Mirho nodded affably.
Not that he was an insurance adjuster at all, of course. For him, the whole concept of risk management was simply about staying alive. He’d merely had the business card printed at Kinkos, one he’d used many times in his real line of work, which was mostly uncovering dirt on people who crossed his boss and kicking a little ass when it was called for. And sometimes when it wasn’t. He’d simply embossed the Farmer’s Insurance Group logo in bright red lettering on the front so it would look as real as if he’d passed the insurance licensing exam with flying colors.
Mirho smiled at the clerk. Maybe a tad chubby, but she had huge breasts under her pink sweater, and maybe a little too much mascara around those pretty, maybe a shade too trusting eyes. He didn’t see any wedding ring.
“In the vehicular accident division,” he said. “Claims subrogation. You know, two parties put in counterclaims and ultimately the two insurance mammoths go to battle and somehow it gets resolved. Boring stuff.”
Except in this case, there weren’t two parties at all—only one, and the one was in his grave. But Mirho figured his smile was good enough to charm her into getting what he needed. And the gal, whose desk plate identified her as Chrissie, probably wouldn’t know the difference between claims subrogation and how to figure out the interest on her bank statement.
“You say you want a copy of the case file?” she said.
“That would really help me out.” Mirho smiled.
“And you said the name was Kelty? Joseph.”
“That’s the one. You know, the guy who went off the road up here a week or so ago. Let me see, claim number, I have it right here …” He glanced at his notepad, but it was basically just useless scribbling. “606-410BN … Of course, that’s our number, not yours. We’re one of the coinsurers on his life insurance policy. I just happened to be up here on other business and thought I could save all parties a little time.”
“Of course. Poor guy …” Chrissie exhaled sympathetically. “That stretch of road is always a problem at night.” She wheeled her chair across to a computer screen and Mirho got a glance at those wide-load thighs. He always liked women with some meat on them, and tits like calf bladders.
Chrissie punched into her computer. “Let me see what I can do.”
It was a standard request; case files were routinely shared between the police and the insurers. Usually by a formal request from one of the claimants, but in this case, there was no criminal aspect to the case, only lawyers arguing against lawyers. Insurance bigwigs negotiating it out. It was no big deal.
“Found it,” she said. “Officer Polluto was first on the scene.”
“Polluto,” Mirho said. He already knew that. “Maybe I can talk to him as well.”
“Neil’s out on patrol. I saw him earlier today.” Chrissie punched a key. “Photocopy or PDF?”
“A hard copy would be great,” Mirho said appreciatively. “This sure is saving me a ton of work.”
“You, maybe.” Chrissie chuckled. Her boobs jiggled as she stood up. “Be back in a flash.”
Mirho winked and took a seat on the edge of her desk. He picked up the photo of two smiling teenage girls.
He knew how to manipulate people. It all started with that easy way he had, and conveying what he needed without blinking an eye. Extracting information, that’s mostly what he did. Rule Number One: the more brazenly you asked for something, the greater the likelihood you’d get it. Boldness created its own trust.
No dad in the photo, he thought. Maybe a single mom. Or they could be her nieces.
It took six or seven minutes, but finally Chrissie shuffled back holding a manila envelope.
“You’re lucky. It’s not a very large file. Otherwise you wouldn’t be able to wait.” She handed it to him.
“You’re a gem!” Mirho knew he wasn’t exactly George Clooney. He was big shouldered and large, with a round head and short shaved orange hair. A ruddy complexion. But he knew he had that smile. Women trusted him. At least they did for a while. “Maybe I’ll see you next time,” he said. “When something else comes up.”
“Something else …?” Chrissie laughed. “This isn’t exactly the South Bronx up here.” She placed her ass back in that chair and smiled up at him. “But I’m always here.”
“Then we’ll just have to see about that.” Mirho waved the envelope at her with a wink as he backed away.
Back in his Escalade, Mirho opened the envelope and pieced through the file. Photos of the accident—the Honda a mangled wreck. He’d watched Kelty drive away with the cash not thirty minutes before. Shit, he’d handed the fucking thing to him. The guy probably got a woodie for the first time in a decade, carrying around that kind of cash, and couldn’t handle it. Popped through his pants, hit him in the face, then he slammed headfirst into a tree.
There was an eyewitness report. The police case write-up. He saw that a deer had bolted across the road. That much he’d been able to pick up from what he’d read in the papers.
Sergeant Neil Polluto, Mirho underlined in the report. Maybe it would be worth paying the good officer a visit somewhere down the line if nothing else panned out.
Only one eyewitness, Mirho noted. That made the job easy. He knew his next call might prove a bit more troublesome. But anything was doable with the right kind of persuasion.
He centered on the name, from Briarcliff Manor according to the report. The witness, the first to arrive at the scene.
The only one on the scene.
He underlined it, knowing his next stop wouldn’t be quite so social.
Roland McMahon.
He was always a difficult child.
As a two-year-old, if he didn’t want to eat something or wanted to get down, he would bang his G.I. Joe milk cup so hard, he actually shattered it once and needed ten stitches in his hand. Hardly a day would pass when he wouldn’t tell me how much he hated me; a minute later he’d look up at me with the most contrite and innocent eyes and say, “Give me a hug, Mommy. You didn’t think I really meant all that, did you?”
Did I?
It makes me ashamed to admit he always scared me a little. Of what he would grow into one day.
He always had a dark edge, my son, from the day he was born.
What a thing, living in fear of my own child.
Sometimes he got so angry I had to lock him in his room, but he would only tear up his bed and rip down all the books from his bookshelves. Break his brother’s toys and smash his little wooden chair against the
