Dead Watch

it is.”
    “I doubt they’re real diamonds,” Jake said. “They’re too big.”
    “In a place like this? They’re real. And that dog chain is eighteen-karat gold,” Patzo said. He looked at Jake. “Can I have them?”
    “What?”
    “The dog collar. The chains. And that other thing. I mean, it’s gonna be really embarrassing if your friend finds it, the wife. I couldn’t help noticing that the wife is Mrs. Lincoln Bowe and her husband is the dead senator, so if this stuff is his . . . I mean, I could get rid of it. Nobody would ever know. I couldn’t tell anybody, because they’d send me back to the joint.”
    “How much is it worth?”
    Patzo said, “Less than Bowe’s reputation.”

    They finished combing the apartment, and Jake called Madison on her cell phone just after six o’clock.
    “You okay?”
    She’d been alone after the funeral. “I couldn’t stop crying. It got on top of me, Jacob.”
    “But you’re okay now?”
    “No. I’m pretty messed up,” she said.
    “Ah, jeez,” he said. After a moment of silence, he said, “I need to brace Dr. Rosenquist. Would that cause you an endless amount of trouble?”
    “No. He’s not my doctor,” she said. “I don’t even know him very well. What’d you find?”
    “It’s what I didn’t find. Your husband seems to have prepared for his disappearance. He destroyed his personal e-mail, he wiped the history off the computer. All of his tax records and bank records are intact, though, and very neatly filed, as though he was getting ready for an audit—or an estate examination. The question is, Why did he remove the medical records, and why did the doctor deny seeing him? That’s one mystery we need to clear up.”
    “Go ahead. Do it, Jake. But please, please, be careful.”
    “Yes. I’ll figure out a way to keep you out of it. There’s one other thing. We found another hideaway in the apartment and there were some items related to your husband’s sexual life. Leather stuff, chains. I’m wondering, my consultant says they may have some value, maybe even substantial, but given their nature . . .”
    “Get rid of them,” she said.
    “There were three photos in the same drawer. They’re flat and warped, like they were in a wallet. There’s a picture of like a hippie couple back in the sixties or seventies, probably, the guy’s wearing plaid pants . . .”
    “Oh, no,” she said. “There’s one of a young girl, and a young boy.”
    “Yeah. Are they important?”
    After a long silence, she said, “He’d never take those out of his wallet. Those are . . . If he left them behind, they’re a suicide note.”
    “A suicide note?”
    “Yes. He would have known that I would know. He was sending me a message. They’re pictures of his parents, his sister, and himself. They were personal icons. He never would have left them behind, anywhere. They’re a suicide note.”
    “A suicide note only works if somebody finds it,” Jake said.
    “There’ll be something in his papers, somewhere, that’ll tell me where to look. Or maybe his mother knows, she’s still alive. But Jake: he knew he was going to die. Either he was being stalked, or he’d do it himself. But he knew.”
    He opened his mouth to tell her about the three-by-five card, and then stopped. He’d rather see her face-to-face for that. If all this meant his disappearance, he wanted to see her face when he gave her Lion Nerve . To see if it registered . . . What’s this, Jake? You don’t trust her?

    They talked for another two minutes, and Jake said, “I’m going to see Rosenquist.”
    “Call me tonight. Tell me what he says.”

    When he got off the line, he said to Patzo: “Your lucky day. I’d like to see your buddy’s face when you ask him to get rid of a diamond-studded dog collar.”
    Patzo’s face broke into a beauteous smile. “Jesus, man. I mean, this is my life , right here. This dog collar . . .” He held it up, half wrapped in a piece of toilet paper. “I got a retirement. ”
    “You think you can get back to Baltimore on your own?” Jake asked.
    “Sure. Lemme make a few calls, maybe take a train back. Could you gimme a couple hundred bucks? I don’t like those fuckin’ airplanes,” Patzo said. “What are you going to do?”

    Patzo made his calls, gave the antique table a long, lingering look, patted it good-bye, and left Jake alone in the apartment.
    When he was gone, Jake found the most comfortable chair, pulled it