There was fresh hot coffee in the break room. I took that as a positive omen, poured myself a cup, and logged on to the Interstate Identification Index, a catalog of criminal histories in the U.S. If C. J. Berringer had a rap sheet, it would pop up on Triple Eye. It didn’t.
I tried two other law enforcement databases. No luck. Either he wasn’t a crook or he hadn’t been caught yet.
“You can run, C.J.,” I said as I booted up the LexisNexis Accurint Virtual Crime Center, “but you can’t hide.” I dove into the bottomless pit of public and not-so-public records, and there he was—Clyde Jerome Berringer, a Hawaiian-born college dropout who traveled the world playing cards. He had an excellent credit rating, impressive reported earnings, and no criminal history.
But I did find something almost as damning. Clyde Jerome was married.
My first instinct was to pick up the phone and tell Kylie. My second instinct was to play out that phone call in my head. Hey, Kylie, you’ll never guess what I stumbled on when I was running your boyfriend’s name through the system to see if I could find something that would put him behind bars.
I needed a better plan. Normally when I’m confronted by challenging interpersonal situations like this, I go to Cheryl for advice. But telling my new girlfriend that I felt compelled to investigate my old girlfriend’s new boyfriend had all the earmarks of a bad soap opera where the Zach character winds up losing his new girlfriend, his old girlfriend, and his balls.
My motives for digging into C.J.’s past may not have been pure, but now that I knew the truth, someone had to tell Kylie that her handsome gambler was gambling on the fact that she’d never find out about Nalani, his wife of seven years, who lived five thousand miles away in Honolulu.
And I knew just the someone who could do it.
The next morning at 5:45, I arrived at Gerri’s Diner. The sign on the door says NO SHIRT, NO SHOES, NO SERVICE. There should be a second sign that says NO BOUNDARIES, because as soon as you walk through that door, your private life belongs to Gerri Gomperts.
She’s one part short-order cook and one part Internal Affairs. The difference between Gerri and IA is that cops are happy to share their deepest, darkest secrets with her.
“Good morning, Zachary,” she said. “What’ll you have this morning?”
“Greek omelet, rye toast, coffee, and five minutes of your time.”
“Would you like to sit at the counter, or would you like a private confessional in the back?”
I smiled and found a quiet booth at the rear of the diner.
“I see you made an arrest in the Davenport case,” she said when she delivered the food. “But that’s probably not what you want to talk about.”
She sat down across from me, and in between bites of my breakfast, I gave her the highlights of last night, starting with the phone call from Shelley and ending with what I had learned about C.J.
She didn’t blink.
“Aren’t you going to say something?” I asked.
“What’s the question?”
“Someone should tell Kylie that the guy she’s dating is married. I can’t do it, so I thought maybe—”
“She already knows he’s married, Zach. She told me a week ago.”
“She…she told you?”
“You think you’re the only cop who comes to me for relationship advice? That week before Valentine’s Day I have to open up early and close late just to handle the seasonal demand.”
“And she doesn’t care that she’s sleeping with a married man?”
“In case you forgot, Kylie is married, too. She doesn’t live with her husband, and C.J. doesn’t live with his wife. Consenting adults, Zach. Let it go.”
“I could use some more coffee,” I said.
“And a side order of antipsychotic drugs,” she said. “Why the hell are you doing this?”
“Doing what?”
“Trying to solve a crime that isn’t your crime to solve. Or maybe you’re just trying to prove to Kylie that she’s making the same mistake all over again by picking some jerk whose name is Not Zach Jordan.”
“Forget the coffee,” I said. “I’ll just take the check.”
She leaned across the table and put her hand on mine. “That’s what I love about you, Zach. You’re always so open to good advice…until you hear it.”
She stood up. “Breakfast is on me.”
“Thanks…for everything.”
“Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“Yeah. Don’t give up on me.”
“Don’t worry, kiddo,” she said. “I love a challenge. Stay where you are. I’ll bring you some more coffee.”
She headed back toward the kitchen, and I checked my watch: 6:05. Kylie would be in by 6:15. I had time for one more cup before we tackled another impossibly long day.
“Just wait right here,” I heard Gerri say from the front of the diner. I looked up, and she was headed straight for me. No coffee. All business.
“Zach, someone up front is looking for you,” she said.
“Who?”
“Never saw him before. Civilian. Overweight. Jumpy as grease on a griddle. Smells like a cigar factory. Do you know him?”
“Hell, yeah. Send him back.”
A few seconds later, Nathan Hirsch, the happily married dad from Queens with the high-priced hooker in Jersey, loomed over me.
“Sorry to bust in on your breakfast,” he said, “but I went to the precinct, and they said you’d probably be here.”
“No problem. Kylie and I were going to call you this morning. We are so sorry about Mr. Zimmer. We’ve been on the case since it happened.”
“Well, I can tell you who did it,” he said. “It was the same guy who killed Del.”
He shoved his body into the booth and sat across from me. His breathing was labored, and his hands were trembling. He leaned forward and whispered, “And I’m next.”