by Parnell Hall
“They were all like, How well did you know what’s-his-name? And I was all like, Who the hell is that?”
“Uh-huh. If you could give me a few minutes of your time.”
She frowned. Thought a moment. “Okay. Come on in.”
Amy Greenberg’s living room gave off the same signals as the sports car—it boasted a bar and a projection TV.
“Sit down,” she said. She gestured to the bar. “Can I get you anything?”
“Not this early.”
She smiled. “Hey, I didn’t mean, like, you’re a detective, you must drink first thing in the morning. I just played two sets of tennis, I’m all, Give me a Gatorade. You want a soft drink or something?”
“No, I’m fine.”
Amy bent over and opened the mini refrigerator, which gave me a good idea of just how well she fit into her shorts. She took out a quart of Gatorade, poured some into a glass, and chugged it down. “Now,” she said. “What’s this all about?”
I took a breath. “I’m wondering how much you know.”
She shrugged. “I know what happened. One of the vice-presidents is dead.”
“Cranston Pritchert.”
“Yeah. And he hired you and you found the body.” She shivered. “That must have been something. You’re on the phone with the cops and you’re like, Hey, there’s a body here.”
“Uh-huh,” I said. “Do you know why he hired me?”
“Not for sure. Why don’t you fill me in.”
“He was concerned about the stockholders meeting. In particular, the election of the new chairman of the board. He and the other vice-presidents were vying for it, and he thought someone was trying to ace him out.”
“Like, how?”
“By making him appear foolish. And thereby costing him votes.”
She frowned. “I’m not sure I follow you.”
I wasn’t either. Whether it was the way she looked, the way she dressed, the way she talked, the way she lived, or all of the above, Amy Greenberg struck me as terribly young, and I had no idea how much of what I was saying was getting through.
“Well,” I said, “why don’t I start at the beginning.”
Amy poured another glass of Gatorade. “Well,” she said. “Like, okay.”
I told her the whole thing. Just as I’d done for Alice. Just as I’d done for Richard. Just as I’d done for MacAullif. Just as I’d done for the cops. It occurred to me, a few more times, I might get pretty good at it.
Amy Greenberg sat there drinking Gatorade and listened without interrupting until I was done. Then she frowned and said, “I don’t understand.”
Actually, she had gotten more than I thought.
“I mean,” she said, “you’re saying like, this guy set the whole thing up himself? To use at the stockholders meeting?”
“That’s how it appeared.”
“You don’t think that anymore?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Yeah, but you’re like, That’s how it appeared. Why appeared?”
“Because he’s dead. It makes no sense once he’s dead.”
“Yeah, but, like, what if that’s why he’s dead?”
I frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I dunno.” She shrugged. “I mean, I don’t really know anything. But, like, what you say. If he was trying to ace the other guys out, and they find out about it, and they’re like, Hey, set me up, buddy, and they kill him.”
“That’s a thought. Only …”
“Only what?”
“It seems a little extreme.”
“Hey, the guy’s dead. Someone killed him.”
“All right. Say that were true. Who do you think it would be?”
“Hey, how should I know? I don’t know these guys. I don’t know the business. I’m a stockholder, sure, and Grandpa was chairman of the board. But that’s it. I never, like, worked there.”
“But you’ve been to the office?”
“I used to see Gramps.”
“How about since he died?”
“I went like once. Looked in his office for, you know, personal things. The accountant showed me around. He’s all, Sorry about your grandfather, and I’m like, Hey, you gotta go, you gotta go.”
“Uh-huh. Is that the only time you were ever up there?”
“Since he died. Yeah.”
“Okay, look,” I said. “You’re not active in the business, but you do have a considerable amount of stock.”
“Right. From Gramps.”
“Are you going to the stockholders meeting?”
“I guess I have to.”
“Why?”
“To vote.” She smiled. “You wouldn’t believe how I’m a very popular girl. All the guys are calling me up, wanting to talk.”
“You mean members of the board?”
“Right.”
“Even Cranston Pritchert?”
“Him too.”
“Did you talk to them?”
“Are you kidding? They’re like, Let me tell you how to vote, and I’m like, Down, boy, I’ll vote how I please. I may not know business, but I know what I like.”
“Uh-huh,” I said. “So the point is, you’re going to the meeting because you have a financial interest at stake.”
“Sure.”
“Well, that’s why I’m here. Cranston Pritchert hired me to make an investigation. He was killed before I could complete it. Which is too bad, because I had some very promising leads. Now, this is your company. At least, one in which you have a large investment because you hold a good deal of stock. It would be to your advantage to make sure that no one within your company was doing anything which might undermine its best interests.”
She looked at me a long moment, exhaled, ran her hand over her forehead, and said, “Whew. You mind trying that again? Like, what are you trying to say?”
“I’m suggesting I complete my investigation. I’m wondering if you’d like to hire me to do so.”
She frowned. “I’m not sure I understand.”
Damn.
She understood just fine. She just didn’t want to do it. Which wasn’t that much of a surprise. Still, with that much money at stake, I had hoped at least to have appealed to her curiosity.
While I was trying to think of another approach, my beeper went off.
“Damn,” I said. “That will be the office calling me.”
“The office?”
“The law firm I work for. I gotta call in.”
“You can use the phone in the kitchen,” she said.
I went in the kitchen, called Rosenberg and Stone. Mary Mason gave me a sign-up at Jacoby Hospital in the Bronx. That was convenient—it was right on my way home. I took down the information, went to look for Amy Greenberg.
She was out front in her car. She had backed out of the driveway so I could get out, and now she was sitting in the convertible and talking on the car phone.
Damn.
I had hoped to have one last crack at talking her into hiring me. But it was not to be. I waved to her, got in my car, backed out of the driveway, and drove off.
In the rear-view mirror I could see her talking animatedly on the car phone, her smile wide, her eyes bright.
She was probably talking about me.
I could imagine her saying, “He was all, Why don’t you hire me? And I was all, Like, why?”
Why indeed.
28.
WHAT A HUMILIATING POSITION TO find oneself in. But the thing is, I needed the money. Well, that’s just part of it. The other part is, I just couldn’t let it alone. Couldn’t walk away. I mean, it’s easy to say, not being involved, hey, give it up, it’s got nothing to do with you.
But the guy was my client. In a strange way, I owed him.
Plus, he owed me.
Which is where the humiliation comes in.
Miriam Pritchert lived on East 78th Street in a modern high-rise apartment building, where the doorman in the lobby was mighty reluctant to let me in. The guy thought I was a cop
, and figured the cops had bothered her enough.
I persisted with the doorman, got the grieving widow on the phone, and talked my way upstairs.
Miriam Pritchert was a bit of a surprise. I guess perversely I had expected someone four foot two. But, no, she was almost as tall as he was. I mean, proportionally. She wasn’t six six, but she was damn near six feet.
She was also a knockout. A lean, attractive woman with straight brown hair that hung almost to her waist, she wore a pale blue sunsuit, a pair of running shoes, and a puzzled frown.
“Mr. Hastings?” she said. Her tone indicated she didn’t believe it.
“That’s right.”
“You’re the one who called me on the phone.”
The night of the murder. Right. At least she’d made the connection.
“That’s right,” I said.
“Well, come in, I guess. But just for a moment. I’m going out.”
“I don’t want to keep you,” I said. “There are just a couple of matters to clear up.”
“I don’t understand,” she said. But she ushered me into the living room, indicated a chair, and sat opposite me on the couch. “Now, what’s this all about?”
“I’m sorry to intrude on you at a time like this. But your husband’s death left certain matters unresolved.”
“What matters?”
“I’m wondering how much you know?”
“I know what the police told me. My husband was found in his office.” She looked at me. “In fact, you’re the one who found him. Isn’t that right?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Because he hired you to find some girl?”
“That’s right.”
“That’s really all I know. But what else is there?”
“Well, I actually located the girl. She—”
“Yes, yes, I know. She’s a topless dancer, she met my husband in a bar. I know all that. What I mean is, I don’t know why. It simply makes no sense.”
“Your husband thought it might have something to do with the proxy fight.”
“In what way?”
“An attempt to embarrass him and lose him votes.”
“That seems somewhat far-fetched.”
“Perhaps. But that’s what he thought. I take it he never mentioned this to you?”
“Getting picked up in a bar? I should think not.” She shifted position on the couch. “Mr. …?”
“Hastings.”
“Hastings. As I said, I’m going out. What you’ve told me is nothing new. And I don’t like going over it again. Was there anything else?”
“Actually there was.”
“Oh?”
“As I said, your husband hired me to do a job. I’ve made considerable progress so far, locating not only the girl, but also her agent. Now both have disappeared. Leaving the job undone. I’m wondering if you’d like me to complete it.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“It appears someone was attempting to take advantage of your husband. As his heir, I’d think you’d want to find out why.”
She blinked. Frowned. “You’re asking me to hire you?”
“I’m asking you if you’d like me to complete my work.”
She blinked again. “Thank you, no. Whatever my husband may have been involved in, I can’t see how it has anything to do with me. It disturbs me to think he was trying to pick up girls in bars. But as it is, I see no point in going into all that now.”
“What if it was more sinister than that?”
“How could it be?”
I took a breath. “You’ll pardon me, but your husband is dead.”
“Which is a matter for the police. I’m sure they’re capable of handling it.”
What could I say to that? Tell her that might be true, if the officer in charge didn’t happen to be swayed by personal grudges? Somehow that seemed a little much to lay on a grieving widow.
Only she wasn’t exactly grieving, this grieving widow. She wasn’t wearing black, and as I said, she looked damn good. It occurred to me, perhaps I should set my sights on her a few notches higher.
Particularly if getting her to hire me was out.
“Fine,” I said. “If you’d like to leave the investigation to the police, that’s perfectly understandable. There’s only one other small matter.”
“Oh? And what is that?”
“The work I’ve already done. The money your husband advanced me, I used up in expenses.”
She shrugged her shoulders, spread her arms. “Again, I don’t see what that has to do with me.”
“I would presume you were the executor of your husband’s estate.”
“As to that, I wouldn’t know. I really can’t deal with it now. If you feel you have a claim against my husband’s estate, I suggest you put it in writing and I’ll forward it to his attorneys.”
See what I mean about humiliating? I’d practically been reduced to groveling.
Miriam Pritchert had stood up. I stood too and, cowed, allowed myself to be shown out the door.
My car was right outside. What can I say? Some days you get lucky. I hadn’t gotten hired, but I had found a parking space in front of her building. I unlocked the car, got in, and switched off the code alarm.
Just as a familiar face went in the front door.
I slipped out of the car and gave chase. Surreptitiously, to be sure. I didn’t want to be spotted and recognized, either by the doorman or by the visitor. Just inside the door was a bank of mailboxes. I turned my back, pretended to inspect them. I was maybe twenty feet away from the reception desk, but I was still close enough to hear what was going on.
The gentleman in question was indeed calling on Miriam Pritchert.
I’m not good at putting names to faces, and I couldn’t do so now, but that didn’t matter. One thing I knew for sure.
The young gentleman who had just called on the young, attractive, and none too grieving Miriam Pritchert was one of the two other vice-presidents from her husband’s firm.
29.
HE TOOK HER OUT TO LUNCH. I know, because I tagged along. They ate at some trendy little restaurant in the East 60s where the drinks probably cost more than my average meal.
I would have loved to have listened in, but it was not to be. The dining room was small and wide open. There was no way to get close to them without being seen.
Oh, well, having a poor memory left me with other fish to fry. I walked down the block to a pay phone, took out my notebook, checked the number, and made a call.
“Philip Greenberg Investments,” the receptionist said.
“Marty Rothstein, please.”
“I’m sorry. Mr. Rothstein is out to lunch. Could I take a message?”
“How about Kevin Dunbar?”
“One moment, please.”
There was a ring and a click and a voice said, “Hello?”
I hung up.
And that was that. There were two vice-presidents, the tall, thin one and the short, stocky one with the mustache. Tall, thin Marty Rothstein was having lunch with Miriam Pritchert. Short, stocky Kevin Dunbar had answered the phone. The ace detective strikes again.
I was just patting myself on the back when my beeper went off. It occurred to me it was just as well. While I would have liked to have stuck around and seen if Miriam Pritchert and her late husband’s rival had gone back to her place after lunch, no one was paying me for it. I could use some hours on the clock.
I fished a quarter out of my pocket, called Rosenberg and Stone.
Mary Mason absolutely blew my mind. Not that she meant to, it just worked out that way.
I was standing on the corner of Third Avenue and 68th. The assignment she gave me was 68th Street between Second and Third.
Half a block away.
The location was a rarity in itself, because the East 60s are an affluent neighborhood, and affluent clients are infrequent at Rosenberg and Stone.
But that was the least of it.
My car was still parke
d in front of Miriam Pritchert’s on East 78th Street. And my briefcase was in it—naturally, I hadn’t taken it with me to go tailing Pritchert’s wife. Ordinarily, I could not call on a client without my briefcase. All the forms they need to sign are in it, including the retainer.
But this wasn’t a sign-up. It was a photo assignment. The client had just gotten home from the hospital, and Richard wanted me to take injury photos of the surgical scars.
Even so, ordinarily my camera would be in my briefcase.
But—
This was my second assignment of the day. On my way back from Amy Greenberg’s, I’d stopped at Jacoby Hospital in the Bronx to sign up a guy who’d broken his neck. I kid you not. The guy’d been hanging upside down from a defective chinning bar, which had collapsed, causing him to fall on his head. The client, one Jaspar T. Baines, was a thin, muscular black man whom I found stretched out full-length in bed with his head in traction.
It was a situation that cried out for a photo, and I’d smuggled my camera in. I do that by wearing it on a cord around my neck and under my arm, so it hangs down under my jacket as if in a shoulder holster. This was necessary, because most hospitals won’t allow you to take pictures.
I’d gotten mine, thank you very much, and what a fine picture it was.
And because of that I had my camera with me.
What a fantastic stroke of luck.
I hied it down the street to take pictures of Susan Franklyn’s reconstructed knee.
Only it wasn’t quite that easy. First off, there was a security problem. Susan Franklyn’s building was harder to get into than Miriam Pritchert’s. The guard in the lobby must have asked me half a dozen questions before he was even willing to call upstairs. Even then he wasn’t happy—I swear I thought he was going to ask me for a photo ID.
Then there was the client herself. Susan Franklyn was young, attractive, and modest. Most of Richard Rosenberg’s clients couldn’t give a damn about modesty—for an injury photo, they’d happily strip to the buff. Not Susan Franklyn. Her injury was only her knee, but she was wearing pants, and she wasn’t willing to drop them for the shot. A trifle coy, since she was presumably wearing underwear, not to mention a fairly long shirt. But what the hey, I’d gotten enough breaks on the assignment, I could afford to wait while she changed.
