it while you’re typing?”
“Marriage will make a patient man out of you.”
“As long as it happens fast,” Nick said. “Are you sending it now?”
There was a brief pause. “Okay—it’s on its way. What’s this for?”
“I’ll fill you in later. Thanks, Bill.” Nick punched the End button and dropped the cell phone into his shirt pocket.
Nick and Donovan sat at a table in Chubby’s Steaks on Henry Avenue with papers spread all over the table and Nick’s laptop open in front of him. Chubby’s cherry-red awning was a landmark in Roxborough and Manayunk; people drove from miles around to sample the best cheesesteak sandwich in all of Philly, and Nick never missed the opportunity whenever he was in town. Chubby’s didn’t open until late morning, and Nick and Donovan were waiting at the door when it did to allow them to beat the lunch rush and spread out a bit—which they were currently doing.
Nick stared in annoyance at his laptop screen. “How long does it take for an e-mail to travel across town?”
“Electrons only travel at the speed of light,” Donovan said. “Sorry we can’t make it faster for you.” He used his fork to heap more onions onto his savory sandwich. “Is this your idea of breakfast?”
“Shut up and eat your cheese fries,” Nick said. “You want a balanced diet, don’t you?”
“Does Alena let you eat like this?”
“Does she
let
me? What’s that whipping sound I hear?”
“You talk tough now. Just wait.”
Nick looked at him. “Why is it that every time I tell someone I’m getting married, they say, ‘Just wait’? Is that somebody’s idea of premarital counseling?”
“They’re trying to tell you that marriage is an adjustment. People might handle the adjustment better if they knew it was coming—most of them don’t. Marriage might not be so hard if people didn’t expect it to be so easy.”
“What’s with all the marital advice all of a sudden?”
“You’re the one who keeps calling me, remember?”
“Yeah, but now you’re volunteering. Is there something you’re trying to tell me?”
“I just don’t want you showing up at my door a week after the wedding with suitcase in hand—’cause I’m not letting you in. Marriage is a one-way street, Nick, so you better decide if you’re ready to drive before you make the turn.”
“If I’m
ready
? Donovan—I’m getting married in three days.”
“I know. So what are you doing?”
“I know. So “What?”
Donovan pointed his fork at the table. “Pete’s phone records—and you just asked for contact information for everybody who’s presented a case to Vidocq in the last few months. I know you, Nick—I’ve worked with you before, remember? I know how you think and I know what you’re doing here. You think maybe somebody killed Pete Boudreau because of something he was working on. So you’re planning to match his phone records against the phone numbers Vidocq sends you—right?”
Nick just made a little shrug.
“And if you find a match, then what?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Don’t lie to me. You’ll follow it up—you know you will. You’ll call the presenter and you’ll ask about the case. And if you don’t like the answers he gives you or the sound of his voice, you’ll go visit the guy—right now, today—and it doesn’t matter if the guy lives in Kathmandu.”
“Nepal is a bit far,” Nick said. “I only have half a tank of gas.”
“Yeah—and you should be using it to drive back to Endor.”
“Pete was a friend of mine, okay? What am I supposed to do, just walk away and leave the investigation to that idiot Misco? You know what will happen, Donovan: Misco will ask
who
, but he won’t take the time to ask
why
—and Pete deserves better than that. Misco will do the basics and nothing more; he’ll dust for prints and he’ll run ballistics and he’ll ask the neighbors if they saw anyone suspicious hanging around the house in the last few days.”
“You mean like you?”
“And then he’ll look for suspects—the usual suspects. But if there’s a Vidocq angle to this, the suspect probably isn’t from Philadelphia. But Misco will never consider a Vidocq connection—you know why?”
“Because you stole the phone records?”
“No, wise guy—because Misco thinks Vidocq is a joke. Do you know what he calls it? ‘The Women’s Murder Club.’ ”
“Wow,” Donovan said with a grin. “I wish I’d seen the look on your face.”
“I’m so glad my suffering entertains you.”
“I know you don’t want to hear this, Nick, but I don’t think you’re giving Misco a chance. The Philadelphia Police Department has a great reputation, and Misco earned his shield. He probably knows what he’s doing.”
“Misco is a pigheaded egomaniac.”
“You should know.”
Nick squinted at him. “You’re my friend, right? Just thought I’d clarify.”
“Yeah, I’m your friend—the kind of friend who would drive two hours on I-95 just to get your sorry butt out of jail. And that’s why I can say this to you: You’re the
king
of pigheaded egomaniacs, Nick. You know it, and I know it—and Misco knows it too.”
“So that’s what you think this is about? Me going toe-to-toe with little Danny Misco? Me trying to prove that I’m a better detective than he is? Please.”
“No, I don’t think that’s what this is about—but I don’t think it’s just about Pete either.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’ve worked with you, Nick. Every time you get a case in front of you it consumes you—it takes you over like some kind of parasite. You can’t let it go; you can’t think about anything else; you can’t stop until you figure it all out.”
“Well, what’s wrong with that?”
Donovan leaned closer and lowered his voice a little. “You forgot to call her, Nick. You left Alena sitting in some restaurant in Endor wondering what happened to her fiancé. She
still
doesn’t know.”
“The pastor who’s doing our wedding is an old friend of hers,” Nick said. “I’ll give him a call and ask him to take a message up to her so she doesn’t worry.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about and you know it.”
“Then what?”
“Work consumes you—but you’re about to take on a wife, and she’s supposed to consume you too. You’re getting married in less than a week, and you’re not acting like a man who’s about to get married. Why is that?”
“I’ve still got a few days,” Nick said. “I just need to take care of this first.”
“You
need
to take care of your fiancée. Go home, Nick—do it now while you can still walk away from this thing. If you open that e-mail from Vidocq and find some connection, you’ll follow it up—you know you will. And you’ll keep on following until it’s all done. When will that be? Where will you be when it happens? And what about Alena?”
“You make it sound like I’m running from my own wedding.”
Donovan said nothing.
“You’re wrong,” Nick said. “I’m not running. I know what I want and I know what I’m doing.”
“Do you? Then prove it. Get in your car and drive home.”
Nick’s laptop emitted a single note, announcing the arrival of an e-mail in his in-box. He looked at the message; it had an attachment titled “Vidocq Presenters’ Eyes Only.”
Nick looked across the table at his friend. “Thanks for breakfast, Donovan—and thanks for driving up here. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to read this.”
A
lena watched the dogs as they wandered through the unmowed grass around her feet. Some of them rolled on their backs in the morning sun, some of them pawed at each other in mock combat, and some of them sniffed at invisible spots their companions had just marked moments before. There were about two dozen dogs of every imaginable age, shape, and size, from a six-week-old puppy barely weaned to a worldly old hound with a graying muzzle. Alena looked over the pack; sorting out the different bits of breed was like trying to pick socks from a moving dryer. She could see a lot of beagle and shepherd and Lab in the group; a little rottweiler too, judging by the head shapes and the size of some of the paws. She could make out terrier and poodle and schnauzer in the smaller animals, but there were a couple that defied all classification—“pure dog,” her father used to call them. But they were good dogs, every one of them, and they deserved a better fate than the one that had been awaiting them.
