The Garden of Betrayal - Lee Vance [88]
True to the doctor’s word, the hospital began processing my release at five, but it was almost six by the time I’d finished all the paperwork. A cheerful orderly rolled me out the front door in the obligatory wheelchair and helped decant me into the front seat of Reggie’s waiting car.
“Better,” Reggie said, nodding approvingly as he scrutinized me. “You got some color back. Thought you might be done for when I first saw you this morning. You looked like fucking Casper.”
“Thanks, I guess. Any more news on Rashid?”
“Nope,” he said, pulling into traffic. The Meridien was only a few blocks away. “The guy with the phone came out of nowhere and disappeared into the same place. Hotel doesn’t have a camera on the street, and the doormen don’t remember seeing him. Feds didn’t get a hit on his picture. They’ll circulate it more widely, to Interpol and other international police forces, and wait to see what forensics on the bomb tell them. But right now it’s a mystery.”
“What about Staten Island?”
“I drove the area Vinny described with the search team this morning. That’s where I was when you were trying to get hold of me earlier. Whole lot of swampland and no cell service. Haven’t had any update yet, but I’m thinking it will take some time.”
“So, nothing and more nothing.”
His phone rang before he could respond. He answered it, his side of the conversation mainly grunts. I slumped in my seat for the rest of the short ride, staring out the window at Christmas lights. I was tired of being in the dark. It was past time for us to catch a break. Everybody made mistakes. We just had to figure out what mistakes the other side was making.
Claire and Kate fussed over me when I got back to the hotel room, insisting that I lie down on the couch while they pored over the home-care instructions I’d been given. Both seemed disappointed that Jell-O wasn’t mentioned, as they’d had the hotel kitchen make me an enormous tub of it. I finagled my way upright by observing that I couldn’t eat lying down and paid for my cleverness by being forced to slurp down a bowl of raspberry goop at the asymmetric breakfast table. The taste reminded me of having my tonsils out at age twelve. But it felt nice to be taken care of by them.
“So,” I said, setting my spoon down resolutely, “have we made any more progress?”
“A little,” Reggie answered. Joe had left to run errands, but Reggie was sprawled on the couch I’d vacated. “Picked up some interesting new information earlier today, although like everything else we learn, it’s hard to know what it means.”
“Tell us,” Claire said, reaching for my hand.
“I mentioned to Mark last night that I was going to take a stab at running down Munoz’s girlfriend. The detectives investigating his murder wanted to talk to her at the time, but they couldn’t locate her. Paid all her bills in cash, didn’t talk much to the neighbors, and no trail at DMV or with Immigration. Also, no match to the fingerprints they lifted from her apartment. They pegged her as an illegal flying under the radar. I figured maybe she’d been printed somewhere in the last seven years, so I had a tech I know run the fingerprints again. Still no luck. And then I started thinking about the hooker.”
He hesitated, glancing uncomfortably toward Kate.
“Hooker,” she said. “Prostitute. Whore. Call girl. Scarlet woman. Come on, Reggie. I’m seventeen.”
“Okay, okay,” he