Apaches - Lorenzo Carcaterra [23]
“And you knew he was dead,” Mary said, her voice soft and warm, two women talking about the demise of a mutual friend and not a cold-blooded murder. “Even before we knocked on your door.”
“How do you know that?” Walker asked, moist eyes now looking over at Mary.
“Most people are surprised when two cops show up at their door,” Mary said. “They go against normal behavior. You almost seemed happy to see us. You let us in without even asking what we wanted.”
“Next time I’ll know better,” Walker said, trying to manage a smile.
“Were you and Sinclair lovers?” Mary asked, leaning closer.
“No,” Walker said. “Jamie wasn’t interested in the physical. At least he wasn’t with me.”
“Sounds like any other husband,” Mary said with a smile.
“I wouldn’t know,” Walker said. “I’ve never married. Jamie was my last chance for that. At my age and in my position, most men are interested in only one thing. And it isn’t sex.”
“How much money were you giving him?”
“I gave what I wanted to give,” Walker said, a hint of defiance to her words.
“And how much was that?” Mary asked, pressing the issue.
“Two, sometimes three thousand dollars,” Walker said.
“A week?”
“He earned it,” Walker said.
“Doing what?” Mary asked, looking around the room. “You’ve got a housekeeper, you do all the cooking, and the place doesn’t look like it needs a paint job.”
“Jamie was very good with numbers,” Walker said. “He helped me with my investments, paid my bills, arranged my taxes. I trusted him. And he never gave me reason to think I shouldn’t.”
“How long was he helping you?”
“Almost three years.”
“And you were paying him that kind of money all that time?” Mary asked. “Three thousand a week?”
“Yes.”
“How did you pay him?” Mary asked. “Check or cash?”
“Cash,” Walker said. “As organized as Jamie may have been for me, that’s how disorganized he was with his own life. He didn’t even have a checking account.”
“Where’d he keep the money?”
“I never asked,” Walker said. “I just know he never spent much of it, if any. Jamie didn’t seem at all interested in money.”
“Interested enough to charge a few thousand a week to cook your books,” Mary said, standing and folding her notepad.
“Will I have to answer any more questions?” Walker asked, tilting her head toward the detective.
“Just one more for now,” Mary said.
“What?”
“Who else knew about you and Jamie?” Mary asked.
“I never told any of my friends,” Walker said. “People gossip about me as it is. They always have. And I wanted to keep what Jamie and I had special and private.”
“What about him?” Mary asked. “Did he tell anybody?”
“Just his brother,” Walker said. “They were very close.”
“Did he tell his brother about the money too?” Mary asked.
“No,” Walker said. “I don’t think so. It’s not the sort of thing Jamie would talk about. With anyone.”
“You take care of yourself,” Mary said, heading for the front door. “I’ll be in touch.”
“Is there anything I can do?” Walker asked, sadness breaking through the solid shield. “For Jamie, I mean.”
“How’d you find out he was dead?” Mary asked. “It barely got a mention in the tabloids. And they don’t seem your kind of reading anyway.”
“His brother, Albert, told me,” Walker said. “He called and told me when and how Jamie died.”
“Did Albert tell you anything else?” Mary asked.
“Not to talk to anyone,” Walker said, head bowed.
When Walker looked up again, she found herself staring at a closed door.
• • •
THE BAR WAS crowded despite the hour and the heavy rain pelting the streets and causing the windows to steam. They sat at a circular table in the back, away from the jukebox. The table was crammed with beer bottles, shot glasses, crumpled napkins, and bowls of salt pretzels. The place was dark, like most cop bars, scattered overhead lights giving off more shadow than glow. The four men and one woman around the table, members of the North Bronx Homicide Unit, were in a festive mood, their work for this day brought to a successful