“Yeah, yeah, all right then,” said Astor. “Just give me a minute to decompress, and while you’re at it, put a napkin under that burger. You’re making a mess. I mean, come on.” He hit a button under his desk to shut the office door, then obscured the window so no one could see in. “This goes nowhere.”
“Schtum,” said Shank, zipping his lips closed.
“Schtum.”
And so Astor told him. He told him about getting his father’s text and about stealing the agenda out of his desk at the Stock Exchange. He told him about speaking to Penelope Evans and the shock of discovering her body. Here Shank stopped him. “You broke into her house, found her dead, and then did what?”
“We looked around for clues that might help us figure out who did it.”
“And you never called the police?”
“Sully and I decided it would be better for the firm not to.”
Shank nodded, satisfied for the moment. “Go on.”
Astor described the disparate materials found in her house and asked if Shank could make something of it. Shank mulled this over but ultimately said he couldn’t. Astor did not tell him about Mike Grillo. It was a sound rule of thumb never to tell someone everything, even your best friend.
“So that’s where I was today,” concluded Astor.
Shank sat stone-faced, saying nothing.
“It’s okay to talk,” said Astor. “Schtum doesn’t mean you’re suddenly mute.”
“I’m the Jew here,” said Shank. “I know what schtum means. And I’m not being mute. I’m being absolutely fucking speechless. Tough titty if you find my language offensive. Or maybe I should say it like you Upper East Side Episcopalians—‘Pardon me, Robert, but I’m a bit tongue-tied.’”
“It’s a mess, all right.”
“A mess?” Shank shook his head. “A mess is when you don’t clean up your room or you forget to pay the electric bill three months running or you have two girlfriends and you made a date with both of them on the same night. That’s a mess. This is…it’s…well, I don’t know what this is, except that it’s wrong.”
“I know,” said Astor. “We should have called the police.”
“I couldn’t care less about the police. You shouldn’t have left the office to begin with.” Shank eyed Astor from beneath a frustrated brow. “Just as long as it ends here.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, you’re done. Finished. Over. Who do you think you are, Harry Bosch?”
“Look, I was just doing what any son would.”
“Really? ’Cause I got a dad, too, and I’ll tell you what this son would have done. I would have gotten on the horn with the FBI or the Secret Service lickety-split and I’d have told them all this stuff. They’re professionals. You’re a two-bit stock picker. What do you know about murder?” Shank frowned in disgust. “You tell Alex yet?”
“No.”
Shank picked up the phone and shoved it at Astor. “What are you waiting for?”
“Not gonna happen.”
“Now.”
Astor calmly took the phone and equally calmly replaced it in its cradle. “N–O.”
“Unbelievable,” said Shank. “Or maybe I should say ‘typical.’ You actually think that you can do a better job than the friggin’ FBI. Believe it or not, Bobby, there are other competent people out there. Some even more competent than you.”
“Doubtful.” Seeing Shank’s eyes narrow, he added at once, “Kidding, Marv. Really.”
“Sure you are. You’re a piece of work, know that?” Shank sank back in his chair and rubbed his scalp viciously with both hands, teeth clenched, issuing a brief, angry groan. “Worst of all, you blew off Reventlow. You let three hundred million walk out the door.”
“Come on, Marv. Calm down. Reventlow’s hot money. That’s not our style.”
“Since when do we have style?”
“Leave it alone, okay? It is what it is.”
Shank laughed humorlessly. “Who the fuck uses the word decompress?”
“I know schtum.”
“The last goyim. Detective Robert Astor. I should feel blessed.”
“Marv…on your chin…there.”
Shank rushed to wipe away an errant gob of mustard.
Astor felt a rush of affection for his business partner, colleague, and friend. Running a fund together was similar to being in a marriage. The job demanded the utmost in confidence, loyalty, and trust. The pressures were immense and unyielding. Probably the hardest part was just being able to remain in close proximity with someone else for twelve hours each day, week in, week out, year after year, without crushing his skull with a sledgehammer. Fifteen years and counting. Astor knew more about Marv Shank than anyone on the earth.