"Look," said Suki, "it was a dumb idea, okay? They wanted to help. But in the meantime—"
"In the meantime one of them is missing."
"And it's my fault"
Stubbs was leaning back against a brushed steel counter, his meaty hands grabbing the cool edge of it. "Nothing's your fault," he said.
This was not a comfort and Suki didn't answer.
The lieutenant crossed his arms, stared off at the too-big coffee urn, the tall stacks of breakfast dishes that would always sadly outnumber the guests. Absently, or maybe to redeem himself, he said, "I've been keeping tabs on Markov."
"Oh?"
"Took him to ID the Russian woman. Lazslo's housekeeper. I think he got a little nervous."
"Morgues'll do that, I imagine."
"At first he sounded very hot to find his nephew's killer. Then I told him that the FBI might be on the way. He sort of lost his passion for justice when I told him that."
"Is it?" Suki said.
"Is what?"
"The FBI. You finally believe me? They're coming down?"
Stubbs looked away. "They're not coming down."
"Then—?"
"Just trying to shake something loose, is all," said Stubbs. "Just trying to scare up a mistake."
Suki bit her lip, ran a hand through her thick black hair. She looked at the floor a moment and when her eyes returned they were narrow and firm. "Okay," she said, "so let's do that."
"Do what?" said Stubbs.
"Pressure them. Scare up a mistake." She didn't seem to notice she'd started moving in a little circle, her sandals scuffing on the kitchen floor.
The cop said, "I'm not sure I—"
Suki said, "I've got an idea... What started this whole thing?... The paper. They were scared I was sniffing around their business for the paper."
"But that was before all this—"
"So let's put something in the paper now. FBI to investigate allegations. Coming to interview reporter in hiding."
"Bad idea," said Stubbs, though he said it without conviction. "Besides, your old boss doesn't have the nerve."
"He had guts once upon a time," said Suki. "I could talk him into it."
Stubbs was rubbing the bridge of his nose. He said, "It's a lousy time to get them mad. If they do have the old man, they'll connect him with this place, they'll know exactly where you are."
"Fine," said Suki. "Let them. They'll lose interest in Sam Katz. Look, I'm the one they want. That's why he's in trouble."
"We don't know for sure that he's in trouble," said the cop.
"I should be the bait"
Stubbs didn't like the trade-off: A young woman they definitely wanted dead, for a bewildered old man who might have only wandered to the beach, who might be contentedly sitting under a palm somewhere, talking to himself and throwing crumbs to gulls. He said, "But—"
"Lieutenant," Suki cut him off. "There's one more piece of information you should have. I'm in love with Aaron. You understand? His father gets hurt instead of me, I couldn't live with that ... Now, could you please go round up Donald Egan for me?"
"My feet you need to tape?" said Sam. "What, I'm Jackie Robinson, I could run away so fast?"
"Shut up," said Tarzan Abramowitz, and kept winding shiny silver duct tape around Sam's skinny ankles and the spindly legs of the high stool where they had him sitting.
"Accordion player," Sam rambled. He was scared, though not as scared as he should have been, and in some outlandish way he was having fun. They hadn't really threatened him yet, just pushed him around a little, gave him a few little bruises maybe, and took away his will. He'd never gotten his glass of tea at his Russian neighbor's house. He'd barely settled in on the sofa when they bundled him out again, threw him in a car. Drove downtown, unpacked him like a shipment in an alley. Shoved him through some thick and blank back door. Now here he was, being taped to this high stool. If he rocked forward he'd keel over on his face like a stilt man. "Ventriloquist," he said.
"Fuck you say?" muttered Tarzan Abramowitz.
"What?" said Sam, and he reached up toward his ear. "Oy, I lost my hearing aid. This stool, it's like for a ventriloquist. Ed Sullivan, he had a stool like this. Ventriloquists. Accordion players. Dummies. Talking dummies."
"Shut up," said Abramowitz, and continued stretching out the tape.
"Almost the whole roll you're wasting," said Sam. He looked around. His taciturn Russian neighbor was sitting on a canvas cot, expressionless. A bare bulb hung from a wire. Stacks of cardboard boxes lined the room, necks and sleeves of T-shirts squeezed out like they were yelling for help. Music seemed to be playing far away, Sam mostly heard the thumping of the bass and now and then a disconnected twang.