On the way back to the tenement, she turns it over in her mind. Noone was civil, almost genteel. Could he originally be from the South? Would he have behaved like that as a client? Was turning him down a mistake?
No point worrying about it now.Nomi navigates the steps, the lobby, the stairs, uses her key in the door of her apartment.
She unpacks her tote onto the counter in the tiny kitchen on the right past the entryway, tucks the jars and cans away in the cupboard. Her apartment is soothing with muted light, with gray and brown colors. She likes to think the decor has a kind of Nordic simplicity, although she has too many plants for that. Green leaves and stems spill from bottles and trail over the ends of shelves, whisper down over the folding screen that divides her sleeping area from the living room, hang from pots suspended near the doors to the bathroom and her office room. Without the plants, things would look too gloomy. Plants also make casual disorder seem elegant, for the times when she can’t be bothered tidying up.
Nomi fixes herself coffee, grabs the gold envelope from the countertop, takes mug and envelope into the second-room office. The space is compact and dim; she raises the blind over the long window to the right, takes her seat behind the small desk. The Jackson file is already there in front of her, from Solange’s visit. A red light is blinking on her answering machine: It’s a short message from Solange, saying that everything is fine with Malcolm. Good to know.
Now, the gold envelope. Nomi unwinds the red thread, opens the flap. Inside, a thick bunch of papers, mostly photocopies but a few faxesas well. Nomi draws them out and unfolds them, a yellow legal pad under her forearm for making notes.
A credit history, an insurance report. Six separate charge sheets, all photocopied. She was hoping for arrest reports—oh wait, Irma’s included some of those too. Also, three photocopied photos, so she knows what Lamonte looks like if she sees him in the street. Nomi begins a new file on Lamonte and collates information on the legal pad: a précis of the arrest reports, previous charges, jail time.
It’s a complex case. Eric Lamonte, known locally as a club manager, is the slimeball behind Solange’s daughter’s abduction. That’s not a hypothesis—Solange’s handler, Malcolm, straight-out told her. They wanted leverage to keep Solange working with an exclusive client, and by grabbing Brittany Jackson, they’ve sure as hell got it. Lamonte is mob connected, which makes him hard to touch, putting Solange in a tough spot.
And now Nomi’s in a tough spot. She should probably have turned Solange down when she first knocked on the door—the case is edging right up on “out of her paygrade.” But she’s in it now, and no matter how she tries, Nomi can’t let it go. First of all, it’s about a vulnerable kid. That’s a personal weak point. She’s got her own history as a vulnerable kid, history that she pushes down hard. History that she refuses to think about, because thinking about it makes her skin prickle and tighten and she doesn’t need that distraction—not right this moment, not ever. But it makes her sensitive to this case, tothiskid, and stiffens her resolve to find Brittany Jackson and get her back home.
And second of all ... Nomi doesn’t know what the second of all is, except she’s accepted the case and she’s like some kind of pit bull or weasel by nature, one of those tenacious mammals that lock their jaws and refuse to detach.
At the end of the day, she hates slimeballs—and she likes to win.
Nomi spends the next hour compiling data for the file. Unsurprisingly, much of the work she does as a private investigator involves the same tedious paper shuffling she once did as a cop. There’sa page in the envelope on Lamonte’s known addresses and aliases. Most of them are historical, so she spends another hour on the phone trying to run down a couple of those leads and getting mostly nowhere: It’s hard to reach people right before Friday end of business.
Before she examines the last few pages from the envelope, she gets a drink of water and checks the time: just after six.
Okay, final stretch. Three sheets are left in the envelope haul. One of them is a Known Associates list, but it’s years old, so it’s basically useless. If she chases the names, though, she might find connections to newer names. She did tell Irma to give her everything. The other sheet is a photocopy of a DMV car registration under the name of “Eric Monte” with a picture of Lamonte.
The last sheet in the bunch is ...
“What the fuck.” Nomi squints at the page.
It’s a photocopy of a fax, and it’s an old fax—she can read the date from six years ago up in the left-hand corner. Unfortunately, that’s all she can read, because the rest of the words aren’t in English. This is some kind of international arrest warrant, or charge sheet, or some goddamn thing that she doesn’t know because she can’t read it.
“Dammit.” She holds it up to the light from the window, but sunlight is not an aid to translation. She tries sounding out the words near the top. “Cog-nome ...”
She can’t read this page—and she needs to read this page. It might be as useless as the old KA sheet, but she doesn’tknow, because she can’t read ... What even is this language, anyway?
“Per ordi-nan-za del Tri-bun-aal? Tri-bu-nale? Di Pal-ermo ...” Nomi sits back, astonished.
Italian. It’s in Italian.
After a moment, she groans, knowing what this means.
She allows herself a few minutes of loud swearing. Then she gathers up her yellow pad, her pen, the fax copy and sweeps out of her office and apartment, stomps up the stairs to the third floor.
Chapter Four
September 1987, Friday
It’s surprisingly nice up on Three. A skylight lets in warm sun; extra windows give a feeling of airiness.
The door on Nomi’s left seems to be for the apartment directly above her own. Trying not to think too much, she walks over and knocks.
“One second,” a voice says from inside; then the door is pulled open, and Simon Noone is standing in front of her. Again.
“Hi,” she says.
“Hi.” He’s shed some layers and stands at the door barefoot in jeans, black shirt open and brown hair untidy. He looks confused. “Um, didn’t you—”
“I need something translated.” Nomi refuses to blush. She waves the fax copy. “Look, I know what I said, and that still stands. But I received this sheet of information from a contact, and it’s in Italian, which obviouslyIdon’t speak but you do, so—”
