The Garden of Betrayal - Lee Vance [49]
“Slim, in my book. ME made his time of death around nine, which doesn’t give him a big window to have grabbed Kyle, ditched the car in Harlem, and found his way back downtown.”
“This is weird,” I said, wishing again I’d had more sleep.
“No shit.”
“What do you think?”
“I don’t know. Munoz’s car key was still in his pants pocket. Maybe he really did just move the car around the corner for some reason and then some third party boosted it. Or maybe we’re chasing a fairy tale. Bottom line, it makes me want to talk to Gallegos even more. He was interviewed at the time, but he made his brother-in-law out to be a saint. I’m reckoning he might know more than he said. So, let me know as soon as you hear back, okay?”
“Okay,” I said unhappily. The last thing I wanted was more uncertainty.
“Hang in there,” Reggie urged. “I’ll talk to you soon.”
Amy buzzed as I hung up.
“Walter’s free now.”
“Thanks. I’m on my way.”
Walter’s office was modest in the scheme of things, a ten-by-fifteen glass-walled chamber in the middle of the trading room, backed against the building’s core. Guys on the floor called it the fishbowl, and nobody ever wanted to be in it, save at bonus time. Conversations about the market were held on the trading desks so everyone could listen. A summons to the fishbowl meant you were in for a reaming.
“Come,” Walter said, beckoning with one hand as I tapped on his door. He turned the report he’d been reading facedown on an otherwise empty desk and fixed his pale blue eyes on me. One of his defining characteristics was that he was never distracted, always entirely focused on whatever he had at hand at the moment. Admirable in concept but disconcerting when what he was focused on was you.
“I’m worried about Alex,” I said, figuring it was best not to beat around the bush. “He hasn’t seemed well recently.”
“I appreciate your concern,” he replied curtly. “But Alex isn’t twenty-two anymore. He doesn’t need a minder.”
“I’m not saying he does. He might need help, though. My sense is that he’s been drinking heavily. Having his positions liquidated isn’t going to improve his outlook.”
Walter stared at me unblinkingly. I stared back, wondering if he was deliberately trying to intimidate me.
“Close the door and sit down,” he ordered.
I did as he asked, chafing at his tone, as always.
“Every guy out there works his ass off to keep his job,” he said, stabbing a finger toward the trading floor. “I can’t play favorites just because Alex is my son.”
“I’m not suggesting you should. I’m suggesting you reach out to him. Because he’s your son, and because I suspect he’s in a bad way.”
I endured the stare for another few seconds, wondering what he was actually thinking. It was hard to believe he didn’t care about Alex at all, even if they’d had a falling-out. He glanced down, nudging the upside-down report with a fingernail to align it more precisely with the front edge of his desk.
“I’ve expressed my concerns to Alex directly,” he said hesitantly. “I don’t know that there’s anything more I can do at this point.”
“You agree he has a problem?”
“It seems that way.” He frowned. “His mother and I are worried.”
The highlight of Walter’s ugly divorce twenty years previously had come when Alex’s mother submitted evidence from an animal psychologist asserting that Walter’s negative energy made her Yorkie suicidal. The tabloids had a field day, leading Walter to temporarily relocate to London. The admission that he was discussing anything with his former wife was a better indication of his level of concern than his mild declaration.
“I’d be happy to talk to Alex about getting help,” I offered, warming to him a little, father to father. “I’d like to know that I have your support, though. He values your opinion.”
Walter’s phone rang before he could reply. He picked it up, listened, and then held the receiver out to me.
“It’s Amy. She says it’s urgent.”
“Sorry.” I took the receiver from him and put it to my ear. “Amy?”
“Nikolay Narimanov is calling,” she announced