The Dark Room(5)

Instead, Castelli took his glass of bourbon and drank half of it. He set it down, topped it off, and then started coughing into the crook of his arm.

“Mr. Mayor.”

But he was still coughing, and his face was going crimson. When he finally stopped, he took a tissue from the box at the edge of his desk. He used it to wipe his face and nose.

“Mr. Mayor,” Cain said. “I need you to look at the picture.”

“It’s all bullshit—a hoax, whatever you want to call it,” Castelli said. “I told you.”

“You called me. Not the other way around.”

“I’m being blackmailed.”

“Because of something you know?”

“I don’t know her, and she doesn’t look like anyone I know.”

“She’s a pretty girl,” Cain said. “I’d remember her if I saw her—wouldn’t you?”

Castelli looked at him. Then he nodded.

“Sure,” he said.

“You’d remember, if you saw her?”

“I’d probably remember.”

“Because she’s a knockout, right?”

The mayor glanced at the photograph. Cain wasn’t sure if he nodded or not.

“She looks like one of those old film stars,” Cain said. “Lana Turner, maybe.”

“You got it mixed up,” Castelli said. “It’s Lauren Bacall you’re thinking of. She looks like Bacall.”

“The Big Sleep—that was her?”

“Bacall and Bogart,” Castelli said. “Yeah.”

“One of your favorites?”

“It was okay.”

“I meant Bacall.”

“Bacall?” the mayor asked. He took another drink. “She was before my time.”

“Way before mine,” Cain said. “But you see her on the screen, and it doesn’t really matter.”

“Maybe for some guys.”

Cain took out the next picture and set it on top of the first. This one showed a cluttered bedside table against a water-stained plaster wall. He could just make out the edge of the iron bedframe beside it. At the table’s edge sat an empty tumbler, a lipstick mark kissing its rim. There was a man’s wallet, and a set of house keys. An empty ashtray. There were a dozen white pills in a loose pile, and next to them there was a silver flask, its cap unscrewed. Behind the flask were two pairs of handcuffs. Not the toys they sold in sex shops, but the real things, like the pair strapped to Cain’s belt.

“Recognize any of this?”

“No.”

“Not your keys, not your wallet?”

“Not mine.”

“The flask?”

“I’ve never seen it.”

“How about the handcuffs?”

“Come on.”

“Come on?” Cain asked. “Did we read the same note? The guy who sent it, he’s pretty sure this stuff means something to you. The next ones—the photos he’s holding back—those might mean even more.”

Castelli took a swallow of his bourbon.

“Go on,” he said. “Make your point if you’ve got one.”

“Right now, it’s just you and me. But on Friday, when he sends it out? You’ll be talking to the cameras.”

“Or you could find him.”

“That’s what I’m trying to do,” Cain said.

“Arrest him. Lock him away.”

“I can’t if you don’t cooperate,” Cain said. “So far, everything you’ve told me is bullshit.”

The mayor stared at him. He glanced at his phone, and Cain thought he might call someone in. Have Cain muscled out of the office, out of City Hall. But then he shook his head. He held his glass close to the green-shaded desk lamp and looked at the glowing bourbon.

“I’m trying,” Castelli said. “Nothing like this has ever happened to me. I’m not lying to you.”

“The handcuffs—you own any like that?”

“Never,” Castelli said. “Not like that, and not any other kind.”

He set his glass down, then picked it up again. He was nervous about his hands, wanted to keep them busy. When he spoke on TV, he was always gripping the podium. If he didn’t have a podium, then he was holding on to something. A cup of coffee, a rolled-up newspaper. Cain wondered if he’d been a smoker at some point.

“It’s you and me right now,” Cain said.

“We’re not into anything like that, is all.”

Cain nodded. He waited for the mayor to start talking again. Sometimes a man wouldn’t answer a question but would talk to end a silence. This silence stretched for ten seconds, and then Castelli took another sip of bourbon and spoke into his glass.

“My wife and I, is what I mean. When I say we, I’m talking about me and her. The two of us, we’re not into anything like that.”

“Okay.”

Cain could think of half a dozen follow-ups, but this wasn’t the time. The mayor had opened the door a crack, but was ready to close it if Cain started to press. Instead, Cain opened the folder and took out the third picture, putting it on top of the others. Castelli glanced at it, then looked away, picking up his drink. Cain could smell the bourbon fumes in the air between them. Sweet and sharp, like sugar burning in a pan.