Doppelgangster - Laura Resnick [41]
“Yeah.”
“Lucky said Charlie had always been strange. Moody.” I now remembered that when I’d told Lucky that Charlie had sounded crazy right before he died, the old gangster had replied that it wouldn’t be the first time. “But he never mentioned bipolar disorder.”
Lopez was still frowning in thought as he replied, “I doubt Lucky knows. It’s the sort of thing Charlie would keep secret. Not good for business. Not socially acceptable among his cronies.”
“If he kept it a secret, then how do you know?”
“Hmm? Oh. About a decade ago, Charlie did time for income tax evasion.” Lopez shook his head in disgust. “He probably committed enough violent felonies to get sentenced to two hundred years in maximum security. But the only thing anyone ever caught him at was cheating on his taxes.” He shrugged. “So Charlie’s medical condition wound up on his summer camp forms.”
“His what?”
“Uh, all his records from the detention facility he was in for nonviolent criminals,” Lopez clarified. “Which is how we know he was manic-depressive. And if he went off his medication recently . . .”
“Then his delusions about seeing his own perfect double and being cursed might have been some sort of manic episode?”
“That’s my guess. But maybe your guess was right,” Lopez added.
I blinked. “My guess?”
“Napoli says you thought Charlie was having a ministroke, or maybe not getting enough oxygen to his brain.”
“Oh! Right. Yes. That was my guess.” I decided to keep silent about the doppelgänger theory.
He shrugged again. “Maybe the autopsy will reveal that the murderer was just one step ahead of Mother Nature when it came to taking Charlie’s life.”
“Hmm.” Now I stared off into space.
If Charlie had stopped taking his psych meds and was having a manic delusion about seeing his perfect double, then Max was wrong, and Charlie’s death was an ordinary Mafia hit—albeit a very puzzling one. Could mental illness also explain his behavior a few nights ago? Maybe Lucky and I hadn’t seen Charlie’s perfect double that night after all. Maybe we just saw a gangster whose psych disorder was out of control . . .
While I was pondering this in silence, Lopez glanced at his watch and muttered, “I have to go.” When I looked at him in silent query, he said, “Home, shower, shave, Mass, work.”
“You have to work this evening? After the shift you just pulled?”
“I’m the new guy,” he said by way of explanation. “But if nothing new turns up, I’m going to leave early. I been rode hard and put away wet.”
He finished his second cup of coffee in a long gulp, and went into the bedroom for his shoes, wallet, gun, and belt. Then he came back into the living room for his jacket.
“I’m going to tell Napoli that we talked,” he said.
I looked at him. “Are you sure you want to do that? You are the new guy, after all. Maybe you shouldn’t—”
“It would be easier to convince him I know what I’m doing if I’d already been there a few months,” he admitted. “But it’s obvious to me that there’s no point in Napoli squandering his time, your patience, and my love life by harassing you. You’ve told us everything you know.”
“I hope he agrees,” I said morosely.
“I’ll be emphatic,” Lopez assured me. “And I trust you to tell me if you remember anything else.”
“I will,” I promised, though I didn’t believe there was anything else to remember.
“So after I deal with Napoli . . .” He tilted his head. “Want to take another stab at doing this like normal people?”
Still thinking about the problems surrounding Charlie’s death, I said, “Huh?”
He smiled. “I’ve got tomorrow night off. I could put on my black silk shirt again and make a new reservation at Raoul’s.” Dark lashes lowered over blue eyes as he added, “And maybe you could wear something that gives me sinful ideas . . .”
“Oh!” I smiled, too. “I like this plan.”
“Good. I’ll pick you up at seven?”
As a recent crime scene, Stella’s would still be closed down, and I wouldn’t be working. So I nodded. Then I brushed self-consciously at my face and added, “I’ll try not to still be blue.”
“I like the