“Okay, I guess.”
“Would you like me to come over, Lee?”
“That’s all right, Jack. I’ve got a lot to do, keeping things going while Wood’s . . . away.”
“Things couldn’t be in better hands, Lee,” I said. “Wood knows that.”
“I know,” she said. “Jack, thanks for—”
“Thank me when I get him out, honey,” I said, interrupting her. “I’ll keep in touch.”
I hung up and, in spite of the lateness of the hour, tried to get Heck at home. When he didn’t answer I went out to take Billy up on that beer.
Seven
I was waiting with Missy early the next morning when Heck arrived at his office.
Eddie Waters had been my best friend and mentor in the business and Missy had been his secretary, gal Friday and gal every other day, as well. After we found Eddie’s killer, Missy got a job with a temporary secretarial outfit, working wherever they sent her from day to day, until I recommended that she and Heck get together. They agreed to try it out on a temporary basis, but the job seemed to have become permanent all by itself.
Missy was a beautiful twenty-nine-year-old redhead and, since Eddie’s death, we had eased into a comfortable relationship as friends. We both knew we’d never be any more than that, because Eddie would always be there between us. Besides, if we became lovers, who would we talk over our troubles with?
“How’s the job?” I asked.
“It’s fine, Jack,” she said with a smile. “You know, Heck’s really not all that different from Eddie.”
“You mean that Heck Delgado is disorganized, too?” I asked, feigning wide-eyed disbelief.
She nodded impishly and said, “He’s just neater about it.”
“Keeping my secretary from her work, Jack?” Heck asked from behind as he entered.
“It would take more than one man to do that, Heck.”
“Save that stuff,” he said, good-naturedly. “We haven’t made a formal announcement, but I guess her job’s pretty permanent.”
“I want to wish you both the best of luck.”
“Jesus, Jack,” Missy said, “we didn’t get married.”
“Give me time.”
“You’ve got ten minutes,” Heck said, walking into his office, “and then I’m due in court.”
“Ten minutes?” I asked, following him in with a wave to Missy. “Is that enough time for you to tell me about your talk with Detective Vadala?”
“It should be,” he said, seating himself behind his desk. “Why don’t you sit down?”
“Is that a ‘be comfortable’ sit down,” I asked warily, “or a ‘bad news’ sit down?”
“Contrary to popular opinion, Jack, it is no easier to take bad news sitting down than it is standing up.”
“Bad news, then,” I said, sitting down.
“I spoke with Vadala at length, and then I spoke to the D.A. They both seem to believe they have a pretty good case against your friend.”
“What do you believe?”
He hesitated a moment, then said, “He was found in the apartment with the body, and he certainly has the skills necessary to have administered a fatal beating.”
“Is it that open and shut?”
“It is when there are no other suspects.”
“None at all?”
He shook his head and said, “None.”
“What about the call the cops received? Was it anonymous?”
“No.”
“What then?”
“It was from Alan Cross.”
“The dead man?”
“Supposedly. According to Vadala, Cross called and said that he feared for his life. He said that Knock Wood Lee had threatened to kill him and was coming over to his apartment.”
“And when they got there, there was Wood . . .”
“. . . and there was the body,” Heck said, finishing for me. “Hence, their case.”
“Come on, Heck, that’s flimsy. Anybody could have called and said he was Cross.”
“That’s true, but I’ve told you about the cop intellect. Your friend is standing right there in front of them—why should they go looking elsewhere?”
“All cops aren’t like that. Hocus isn’t like that.”
“It’s not Hocus’s case.”
“Vadala’s a good cop, Heck, in spite of what he may think of me.”
“I don’t doubt that, but he really thinks he’s got his man, Jack, and the D.A. agrees. They’ll arraign him today.”
“Well, they’re wrong,” I said, standing up, “and we’ve got to prove it.”
“Then get me the proof.”
“What about Walker Blue?”
“He’s away on a case,” Heck said. “He left last week. Uh, are you telling me that you cannot work on this case?”
“No, no,” I said, quickly. “Wood’s my friend, not yours. Of course I’ll work on it. I do have another case, however, but I’m trying to wrap it up quickly.”
“All right,” he said after a one-beat pause. He opened his drawer and took out a brown business-size envelope. “I had Missy type up the particulars last night, including Alan Cross’s address. Everything you need should be in there.”
“Okay,” I said, taking it from him. “I’ll go over it.”
“I’ll try for bail on Wood,” Heck said, “but my guess is he’ll end up a guest in the refurbished Tombs.”
“Yeah.”
“What’s this other case you’re working on, if I may ask?”
“A missing girl. I’ve been on it for a week.”
“Any leads?”
“Some. I’ve made contact with some people who might be able to lead me to her. I’m hoping to wrap it up soon, don’t worry.”
“Don’t push it, Jack. I can get somebody—”
“No,” I said, cutting him off. “I told Wood I’d do it, and I wouldn’t charge him. I’ll take care of it.”
“Well, if you are sure you can. This is a little more important than a runaway girl.”
I couldn’t very well have argued that point with him even if I wanted to.
“I know, I know it is. If I don’t come up with something in the next day or so, I’ll get some help looking for her.”
“I think that would be a good idea,” Heck said, checking his watch. “I have to be in court. Keep me informed, Jack, will you?”
“Of course.”
We left together and while Heck hailed a cab I started to walk uptown, thinking not about Knock Wood Lee’s case, but about Melanie Saberhagen.
That was a situation I was going to have to try my damnedest to resolve.
Seated behind my desk with a late breakfast of scrambled eggs, ham, home fries, toast, and coffee, I was trying to read the material Missy had prepared for me on Alan Cross, but I was unable to concentrate because I couldn’t stop thinking about Melanie Saberhagen. She had a father who seemed to have little time for her, whom she blamed for the death of her mother, and an aunt who took her in simply so she could collect checks from her father. I was being paid to find her and bring her back to those people.
Wood’s case was, of course, the more serious, but I still owed my client my best efforts in locating his daughter, no matter what I thought of him. I could see where juggling two cases at one time could be a problem. And it was a problem I wasn’t all that experienced at handling.
My predicament had an obvious solution. Find the girl quickly, collect the remainder of my fee, and then work on Wood’s case.
Clearing my desk of the remains of my breakfast, I decided to apply myself to Wood’s case for the day, and then go to the institute that evening. Maybe one or two of the group would show up before their regular Tuesday class, and if they didn’t, then I’d talk to Bayard about getting some addresses.
With that settled, I was finally able to concentrate on the material about Cross. Alan Cross had been twenty-nine years old, a bachelor with no family, who lived alone, and worked for an advertising firm on—w
here else?—Madison Avenue. His home and business addresses were included. I decided to check them both out, after I made a couple of phone calls.
The first one was to Tiger Lee, to give her a not so encouraging update, as well as something else to do.
“Thanks for giving it to me straight, Jack,” she said, after I’d relayed everything to her that Heck had told me.
I muttered, “It wouldn’t be right to do it any other way. Not with you, Lee.”
Now she was awkwardly silent before asking, “Is there anything I can do?”
“That’s why I called,” I said. “I want you to tell me everything you know about the debt Cross owed Wood.”
“Well, all I know is that Alan Cross was always a big player, but he always paid on time. All of a sudden he wants to play on credit—”
“—and since he’s always been a good customer, Wood gives it to him.”
“Right, and gives it to him again—”
“Okay, we don’t need to go any further,” I said, cutting her off. “The guy got in over his head.”
“And he kept putting Wood off, until Wood had to go and see him.”
“Which is where we stand now. All right, here’s what I want you to do. Check on some of Wood’s competitors and see if anyone else was holding Alan Cross’s markers.”
“Why?”
“The best way to get Wood off this hook is to put somebody on it.”
“You mean pin it on somebody else?” she asked in disbelief.
“No, I’m not suggesting that,” I said. “We’ve just got to show the cops that there were others with as much cause, or more, than they think Wood had.”
“Will that get him off?”
“It’ll be a start.”
“All right, I’ll make some calls. What are you going to be doing?”
“I’m going to look over Cross’s apartment, and then check out the place he worked for.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I’m going to look in some drawers, ask some questions, and see what pops up. That’s what a private investigator does, Lee.”
I could have sworn she was smiling when she said, “Thanks for filling me in on that, Jack.”
“I’ll talk to you later.”
My next call was to Hocus.
“You want me to what?”
“I want you to arrange it so I can get into Alan Cross’s apartment for a look-see.”
“You’re out of the ring what, a year?”
“Just about.”
“And you’re still punchy.”
“Hocus—”
“This is Vadala’s case, Jacoby. You want me to get in between you and him? I’m not that good at bobbing and weaving.”
“All I’m asking for is a favor, and a small one at that.”
“Letting you into a sealed crime scene on a case that isn’t even my own, you call that a small favor?”
“Not when you put it that way.”
“Well, how would you put it?”
“I’d uh . . . yeah, I guess I’d put it that way.”
“Fine, we agree on something.”
“Will you do it?”
“No.”
“Hocus—”
“I don’t have to,” Hocus said before I could go on.
“What do you mean?”
“Find something to keep you busy until about three o’clock, and you should be able to walk right into the place all by yourself.”
“Why?”
“The seal will be lifted by then.”
“That’s kind of quick, isn’t it?”
Hocus paused a beat, then said, “Vadala figures he’s got his man, Jack. He’s dead sure of it.”
“Has he got the D.A. convinced?”
“I’ve seen the paperwork, Jack, and Wood looks real good for it. I think maybe Vadala’s got him this time.”
“Maybe,” I said, “but don’t turn the key in the cell door just yet.”
Eight
Alan Cross had worked for Paul Bishop Associates on Madison Avenue and East Forty-fifth Street. According to the directory in the lobby the company occupied two floors in the twenty-story building, the sixteenth and seventeenth. I took the elevator to the seventeenth floor and presented myself to a porcelain-faced receptionist who probably hadn’t aged in ten years. I told her I’d like to see Mr. Bishop.
“Mr. Bishop?”
“Yes.”
“What business do you have here, sir?”
“It concerns Alan Cross.”
Her face remained expressionless as she said, “Mr. Cross is no longer with this company.”
“I know, sweetheart,” I said, “he went out the hard way. I’m trying to find out who gave him his pink slip.”
She blinked her eyes, which was her way of running a gamut of emotions, said, “One moment, please,” and then reached for her phone. She spoke briefly into the phone, and it was obvious that she had perfected the art of talking about someone who is barely three feet away and not letting them hear a word.
When she hung up she looked at me and said, “Someone will be right out.”
“Fine,” I said. “I appreciate your courtesy.”
She went back to doing whatever she’d been doing and I took a seat and picked up a copy of Sports Illustrated. That was a mistake, because it was a boxing issue and in spite of everything I’d been telling myself and people around me, boxing was still in my blood. I was replacing the magazine on the table, face down, when a door opened and “someone” stepped out.
“Mr. Jacoby?” the woman said.
I stood up and said, “I’m Jacoby.”
“Please, come to my office,” she said. She turned and went back through the door, and I followed. She was a handsome, dark-haired woman, obviously the executive type.
I followed her down a corridor to her office, which was small but expensively furnished.
“Please sit down,” she said, sitting in her own chair behind a large oak desk that made the room seem even smaller.
“My name is Paula Bishop, Mr. Jacoby.”
“Paula Bishop?” I said. “I thought the company was called—’8
“Yes, it is called Paul Bishop, but I did that years ago when I first started out, just as a front. It’s one of those little tricks a woman has to pull to get anywhere in the business world.”
“I see. Well, you seem to have gotten somewhere.”
“Yes, I have. May I ask what your interest is in Alan Cross?”
“I’m investigating his death.”
“His murder, you mean.”
“Yes,” I said in direct response to her no-nonsense attitude, “that’s exactly what I mean.”
“Well, are you a policeman? Do you have some sort of identification?”
“I have identification,” I said, taking out the photostat of my P.I. license, “but I’m not a policeman. I’m a private investigator.”
She looked over my photostat and handed it back.
“Then you must have been hired by someone.”
“That’s right.”
“By whom, may I ask?”
“I’m not at liberty to say,” I said, “but I hope you’ll cooperate with me.”
“In what way?”
“I’d just like to ask a few questions of you and anyone else in your company who knew Alan Cross. I’m sure you’d like to see his murderer brought to justice.”
“That sounds as if it came straight out of Barnaby Jones, Mr. Jacoby,” she said, scolding me, “but of course I’ll cooperate. I’ve no reason not to.”
“I appreciate that, Miss—uh, Ms.—”
“Miss is fine,” she said shortly.
“How well did you know Alan Cross, Miss Bishop?”
“I hired him, four years ago,” she said. “I’ve seen him at work every day since then, had lunch with him when business warranted it.”
“A purely business relationship?”
“Of course,” she said, and then added
, “I was hardly his type, in any case.”
“What type was that?”
“Oh,” she said, touching the back of her hair, which was cut short, “the type most handsome young men prefer. Empty heads and large chests.”
Well, Paula Bishop hardly had an empty head. As for her chest, her suit was mannishly cut, but she did not seem to be too badly off in that department either. Was there a trace of regret—or anger—there?
“Did he have any close friends among your employees?”
“I really wouldn’t know that, Mr. Jacoby,” she said. “I don’t keep track of my employees’ personal lives.”
“I see. Would you mind, then, if I questioned some of your people?”
She paused a moment with a slight frown making small furrows in her smooth brow, then said, “As long as you don’t disrupt my business, I don’t see why you shouldn’t. It won’t take very long, I trust?”
“Oh, not long at all. Just tell me what department Cross worked in and I’ll start with his immediate coworkers. Maybe I won’t even have to go any further.”
“I hope not,” she said. “Mr. Cross worked on the sixteenth floor. He wrote copy and was very good at it. Just ask for his office. I’ll call down and let them know you’re coming.”
“That’s very kind of you.”
“Not at all,” she said. “Good day, Mr. Jacoby.”
As I left her office I was thinking that Paula Bishop was a very businesslike lady, but I couldn’t help wondering what she did for fun . . . and with whom?
I questioned several people who had worked closely with Alan Cross, and it all added up the same way. He was good at work, but he was better when he played, and he played hard. He especially liked gambling, and women.
Sam Griese was the only person I could find who described himself as a friend of the dead man’s. Griese seemed a lot like Cross, good-looking and relatively young.
“Did you socialize outside of work?”
“Not a lot,” Griese said, “but when we did we had a ball. I tell you, there was one night when we had these girls—” He stopped abruptly, as if catching himself talking out of turn.
I let it pass and asked, “Do you know of anyone who might have had reason to kill Cross?”
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