City of the Dead (Alex Delaware, #37)(78)

“Ex as garbage. You’re a bum, I’m going to treat you like a bum because to treat you as a decent human being would send a faulty signal.”

I was trying to unravel that pretzel when he said, “By point of illustration, Professor, there was a three-day period between the time I left the house and my new lease began. I requested from Toni that she delay my expulsion. She laughed in my face and I ended up sleeping on a couch in my office.”

He patted leather. “Not as comfortable as this one. She sees me as a guy who should sleep on an uncomfortable couch. It harmonizes with her worldview because to her I’m more than the spouse she’s ditching. I represent her own relationships gone awry.”

I said, “You moved because the lease is in her name.”

He wagged an approving finger. “You understand what I’m contending with.”

My computer dinged the end-of-session cue. I said, “That’s it for today.”

“For today? There’ll be more?”

“There will be. Take your time to assemble your thoughts so the next time we meet you can tell me anything else you think is relevant.”

“What about emailing, texting?”

“No,” I said. “I rely totally on face-to-face.”

“Why’s that?”

It gives me the nonverbals.

I said, “It allows me a fuller picture. In any event, before we meet again I’ll be talking to Ms. McManus.”

“Alternating between us?” he said.

“That’s right.”

“May I ask why?”

“I find it useful.”

“Do you? You certainly seem like a man with consummate confidence.”

I smiled.

He said, “Sorry.”

I wrote, Prone to apologies ???? and saw him out.





CHAPTER


    34


I was finishing my notes on the interview with Conrad Deeb when Milo phoned.

“Not sure if this is good news or bad. Basia did a quickie blood type on Hoffgarden. He’s A positive so the offender blood wasn’t his.”

I said, “The good part is you don’t have a murderer you couldn’t bring to justice. The bad part is the offender’s still Mr. X.”

“Perfect summary, you do have a gift,” he said. “Anyway, I’ve hit the wall and still need to get my paperwork in order on Montag and the twins. And guess what, big shock, the amiable Mr. Bloomfield no longer is. Not taking my calls and neither is the twins’ mouthpiece, DiPaolo. I’ve got zero tie-in between Montag and the twins and Cordi and Caspian. But last night I woke up at three a.m. and got to thinking. The twins could toss Caspian around like a rag doll. So I asked John to get me blood work on them. He said it’s low-priority because there’s no indication they were involved but he’d do what he could. Meaning don’t hold my breath.”

“Not a good idea, anyway,” I said.

“What isn’t?”

“Holding your breath.”

A beat. “I’ll keep that in mind the next time I’m feeling oxygen-deprived. Which is gonna be soon. As in waking up at three a.m. with a tight gut and thinking too much. You ever do that?”

“Sure.”

“Good to hear,” he said. “I guess.”



* * *



—

Later that day, I picked up a message from “the law offices of Lewis Evan Porer.”

A distracted-sounding receptionist said, “Hold on,” and moments later Porer said, “Doctor, lovely to talk to you again.”

“What can I do for you?”

“I hope we didn’t get off on the wrong foot.”

I said, “Not at all. What’s up?”

“My client needs to see you posthaste.”

“I’m free tomorrow at ten.”

“Excellent, I’ll tell her. She’s Antoinette McManus, goes by Toni with an i, bright, charming, sophisticated, and, most important, she has first-rate mothering skills.”

“Looking forward to meeting her.”

“Great, great,” said Porer. “Has the other party in the arbitration been to see you?”

I said, “Let’s concentrate on your client.”

“Sure, sure. Though I’m sure you realize it can’t be kept confidential because at some point you’re going to submit a report along with, I trust, detailed notes, which I assume will include specific dates of contact. What I’m getting at, Doctor, is eventually I’ll know.”

“Yes, you will. I’ll see your client at ten o’clock tomorrow.”

“Very well,” said Lewis Evan Porer, not sounding the least bit sure of that.



* * *



—

Conrad Deeb had arrived ten minutes early. The following morning, as if some sort of cosmic balance was being laid in place, my doorbell rang ten minutes late.

I opened, expecting a woman, saw a man.

“Doctor? Lewis Evan Porer.” Outstretched hand. I took it briefly, remained in the doorway.

Porer was younger than I’d expected. Mid-thirties, narrowly built, sporting slicked-back dark hair and an extravagantly curled handlebar mustache. He wore a red candy-striped shirt, a floppy blue bow tie, gray twill pants with generous cuffs, suspenders patterned with birds, and brown-and-white saddle shoes.