Inherit the Dead

T-shirt, hissed, “You listen to me, I’m trying to find your daughter, trying to empathize here, and you . . . ” He had to gasp for air. “I don’t know if you’re so stoned and drunk you can’t think straight but you had better start—”
    “What?” Loki trying to stare him down with bloodshot eyes.
    “You put on this, this act, mincing around like your daughter’s absence is some cosmic joke.” Perry managed to pull it back a notch,let go of Norman, then reached for his water, gulped it down, tried to speak calmly. “How many times must I say it: I need you to pay attention. Call your ex-wife. I want her to hear the condition you’re in.”
    Norman finished his drink then was rolling a spliff, licked the rim of the paper, fired it up, drew deep, coughed, said, “No shit, but that’s great fucking shit.” And then he looked right at Perry, though his eyes were unfocused.
    Perry pushed, “Make the call to your ex-wife.”
    The bedroom door opened and a young Hispanic man, looking all of maybe sixteen, dressed in a small fluffy towel round his middle, sauntered into the room, put one hand in Norman’s receding hair, lisped, “I’m Pedro, the pool person.” He then took the spliff out of Norman’s hand, took a long pull, coughed, muttered, “Oh, this sucks.” Made the accompanying sound.
    Norman shrugged, said, “Tell you, cleaning those water filters is a pain in the butt.”
    “Jesus.” Perry sighed. No use. This fool was gone.

    Outside, it was dark, just the lights from Norman’s beach house vanishing into the bluffs. Perry took a deep breath, then another. He needed something to clear his head after that. He got on his cell, made the call he’d wanted Loki to make, to Julia Drusilla, said he had to see her but it would be late. She told him to come, that she never slept so it didn’t matter. Then he called the East Hampton PD, tried again to reach Gawain. Impossible. Some local incident, a 7-Eleven stick-up gone bad. But Gawain had left him a message, which the deputy read: “Officer Gawain says to tell you that nothing incriminating has turned up in the prelims, the car is clean. No blood. No nothing. Appears to be simply abandoned.”
    “Anything else?” Perry asked.
    “Nope. That’s it. You have something you want me to report back?”
    Yeah, thought Perry. Tell him I’m sick to death of the Hamptons. But he said, “No.”

12
LISA UNGER
    P erry could not get Norman Loki out of his head. He puzzled over the guy’s insane behavior during the whole ride back to Manhattan. The guy was stoned and drunk beyond reason. His daughter was missing. He’d been living a lie, hiding his sexual orientation. Who knew about his homosexuality? Did Angel? Did Julia? Was the guy medicating his personal misery, or was he simply out of his mind? He could not shake the questions, even as he parked, then made his way to his client’s apartment for some answers.
    Perry checked his watch. It was almost ten thirty. He’d made good time, but all that driving had him feeling like an old man—back aching, legs stiff. He could still feel that Hamptons chill that had settled somewhere deep inside him. Not that it was any warmer in Manhattan, but the frigid city air was less damp, less invasive somehow. It hurt in a whole different way.
    He pulled Nicky’s scarf tighter and dug his hands into his pockets, bracing himself against the painful cold that chewed at his face and snaked down his collar. Just one more block; he was counting the seconds until he felt the warmth of the lobby. He tried to keep his mind on the errand at hand.
    Angel’s car turning up—it may or may not mean anything. Onthe other hand, the finding of an abandoned vehicle in a missing-persons case was never a good thing. He could have, maybe should have, given Julia Drusilla the news over the phone. But he wanted to see her reaction—watch her face, her hands. People said so much without ever saying a word.
    And then, yes, the rush of warmth as he brushed past the doorman who was opening the door.
    What was it about the rich? thought Perry as he stepped from the chill concrete night into the overwarm, marble opulence of Julia Drusilla’s Park Avenue apartment building. There was a scent and a texture to wealth, an unmistakable aura. It colored the walls, brought out the pink veins in the marble floor. Was it the same calla lily arrangement, which sat high and proud on the round lobby table, or a new one? It was taller than