The Garden of Betrayal - Lee Vance [41]
“Maybe nothing,” Reggie said, extracting his Marlboros and lighter from a jacket pocket. He shook out a cigarette and began tapping the filter against the top of the box as the barman poured more whiskey.
“You can’t smoke those in here,” the barman protested with a soft Irish lilt. “It’s against the law.”
Reggie flipped open his jacket and exposed his gold badge.
“We’ll have a right fecking riot, we will,” the barman said, glancing over his shoulder toward the men watching the TV.
“Give it a rest,” Reggie told him, lighting up. “Nobody’s here to get healthy.”
The barman looked as if he might argue and then walked away, muttering beneath his breath.
“Maybe nothing, but maybe something,” I said, keeping my eyes on his face.
He nodded slightly, turning his head to blow smoke away from me.
“Let me explain. The police get tips from four kinds of people.” He stuck the cigarette in a corner of his mouth and began counting on his fingers. “First, the vindictive types. The neighbor’s got a barking dog and they want to get even, so they make up some bullshit story and try to get him in trouble. That doesn’t fit here, because there isn’t any accusation. Second, the wackos. The wackos want attention, so they call on the phone and show up in person and claim that they’re the real Son of Sam, or that they did whatever’s on the front cover of the New York Post. A lot of them we know already, because they keep coming back. But their tips are never anonymous—they want the attention. Third,” he continued, moving on to another finger, “you got your sick bastards. The sick bastards are in it for the fun. They want to confuse the cops or torment the families. Their tips are anonymous, but there’s never anything you can really check out. It’s always that they saw the person you’re looking for on a bus in France, or—”
“You can check out the car,” I interrupted. “There can’t be that many red BMWs with diplomatic plates.”
“Correct.” He flicked some ash to the floor and took another sip of beer. “First thing I did. Makes it easier that it’s an M5—that’s a high-end, limited-production car. Seven years ago, there were exactly four M5s in the entire country with diplomatic plates—three black and one red. The red one was registered right here in the city, out in Queens. It was stolen the same night that Kyle vanished.”
I swayed slightly, my knees weak, and felt Reggie’s arm around my shoulders.
“Steady,” he said. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” I straightened and took a deep breath. Everyone in the room except the barman was smoking now, and the air already seemed impossibly close. I’d wanted closure for years, but the possibility of finally learning the truth terrified me. The truth meant the end of illusions.
“The car was registered to a Venezuelan diplomat named Mariano Gallegos,” Reggie continued. “I got a request out for the case file. There might be something in it. And I’d like to talk to him if he’s still in the country, but that could be tricky. Dealing with diplomats is a real pain in the ass.”
“Maybe I can help,” I suggested, hearing my voice quaver. “I’m meeting with a guy from OPEC tomorrow morning. He knows a lot of Venezuelan diplomats. He can probably make a connection for me.”
“That’d be great,” Reggie said encouragingly. “Keep me posted. Sláinte.”
We raised our whiskey glasses and shot the second Jamesons. My stomach turned over and I thought I might retch. Lifting the e-mail again, I scrutinized each word. Kyle Wallace was left in the trunk of a red BMW … The word “left” might mean anything.
“You have any thoughts about what might have happened?” I said, afraid to ask the direct question.
Reggie took a minute to scan the room. He looked tired, the way his ex-partner Joe Belko had always looked tired.
“Nothing good,” he answered finally. “I’m sorry.”
My vision blurred as tears welled. Silence built between us and rapidly became unendurable.
“So, tell me about the fourth type of person who tips the police,” I said blindly.
“The fourth type are the people who