Cold Case by Linda Barnes Page B

“Palm Beach. Place looks more like a hotel than a hospital, but Sam’s pretty discouraged. They can’t seem to get his left leg to match the right one. A quarter inch off here, an eighth off there. Doesn’t sound like much, but makes it hell to walk. He’ll be pleased you care.”
    â€œYou’ve been visiting?”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œWell, actually, I was wondering whether his family’s got a contract out on you.”
    I practically bit the tip off my tongue.
    â€œWhy?” I demanded.
    â€œTriola nabbed a punk, thought he could use it to trade down to a misdemeanor.”
    The guy at the drugstore, the one I’d assumed was DEA. The shoulder-holster man …
    â€œI saved Sam’s life,” I protested.
    â€œA few of the Gianellis might not see it that way,” Mooney said.
    â€œThen they’re probably seeing about as well as you are. When’d you get the glasses?”
    â€œIt’s these frigging reports. Play havoc with your close-up vision. Don’t get any ideas. I can still outshoot you.”
    â€œAt any range,” I agreed easily. “You’re a great shot, Mooney.”
    â€œAnd you need a favor,” he said, nodding his round Irish face, his stubborn chin outthrust.
    â€œHow’d you guess?”
    â€œNeed it bad,” he said. “You compliment me. You smile at me. Not like baring your fangs, either. A real smile.”
    â€œMooney—”
    â€œSo tell me I’m wrong. Tell me you’ve dropped the dork headshrinker and you desperately want me to take you to Mary Chung’s tonight for Suan La whatever she calls that stuff.”
    â€œMary’s is open?”
    â€œOpened months ago. You haven’t been yet?”
    â€œI didn’t know.” Mary Chung’s restaurant in Central Square, Cambridge, has been closed for years, ever since Biogen Labs made her landlord an offer he couldn’t refuse. Rumors of reopenings abounded. An entire Internet interest group was devoted to the cult of perpetuating rumors. Mary was in China. Mary had applied for a liquor license, application denied. Mary’d signed the lease on 443 Mass. Ave. No, she hadn’t. I’d long since given up, and believe me, my Mary Chung’s habit was tough to break. I was a solid twice-a-weeker, a Suan La Chow Show junkie. Mary serves a hot and sour wonton soup—Suan La Chow Show—that defines scrumptious. My grandmother—rest her soul—should forgive me, but it’s better than chicken soup for whatever ails you. Guaranteed to clear sinuses, drive away demons, halt meter maids on their appointed rounds. I almost forgot the reason for my visit in my eagerness to get to Central Square.
    â€œI’ll take you to lunch,” I told Mooney. “My treat.”
    â€œDon’t get me wrong, I appreciate the offer,” he said, “but everything that lady cooks gives me heartburn.”
    â€œIt’s your taste in food that keeps us apart, Moon,” I said.
    â€œNothing wrong with vanilla,” he replied stubbornly.
    â€œYuck,” I said. “You probably eat Wonder Bread with mayonnaise, call it a sandwich. I confess: I want a favor. I’ve got a case that may or may not tie into an old disappearing act. Normally, I wouldn’t think the department’d still have paper on anything this old, but it wasn’t your run-of-the-mill missing persons.”
    â€œWe talking Judge Crater or Amelia Earhart?”
    I sat on the edge of his desk. His visitor’s chair is a joke, designed to torture the fannies of unwary bureaucrats, keep their visits brief.
    â€œVery funny,” I said. “I’m mildly amused.”
    â€œHow old a case?”
    I shrugged my shoulders. Might as well get it over with. “Twenty-four years.”
    Mooney stared at me for a while before shaking his head sadly. “Did you take out an ad in Soldier of Fortune? ‘Weird clients,