Pushing aside the memory of my fiasco with the Peter Mastrone/Patrick Gallagher combination, I prepared myself to extract a favor from another friend.
I knew that Rose and Frank had planned to go home after the funeral in the morning, and I resisted bothering them after their grueling week. My obsession with the Hurley case propelled me forward, however, and I picked up my telephone and punched in the Galiganis’ number. Instead of the build-up-and-manipulate scheme I’d used on Peter, I chose the direct approach with Rose.
“Rose,” I said, when I heard her voice, “I need a favor.”
“Sure, what’s up?”
“I need Frances Whitestone’s telephone number.”
“The old lady?” Rose asked, stifling a yawn.
“The old lady,” I said, carrying my cordless phone to my window. With my free hand, I pulled the drapes to rid myself of my reflection, which I saw as that of the worst kind of person, taking advantage of my best friend’s weakened condition. “How did she hold up this morning, by the way?”
“Like a rock. She’s an amazing woman. Why do you want her number?”
Oh-oh, I thought. Rose is starting to wake up; time to move fast.
“Gloria?” This time her voice was suspicious, and I knew I’d been found out.
“If it’s in your office, I can get it myself. I think I know where my key is,” I said.
“Are you going off on your own again?”
“Rose, I know your records are confidential, but I do have a police contract. And if it comes to anything legal, I’ll say I broke into your office and stole your Rolodex.”
“What are your plans, Gloria?”
It was never easy to derail Rose from her train of thought, I remembered, so I decided to stop trying to distract her and answer her questions as honestly as possible.
“I just need to ask her a few questions about the night of the murder.”
“And Matt thinks this is a good idea?”
“Well, he would, but he’s too busy to bother with details right now.”
“And that’s why you’re not asking him for the telephone number?”
“Right.”
“You’re not fooling me, Gloria, but I suppose it’s safe for you to talk to an old lady.”
“Right,” I said again, as if the whole arrangement were Rose’s idea.
“If you can’t find your key, let me know, and I’ll come over.”
“No, no, I won’t call her till tomorrow anyway.”
“I’ll call you in the morning when I wake up,” Rose said, “and we’ll set a time for shopping.”
Her voice was trailing off to a whisper as we said good-bye.
As soon as I clicked off my phone, I rummaged around my desk drawer and found the key I had to Rose’s office on the second floor. Although I’d let Mrs. Whitestone rest on the evening of her friend’s funeral, it wouldn’t hurt to have the number handy, I thought.
When I opened the door to my apartment, I saw a long white envelope lying just in front of it. I hadn’t heard anyone in the hallway and decided that Galigani’s bookkeeper and assistant, Martha, had left it, probably during a loud rendition of “O Come All Ye Faithful.” I picked it up and opened it as I headed down the stairs.
I stopped short halfway down to absorb the contents of the note, then turned quickly around, and ran back up the stairs into my apartment. I locked the door behind me and took a deep breath.
Chapter Sixteen
I read the note again. Dr. Lamerino, it said, in neat handwriting on ordinary white paper, you are well-advised to abandon your work on the Hurley investigation. There was no signature—I’d hoped for “love, Mole”—and no date or other distinguishing mark.
I turned the note over and over as if I could scramble the words and rearrange them into a pleasant greeting, like “Merry Christmas,” or “have a nice day.” I shivered at the idea that someone had invaded my personal space, which I considered anything above the second floor of the building. Having had my apartment trashed once already, I was doubly sensitive.
I routinely used the Galigani alarm system, but not before I knew I was in for the night. It bothered me to think I’d have to barricade myself in on a routine basis.
After checking my lock two more times, I sat down and examined the note. The language of the threat, which was how I interpreted the message, intrigued me. The formal grammar and correct spelling were not what I’d expect from Buddy or his friends, if the late Rocky Busso was any example. And not especially Texan, I thought, envisioning the mark of a branding iron and a “‘y’all” if the note had come from William Carey. Patrick Gallagher and Vincent Cavallo, both well educated, were still in the running.