Separate Cases, page 5
I brewed myself a pot of coffee and made some calls, trying to locate Binky. It wasn’t inconceivable that he was hiding out from me. Finding a missing person was bad enough, but the last thing I needed was to try to find someone who didn’t want to be found. That was virtually impossible.
Over coffee and English muffins—the only thing my stomach didn’t lurch at the thought of—I went over Andy McWilliams’s open files. There were six—Jesus, I thought, six cases at one time?—but that wasn’t exactly right. As it turned out he had subcontracted three of the cases.
One he had given to Henry Po, a friend of mine who usually investigated cases involving thoroughbred horse racing, but who did take some work on the side. He had taken some in the past from me. This one had to do with a man who worked for a stock brokerage firm near the World Trade Center who might have been ripping-off clients.
The second case was for a client in New Jersey. McWilliams had given it to a P.I. named Malone, who I didn’t know. This case involved the possibility that a betting clerk at the Meadowlands was passing out winning tickets—after the race was over.
The third case he gave to another P.I. I knew, and it came as quite a surprise to me. I didn’t know this particular man took on work from other P.I.s. It was Walker Blue.
Since McWilliams and Blue were considered two of the best in the business, that might have had something to do with Blue taking the case, but it sure couldn’t have been out of friendship. The lifestyles of the two men were as different as night and day—and besides, I didn’t think Walker Blue had any friends. He just wasn’t the type.
None of those three cases had been closed out after McWilliams’s death. I’d have to ask Caroline if she knew what had happened with them. Failing that I’d have to ask the individual investigators, Po, Malone, and—as previously indicated—Walker Blue.
The three cases that McWilliams had been working on himself and all been referred to other investigators by Caroline, two to Walker Blue, and one to a man I knew in Brooklyn, Nick Delvecchio. The final disposition of those cases was not indicated. Again, I’d probably have to talk to the individual investigators.
I picked up the phone and dialed Caroline’s number. It was the only one she’d given me, and I hoped it was her home number. That would be the only place I’d find her this early.
The phone rang six times, and I was about to hang up when she answered.
“Um, hello,” she said, breathlessly, sleepily. For a moment I wondered if I had interrupted something, but then I put that thought aside. It had only been five months since Andy’s death, and Caroline hadn’t struck me as a woman who had put her husband’s death behind her.
“Caroline, it’s Miles,” I said. “Are you awake?”
“I will be . . . in a minute,” she said.
I gave her the minute and she sounded more alert when she came back on.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” I said. “What can you tell me about these active cases of Andy’s?”
“Which ones?”
“Didn’t you read them over when you took them out for me?”
“No,” she said, admitting it a bit sheepishly, “I just pulled the cases he was working on when he was . . . when he died.”
I closed my eyes, then opened them and looked at the files that were spread out across my kitchen table.
“Caroline, how well did Andy know Walker Blue?”
“They worked together sometimes. They also referred cases to each other. Wait a minute. I referred two of those cases to Walker, didn’t I?”
“Yes, and Andy had him working on one before he died. Do you know the disposition of any of these cases?”
“Could you, you know, read them to me?”
I gave her the gist of the two cases she had referred to Walker, but I told her I didn’t know what the first one was, the one Andy himself had asked Walker to look into.
“I don’t know what Walker did on those cases, and I’m afraid I don’t know about the one Andy gave him. He didn’t talk about his work.”
She wasn’t much help, but I refrained from telling her that.
“I suppose you don’t know about the case you referred to Nick Delvecchio, either.”
“I don’t know Delvecchio,” she said. “I only know that Andy liked him, so I sent him a client.”
For a moment I wondered if McWilliams had ever considered farming a case out to me—and why he hadn’t. I decided not to ponder that. My self-confidence was low enough.
“I’m sorry, Miles,” she said. “I really don’t know what happened with any of those cases.”
“You didn’t work on any of them yourself?” I asked hopefully.
“No,” she said. “After Andy died I just referred his open cases and closed the office. I didn’t decide until a week later to run the office myself.”
Yeah, I thought, into the ground.
“All right,” I said. “I’ll have to talk to these other P.I.s myself.”
“Do you know them?”
“All but the guy in New Jersey. I’ll have to call him. Hold on a minute.” I checked the file, but the New Jersey P.I.’s phone number wasn’t there. “When you’re in the office, check Andy’s rolodex and get me the number for Malone in New Jersey. Okay?”
“What’s the first name?”
“It just says, ‘subbed to Malone,” I said. “There can’t be more than one.”
“I’ll find it. Where shall I call you?”
I almost told her to call me at Bogie’s, but right there and then I decided to go to Packy’s instead. I gave her the number and told her to call with the information.
“What are you going to do today?”
“I’ll talk to some of the other P.I.s.”
“Can I come along?”
“Just get me that phone number.”
“What about Jenny Wheeler?”
“I haven’t got a line on her yet,” I said, “but I’m working on something.”
“Miles—”
“I’ve got to go,” I said, afraid that she was going to start gushing. If I could just break her of that habit she wouldn’t be so annoying to talk to.
I hung up, wondering why I was bothering with her if she annoyed me so. Maybe it was because I was afraid there was a chance that Andy McWilliams was murdered by somebody other than the Backshooter, and if I didn’t go along with Caroline nobody would ever know.
Maybe, in my present depressed state, I just wanted to make a difference.
And maybe I needed therapy.
11
I spent most of the day talking to other P.I.s.
I met Henry Po at the bar he frequented called Debbie’s. Over a beer he told me the disposition of the case he had worked on for Andy McWilliams.
“Apparently, Andy told his client that I was handling the case,” Hank said, “because after Andy’s death his client got in touch with me.”
“Did you see the case through?”
“I did, but nothing ever came of it. The guy was as clean as a dishwasher. I can let you see the file if you like.”
“I’d appreciate that,” I said. “Thanks, Hank.”
He promised to Xerox it and have it delivered to my apartment. I told him if I wasn’t there to have it left with the super.
As I stood up he asked, “Are you all right, Miles?”
“I’m fine. Why?”
“You seem distracted.”
“No, I’m fine,” I said again. “Tell me, how well did you know McWilliams?”
“We’d met once or twice.”
“Any idea why he’d subcontracted a case to you?”
“You mean in particular?”
“Yes.”
Hank shrugged. “No idea.”
“Okay, thanks.”
After leaving Po I went down to the village to Packy’s bar.
“Aha, the prodigy,” Packy said as I entered. His place was more on the order of a dive than Bogie’s, but for a dive it was first rate.
“I think you mean prodigal,” I said, climbing upon a stool.
“Whatever,” he said. “To what do I owe this honor?”
“How about a beer?”
Packy was a big ex-heavyweight who had gotten out with all of his marbles—barely—and enough money to start up his business, a bar that also served food, if you were willing to settle for cold cuts. His claim to fame was that he once went eight rounds with Rocky Marciano, before Marciano was a champ. “I coulda beat ’im,” Packy always said, “If I’da had a crow bar.”
He put a beer in front of me and said, “Have you stopped drinking at Bogie’s?”
I picked up the beer and said, “They’ve started counting my drinks. Can I use your phone?”
He frowned at my remark, but didn’t say anything.
“Sure,” he said, and handed me the phone, which was on a twenty-five foot cord. None of those fancy cordless things for Packy.
I got Nick Delvecchio’s number from information and called him in Brooklyn. As it turned out, his office and home number were the same. Just a few months ago I had tailed Nick’s brother-in-law for him, and found out that he was banging a secretary he worked with during lunch. Needless to say, he was no longer related to Nick Delvecchio.
Nick was in and willing to talk about the case Caroline McWilliams had referred to him.
“The client was fairly well off,” he said, without revealing the client’s name, “and was afraid that her son was dealing drugs.”
“How old was he?”
“Twenty.”
“Was he?”
“Yes.”
“Did you turn him in?”
“Yes, and his mother came, too.”
“Did she want it that way?”
“She tried to get me to let him go, but—”
He didn’t have to finish the sentence. Nick was an ex-cop, and simply wouldn’t have been able to let a drug dealer go—not even for the boy’s mother.
“How did she take it?”
“She understood,” Nick said. “She was much too nice a woman to have such a monster for a son.”
“What happened to the boy?”
“He’s serving time.”
“How far had McWilliams gotten with the case when he was killed?”
“Not very. He’d just been starting when . . . the Backshooter got him. What’s this all about, Jack?”
I told him about Caroline’s suspicion, and the reasons for it.
“Kind of slim, but if I’ve heard right, Andy McWilliams didn’t rattle easy.”
“You heard right. Listen, Nick, would it be possible for you to let me see the file?”
“I don’t keep real neat files, Jack, but sure, if you think it’s important.”
As with Hank, he promised to copy it and have it delivered. I gave him the same instructions about the super.
“All right, Nick. Thanks for the info.”
“If I can help further, let me know.”
“I will.”
I hung up and asked Packy if I could make another call.
“As long as you’re not calling Europe.”
“Jersey.”
He flipped his hand and said, “Go ahead.”
I dialed the number and asked for Malone. It was he who answered the phone. After I explained why I was calling he was cooperative. He told me the clerk from the Meadowlands had indeed been stealing from his employers, and was now serving time, thanks to him. Malone had never met McWilliams, and had only subbed that one case for him. He had been hoping it would lead to more, but now . . .
I asked Malone if he’d let me see the file, and told him why. He said P.I.s should be like cops and go after a killer who had taken one of them out. He agreed to send me the file.
I thanked Malone for his help and hung up.
“Hot?” Packy asked.
“Cold,” I said. “Speaking of which,” and I pushed my empty bottle towards him. He replaced it with a full one.
I sucked on the fresh beer and knew that my next move should be to go see Walker Blue. I always hated to admit to myself that Walker intimidated me, and it was even less pleasurable in my present state of mind.
12
Walker Blue’s office was in a glass palace on West Fifty-seventh Street between Fifth and Sixth Avenues. I’d called first to see if he was there and his secretary had put me on hold while she checked with him to see if he was in for me. Somehow, my name did the trick. She said that he would be there for the next hour and that I could come on up.
I grabbed a cab and we worked our way through uptown traffic and got there in half an hour.
“Hi,” I said to the woman behind the desk. I didn’t know if she was a receptionist or his secretary. His door said WALKER BLUE INVESTIGATIONS, INC. Maybe she was part of the “Inc.”
“Can I help you?” she asked, looking down her nose at me.
“Yes, I’m Miles Jacoby. I called half an hour ago and spoke to someone—”
“That was me, Mr. Jacoby,” she said. She pressed her lips together for a moment, as if she’d tasted something she didn’t like, and then said, “Just wait a moment, please.”
When she got up I didn’t bother watching her walk out. She was a matronly woman in her fifties, with graying hair worn behind her head and a very professional manner. Just the kind of woman Walker Blue would have working for him. Just the kind of woman I didn’t like, and who certainly wouldn’t like me. She was too stiff and formal.
She reappeared in a few moments and said, “Would you follow me, please?”
We walked down a plushy carpeted hall lined with doors to a door at the end. I wondered what was behind all those other doors. I hadn’t seen Walker Blue in quite some time, and not since he’d been in this building. Blue had obviously expanded his operation, and behind some of those doors had to be some “Inc.s.”
“Mr. Blue’s office,” she said. I assumed I was to open the door myself and enter, which I did. She closed the door behind me.
“Miles,” Walker blue said from behind his huge desk. He was a tall man with an angular, long-jawed face and gray hair. “Elegant” was a word that came to mind when you saw Blue in one of his three-piece suits. Hell, I bet he’d look elegant in a sweat suit, which I also bet he’d never be caught dead in.
He stood up, but didn’t come around the desk. I covered the ground between us and shook hands with him. “What can I do for you?” he asked, sitting down and motioning me to do the same.
“I’m looking into the death of Andy McWilliams, Walker,” I said. I decided that since he had called me “Miles,” we must be on a first name basis. It was something I hadn’t been quite sure of up to that point.
“McWilliams?” he said, frowning. “I understood he was killed by the Backshooter.” He shook his head and said, “Terrible waste.”
“Yes, it was, but his wife isn’t so sure he was just another random victim of the Backshooter.”
He thought a moment and then said, “Caroline, right?”
“That’s right.”
“What does she base this belief on?”
“She says Andy was jumpy those last few weeks of his life. How well did you know Andy, Walker?”
“Well enough to know that he didn’t spook easily,” he said. “We weren’t . . . friends, mind you, but we worked together on occasion. I . . . respected his abilities.”
“I need to know what the case was about that he subbed out to you.”
“You’ll also want to know about the referrals.”
“Yes.”
“Well, the referrals weren’t much,” he said.
He told me about them, and he was right. One was a missing persons case, which was still open.
“A runaway girl, sixteen,” he said. “I don’t see what that could have to do with Andy’s death.”
The second case was a security job. A toy manufacturer wanted McWilliams—and then Blue—to check out some potential employees before they were hired.
“They were afraid of industrial espionage,” Blue said. “I had one of my people check them out, and we gave all but one the okay.”
“What about the one?”
“He’d been fired twice before under a cloud.”
“What was his name?”
Blue frowned and asked, “Are you going to want copies of these files?”
“Yes.”
He pressed a button on his intercom and asked somebody named Angel to pull the two files, make copies, and bring them to him.
“What about the third case, Walker? The one Andy subbed to you.”
He made a tent out of his fingers and said, “That’s a delicate matter, Miles.”
“Why?”
“It involves . . . politics.”
“So?”
“I’d have to check with the client on that one.”
“Walker—”
He held up one hand to allay my protest. He had the longest fingers I’d ever seen. I was surprised I’d never noticed it before.
“You must trust me on this, Miles,” he said. “I will check with the client and if there is no objection I will let you see the file. That is the best I can do at the moment.”
I stared at him for a few moments and then said, “I guess that’ll have do.”
“If you stop by the outer desk on your way out you can pick up the other two files.”
I stood up, started to leave, then stopped and turned back.
“Walker, you knew Andy.”
He didn’t say anything. It wasn’t a question and he waited for me to continue.
“What would it take to make him nervous about a case?”
“Knowing Andy McWilliams’s lifestyle,” Walker said without hesitation, “I can’t imagine what could possibly frighten him. The man wasn’t even afraid of dying.”
I quelled the urge to ask Walker if he was. I said thank you and left.
When I reached the front desk the woman held the files out to me.
“Are you Angel?” I asked.
She looked aghast and said, “Good heavens, no!”
She didn’t seem to approve of Angel.
I found myself liking Angel, whom I hadn’t even met.
