Enough.
Myron put the Bluetooth back into his ear and called Chief County Investigator Loren Muse. When she answered, Myron said, “I got a problem.”
“What’s that?”
“Do you have any sources in Edison, New Jersey?”
“It’s Middlesex County. I cover Essex and Hudson. But yes.”
“There was a shooting there tonight.”
“Is that a fact?”
“And theoretically I might have done the shooting in self-defense.”
“Theoretically?”
“I don’t want any of this used against me.”
“You lawyer types. Go on.”
As Myron filled her in, a black limousine slowly cruised by. The window placard read: DOM DELUISE. Win. Myron hurried out, still talking through the Bluetooth, and ducked into the back. The driver offered up a hello. Myron mouthed a hello and then pointed to the earpiece, indicating that he was both on the phone and a pretentious ass.
Loren Muse was not happy. “What exactly do you want me to do with this information?”
“Tell your source.”
“Tell my source what exactly? That the shooter called me and said he doesn’t want to turn himself in yet?”
“Something like that.”
“And when do you expect that you’ll have time to grace us with your presence?” Muse asked.
“Soon.”
“Well, that should satisfy him.”
“I’m just trying to save them some headache, Muse.”
“You can do that by coming in now.”
“I can’t.”
Silence. Then Muse asked: “Does this have something to do with Suzze’s overdose?”
“I think it does, yes.”
“Do you think these guys at the trailer were her drug dealers?”
“They could have been, maybe.”
“Do you still think Suzze’s death was murder?”
“It’s possible, yes.”
“And finally, do you think you could just jerk my chain a little harder with all these specifics?”
Myron debated tossing Muse a bone, telling her about Suzze visiting Kitty, that the disposable cell phone Suzze called not long before her death had belonged to his sister-in-law. But then he realized where that would lead—more questions and maybe a visit to the Coddington Rehabilitation Institute—and decided against it.
Instead he tried answering a question with a question. “Do you have any new evidence to suggest it was anything other than an overdose?”
“Ah, I see,” Muse said. “If I give you something, you’ll continue to give me nothing. Quid pro nada.”
“I really don’t know anything yet.”
“You’re so full of crap, Myron. But at this point, what do I care? To answer your question, there is not a shred of evidence that points to foul play in the death of Suzze T. That help?”
Not really.
“So where are you right now?” Muse asked.
Myron frowned. “You serious?”
“Not going to tell me, eh?”
“Not going to tell you.”
“So you only trust me so far?”
“You have an obligation as an officer of the law to report anything I say,” Myron said. “But you can’t say what you don’t know.”
“How about telling me who lived in that trailer? I’m going to find out anyway.”
“No, but . . .” There was a bone he wanted to toss her, even though he had given his word he wouldn’t.
“But?”
“Get a warrant on a middle school teacher in Ridgewood named Joel Fishman. He’s a drug dealer.” Myron had promised ol’ Crush that he would not report him, but when you pull a gun on someone in a middle school, well, Joel never called “no crossies.”
When he finished giving her enough details to nail Fishman, Myron hit the end button. Cell phones were not allowed in the hospital so he called the administrative desk. They transferred him around until he found a nurse who was willing to go on the record and tell him there was nothing new to report on his father’s condition. Terrific.
The limousine pulled right out onto the tarmac next to the aircraft. No luggage check-in, no boarding pass, no security line in which the man in front of you forgets to take the spare change out of his pocket despite forty-seven requests to do so and sets off the metal detector. When you fly private, you pull up right onto the tarmac, you walk up the stairs, and bingo, you’re off.
As Win often pointed out, it was good to be rich.
Win was on board already with a couple he introduced as “Sassy and Sinclair Finthorpe” and their twin teenage sons, “Billings and Blakely.”
Myron frowned. And rich people made fun of African American names?
Sassy and Sinclair both wore tweed jackets. Sassy was also decked out in riding pants and leather gloves. She had blond hair tied back in a severe ponytail. She was probably in her midfifties with plenty of hard wrinkles from too much sun. Sinclair was bald, paunchy, and wore a real-live ascot. He laughed heartily at everything and said, “Quite, quite,” in reply to nearly anything said to him.
“This is so exciting,” Sassy said through the clenched teeth. “Isn’t it, Sinclair?”
“Quite, quite.”
“Like we’re helping out James Bond on a secret mission.”
“Quite, quite.”
“Boys? Isn’t this exciting?”
Billings and Blakely looked at her with classic teenage loathing.
Sassy said, “This calls for cocktails!”
They offered Myron a drink. He passed. Billings and Blakely continued to look on with haughty scorn, or maybe that was their default genetic facial expressions. The twins both had wavy, Kennedyesque hair and wore tennis whites with sweaters tied around their necks. Win’s world.
They all took their seats, and within five minutes of boarding the plane, the wheels were up. Win sat next to Myron.
“Sinclair is a cousin,” Win said. “They have a place on Adiona Island and were going to head up there tomorrow. I just asked them to move it up.”
“Because Crisp won’t know we’re on this flight?”
“Exactly. If I had taken my plane or a boat, we would have tipped him off. He may have a man watching the airport though. We’ll let my cousins get off first and then sneak out.”
“Do you have a plan to get us onto Wire’s property?”
“I do. It will require some local help though.”
“From?”