“Not much, actually.”
“Are you still going to stick with that story about not knowing who Manolo Santiago really was?”
“That part was true. I didn’t know he was Gil Perez until you told me.”
That confused me.
“How did you two really meet?” I asked.
She sat back and crossed her arms. “I don’t have to talk to you, you know. This is work product by the attorney who hired me.”
“If Jenrette hired you through either Mort or Flair, you could make that argument. But here’s your problem. You’re investigating me. There is no way you can claim that Gil Perez could be work product on Jenrette or Marantz.”
She said nothing.
“And since you feel no qualms about going after me, I will go after you. My guess is, you were not supposed to be found out. There is no reason why MVD needs to know. You help me, I help you, win-win, please add your own cliché.”
She smiled at that.
“I met him on the street,” she said. “Just like I told you.”
“But not by accident.”
“No, not by accident. My job was to get closer to him.”
“Why him?”
John, the owner of Bistro Janice—Janice being his wife and chef—appeared at our table. He shook my hand, asked me who the lovely lady was. I introduced him. He kissed her hand. I frowned at him. He went away.
“He claimed to have information on you.”
“I don’t understand. Gil Perez comes to MVD—”
“He was Manolo Santiago to us.”
“Right, okay, Manolo Santiago comes up to you and says he can help you find dirt on me.”
“Dirt is a bit strong, Paul.”
“Call me Prosecutor Copeland,” I said. “That was your task, right? Find something incriminating on me? Try to get me to back off?”
She did not reply. She didn’t have to.
“And you don’t have attorney-client privilege to hide behind, do you? That’s why you’re answering my questions. Because Flair would never let his client do this. And even Mort, as big a pain in the ass as he is, isn’t this unethical. EJ Jenrette hired you guys on his own.”
“I’m not at liberty to say. And frankly, I wouldn’t be in a position to know. I work out in the field. I don’t deal with the client.”
I didn’t care about the inner workings of her office, but it felt like she was confirming what I said.
“So Manolo Santiago comes to you,” I went on. “He says he has information on me. Then what?”
“He won’t say exactly what it is. He gets coy. He wants money, lots of it.”
“And you bring this message to Jenrette.”
She shrugged.
“And Jenrette is willing to pay it. So go on from there.”
“We insist on proof. Manolo starts talking about how he still needs to nail down details. But here’s the thing. We’ve checked up on him now. We know his name isn’t really Manolo Santiago. But we also know that he’s on to something big. Huge even.”
“Like what?”
The busboy put down our waters. Raya took a sip.
“He told us that he knew what really happened the night those four kids died in the woods. He told us that he could prove you lied about it.”
I said nothing.
“How did he find you?” I asked.
“What do you mean?”
But I thought about it.
“You went to Russia to dig up stuff on my parents.”
“Not me.”
“No, I mean, an investigator from MVD. And you guys also knew about those old murders, that the sheriff even questioned me. So…”
I saw it now.
“So you questioned everyone involved in that case. I know you guys sent someone down to visit Wayne Steubens. And that means you went to the Perez family too, right?”
“I don’t know, but that makes sense.”
“And that’s how Gil heard about it. You visited the Perezes. His mother or father or someone called you. He saw a way to score some money. He goes to you. He doesn’t tell you who he really is. But he has enough information that you’re curious. So they send you to, what, seduce him?”
“Get close to him. Not seduce.”
“You say ‘tomato,’ I say ‘tomahto.’ So did he take the bait?”
“Men usually do.”
I thought about what Cingle said. This was not a road I wanted to travel down again.
“And what did he tell you?”
“Almost nothing. You see, he told us you were with a girl that night. Someone named Lucy. That’s all I knew—what I told you. The day after we met, I called Manolo on his cell phone. Detective York answered. You know the rest.”
“So Gil was trying to get you proof? In order to score this big payday?”
“Yes.”
I thought about that. He had visited Ira Silverstein. Why? What could Ira have told him?
“Did Gil say anything about my sister?”
“No.”
“Did he say anything about, well, about Gil Perez? Or any of the victims?”
“Nothing. He was coy, like I said. But it was clear he had something big.”
“And then he ends up dead.”
She smiled. “Imagine what we thought.”
The waiter came over. He took our order. I got the salad special. Raya ordered a cheeseburger, rare.
“I’m listening,” I said.
“A man says he has dirt on you. He is willing to give us proof for a price. And then, before he can tell us all he knows, he ends up dead.” Raya ripped a tiny piece of bread and dipped it in olive oil. “What would you have thought?”
I skipped the obvious answer. “So when Gil was found dead, your assignment changed.”
“Yes.”
“You were supposed to get close to me.”
“Yes. I thought my helpless Calcutta story would get to you. You seemed like the type.”
“What type?”
She shrugged. “Just a type, I don’t know. But then you didn’t call. So I called you.”
“That efficiency suite in Ramsey. The one you said Gil lived in—”
“We rented that room. I was trying to get you to admit to something.”
“And I did tell you some stuff.”
“Yes. But we weren’t sure you were being accurate or truthful. Nobody really believed that Manolo Santiago was Gil Perez. We figured that he was probably a relative.”
“And you?”