The radio gave some good news about a missing boy who had been found. A different man's voice talked about the weather and a violent storm in the Atlantic. Henry noted the weather report and gave a look to the corner to see if his umbrella was there. It was, and ready for action. Henry changed the station and listened to some music, a tune by Stan Kenton, “The Peanut Vendor”, which always reminded him of baseball. Henry thought about Vero Beach, which is where his beloved Brooklyn Dodgers had been holding spring training since 1949. This led his brain conveniently back to Mickey.
Mickey was at the game, September 9, 1948, when Rex Barney threw a no-hitter, having chosen to skip an afternoon of stalking some hysterical woman's husband who was cheating on her with an even more hysterical typing clerk. Henry couldn't remember what happened with that case, but he remembered Mickey feeling genuinely bad that he hadn't invited Henry to come along. Mickey liked to play pranks, tease, and give him a hard time, but he knew that the Dodgers were sacred; if he had known it would be an historical game, he would have gladly taken the stakeout duty so that Henry could go. Henry knew this because Mickey had told him about 1,000 times.
Almost two years later, on August 31, 1950, Mickey got a feeling. He had been planning to go to the track that day, and had given Henry the day off. There hadn't been much work. Henry remembered that was about the time he started to think about going out on his own. Mickey called a friend and got two tickets down the first base line. Then he called Henry and said they were going to the game. They had been to games before and seen some good ones, but nothing like the no-hitter. Henry remembered what his friend had said on the phone: “Henry, I know I gave you the day off, but we are going to Ebbets…I have a feeling”. In truth, Mickey had said similar things before, and was usually wrong, but Henry didn't care. He would never turn down a chance to see the Dodgers play.
Only one Brooklyn Dodger in history has ever hit four home runs. He was kind enough to do it for Henry on that last day of August. Or at least, that is how Henry liked to remember it.
He got up from the kitchen table, turned off the radio, and went to his dresser in the bedroom. He opened the bottom drawer and pulled out a stack of magazines. In the middle of them, perfectly flat, in perfect condition, was the scorecard from that day. He read through every batter. It was as if he was back at Ebbets with his friend and mentor.
He put it away. Henry pulled out his notebook, dated the first clean page, and made a list for the day. His mind seemed clearer now and it was time to get back on the case.
Chapter Twenty
He listened for any shuffling around inside, as he walked past Bobby's office; he slowed up a bit. Henry wasn't interested in one of Bobby's long stories and was sure that if Bobby heard him in the hall, he would be knee deep in a lengthy tale, before he knew what hit him. He checked his watch. Nine o'clock and time to get back to work on Mickey's case. The empty receptionist desk suddenly bothered Henry. Had he really been doing everything Mickey had taught him? He sat down at the empty desk to think.
Thirty minutes passed and he still didn't know why he had never bothered to hire someone. There were countless times it would have been handy. How many clients had he lost because they showed up while he was out? It didn't look professional.
The thought crossed his mind that he might not be good enough to catch Mickey's killer. The doubt washed over him like a cold northerly wind, and it chilled him to the bone. Mickey had wandered into his life at just the right moment, but now he wasn't sure if he had spent enough time learning the ropes. His old boss was always testing him. Henry had loved it.
Could this be the final exam? Henry pushed aside the sick feeling he remembered from school. This test he couldn't bluff his way through.
Footsteps were coming down the hall; Henry hopped to his feet and went to the door. He heard a knocking, but it was a few doors down. He heard voices greeting each other and a door being closed. Henry walked back into his office and made some coffee. The view out the window didn't provide any inspiration, but he looked anyway.
When you are stuck, make a list, he thought, echoing the words of his mentor.
He flipped open his notebook and set it on the desk. The pencil was dull, so he sharpened it. First item...
The fears were strangling his mind. The blank page staring back at him screamed a deafening rebuke. What do you do next? First item, who are the players in the New York art scene? Just getting it on paper was a start, but the fears were coming faster than the ideas.
He opened the desk drawer. There was the card for Mr. Brown, who might or might not be wearing a brown suit today. It was the only item on his list, but maybe if he started at the top of the (very short) list, he may find a few more items to add.
Henry locked the office door and headed out to pay Mr. Brown a visit.
The metaphorical wind, which had chilled him earlier, was replaced by a very real arctic blast in Henry's face. His hat nearly got away from him, but his reflexes were still sharp. Hat in one hand, he used the other to hail a cab. The driver knew the address, and Henry was thankful he wasn't chatty.
Traffic in Manhattan was brutal, but they got there. Henry paid him and, with one hand on his fedora, exited the cab.
Mr. Brown's secretary was a stunning brunette. She politely asked Henry to take a seat and then informed Mr. Brown that he was waiting. A few minutes later the office door opened, and Mr. Brown, wearing a different brown suit, invited Henry in and offered him a chair.
"Mr. Wood, how may I help you today?"
"I don't want to take a lot of your time; I know you are busy. When we met the other day, I was unprepared, and for that, I am sorry." Henry had decided on the ride over to come clean about Mickey being dead.
"I’m happy to help and I do appreciate your being brief, as I have a meeting in about ten minutes."
"I'll get to the point, then. I don't know why Mickey wanted to talk to you, not completely. He was killed yesterday, and I am not sure it was an accident. I used to work for him, and he means a lot to me, so I was in his office looking for something which might help me find his killer." Henry paused when the secretary popped her head in and reminded Mr. Brown of his meeting.
"I’m sorry to hear it. Were you able to figure out why he wanted to see me?"
"I found some notes…it appears he was working on a case involving art. I was wondering if you might recognize any of these names." Henry took out his notebook.
"I might, as I do know most of the best collectors in New York. I am quite proud of my own collection."
Henry wasn't sure why he didn't read the list in order, but he didn't. Mr. Brown's reaction to the first two names was a simple shrug and a shake of the head. "I don't have a first name, but it seems there is a Dr. Schaefer," Henry said.
"Yes, he is a well known collector. I have seen him at gallery openings, though I couldn't say that I know him. We have even gone after a few of the same items at Sotheby's."
"Did you win the bids?"
"I have won some, but regardless of whether I win or lose, I always suspect that he has gotten the better of me. I don't like to admit it, but he has a sharp eye."
"What about the name Andre Garneau?"
The moment that Mr. Brown heard the name, he sat up in his chair. "He is a pig! That bastard wouldn't know a Rodin from a rodent. Nobody knows where his money comes from, but if I were to guess, I would say he has stolen it. He doesn't love art – he loves attention. His appetite for art is almost as great as his appetite for food. I would not call him a collector. He is more of a hoarder."
Henry noted the strong reaction and the comments. He read the other names, but Mr. Brown didn't seem to know any of the last few.
"I have just one more question,” Henry said, “are you familiar with an object called the ‘Antikythera Mechanism'?"
Mr. Brown was motionless, unnaturally so, for the briefest of moments. His eyes didn't blink, but Henry saw his pupils change.
"No, I can't say I am famili
ar with it. Doesn't really sound like my cup of tea, some antique machine… no not at all. I am interested in traditional art, paintings, sometimes sculptures, but never something so pedestrian. I haven't heard of it at all. What is it?"
The length of the answer was as telling as the pupils. Henry stood up and thanked Mr. Brown.
Chapter Twenty-One
Damn, Henry thought. Another person was waiting at his door while he was out. When he got closer, the collar made it even worse. Henry wasn't a religious man, but he respected those who were, and believed that they deserved to be treated well. I really need a secretary.
"Father, I am so sorry to have kept you waiting," Henry said as he unlocked the door.
"No matter, my son, a wee bit of time for quiet reflection is always appreciated."
Henry nodded and led the father in to the outer office. "May I take your coat?"
"Thank you."
Henry hung the priest's coat on the coat tree, then added his beside it. He led him into his office and asked, "Would you like a cup of coffee, Father?"
"No, that is quite alright."
"How may I help you?"
"I should probably begin by introducing myself. I am Father Patrick."
"Pleased to meet you, Father Patrick," Henry said, shaking his hand.
"I am with Saint Peter's over on Barclay. I heard about the loss of your friend, Michael Thomas Moore. I am deeply sorry for your loss. You have my condolences. I didn't know him well..." (he lied, as he didn't know him at all) "...but he was a good man. Is there anything I can do for you in this hour of need?"
Henry was a little surprised to be hearing from a priest about Mickey, as his friend had never been religious either. Of course, he knew Mickey was Catholic. Henry remembered that Mickey would attend mass on the major holidays and two or three times a year, when he was feeling extra full of sin, but it still seemed strange to have the priest calling. Henry couldn't recall Mickey ever mentioning St. Peter's, or any church for that matter, but the father seemed sincere.
"Father, we are planning the wake, and, to be honest, I didn't know where he attended mass. It has been a real shock."
"I know, it always is when one parts this earth, before his time. He wasn't a regular by any means, but he did stop in from time to time. It has been a while since we talked. He will be missed. Forgive me for asking, but I just heard of his passing this morning...how did he die? I wasn't aware of him being sick." Father Patrick was reading Henry and could tell that he had best keep it vague. He was also covering for his slight verbal blunder, though he didn't think Henry had noticed.
Henry, though not religious, was feeling the need to unburden himself. Father Patrick's question nudged Henry forward enough to get him to divulge his suspicions about Mickey's death. "Father, I don't think it was an accident. I think he was murdered."
Father Patrick lowered his head and said a prayer. Henry lowered his head, too.
"I didn't know Michael well enough to know about his family. He didn't mention anyone. Will you need help with the arrangements?"
Henry felt slightly better. The offer of help with the arrangements was a Godsend. Henry explained to the priest that Mike and Luna were putting together the wake…and then he ran out of steam. The thought of burying his friend before he found the killer, or even working on the funeral, was almost more than he could bear. There was a long silence.
"Yes, Father, I would like some help with the arrangements. Let me talk to Luna and Mike. We will call you tomorrow. Your timing couldn't be better."
Father Patrick smiled. "I hope you are wrong about it being murder. I will pray that you find the truth, and if it is as you suspect, then I will pray you find the men who did it."
Henry shook the priest's hand and showed him to the door. He returned to his desk and opened his notebook. He started to write down his memory of the conversation, mostly out of habit, but partly because his gut told him it might be important. He jotted down that the priest was a few years older than him, possibly even early 50s, had blue eyes, and stood about 6 feet tall. He noted their conversation, the subject, the date, and then he paused. Something was bothering him.
Henry picked up the phone and dialed.
"Luna, Henry here."
"I know. How are you doing?" she said with a gentleness that Henry sorely needed.
"I’m doing fine. Thanks." And though he was not doing fine, hearing Luna's voice did make things better. "I was wondering if you and Mike had contacted a church yet?"
"No, we weren't sure where he went. Mike was going to call you later today and ask."
"I just had a visit from a priest, Father Patrick, who said he knew Mickey. He offered to help with the arrangements."
"That was very kind of him."
"Yes, it was." Henry said in a tone which had just a hint of accusation.
Luna picked up on it. "What is it Henry?"
"I don't know, it may be nothing, but I wonder how he knew to come see me. Have you read today's paper?"
"Yes, there was a small piece about the accident and it mentioned...wait a minute...I'll get it."Henry heard her walk away from the phone and then back while flipping through the paper "Here it is: 'A local, and much loved local, by the name of Michael Thomas Moore, was struck and killed by a car outside The Dublin Rogue. At this time police are ruling it an accident, but are looking for the driver. If anyone has any information....' Then it gives a number people can call if they know anything."
"I suppose Mickey could have mentioned me. Thanks Luna, you have been a big help. Could you save that for me?"
"Sure thing. Will you be around later? Mike and I thought we would come by to check on you."
"I have to head down to the library, but I should be here later in the day. Thanks again."
After he hung up the phone, he paced around a bit. It was quite likely that if Mickey did know Father Patrick, Henry could have come up in the conversation, as Mickey always told stories about his friends. Why did Henry still feel like there was something out of the ordinary? Was it something he had said?
Back and forth he paced. He imagined the greeting at the door, then the conversation. Finally Henry got it and said aloud, "I know, it always is…when one parts this earth before his time." The paper had said it was an accident. If that was the case, shouldn't a priest conclude that it was Mickey's time?
Henry went to his list, which only contained the one item, “Meet with Mr. Brown.” He added the number two and then wrote, “Look into Father Patrick of St. Peter's Catholic Church.” Henry grabbed a phone book, looked up the address, and noted it as well. Then he added his next task next to a numeral three, “Talk to Marian the librarian.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
From the office window only shades of gray could be seen in the fading afternoon light. Spring was getting closer, but winter had not let go her grip on the city. A thin shapeless sky threatened to add some rain. This might wash away some of the filthy snow still lingering in the streets and on the sidewalks, but would it wash away the gray? Henry didn't think so. People were wearing their collars up to keep the uncomfortable realization that there might be one more storm left in Mother Nature's bag at bay. They walked with their heads down, their shoulders hunched, not saying a word.
Henry didn't like gray. He liked black and white; he liked blue skies and green infields; he liked order and baseball. He wanted to know the score. Who killed Mickey, and why was Katarina back? The dinner with Katarina had crept back into his mind, shoving Mickey impolitely to the side. It was wrong to let it, but reminders of her and those happy days kept nipping into his thoughts.
The worn notebook sat on his desk, with the pencil napping on top of it. They both knew it would be a while before he needed them again. There was a day, many years ago, when Henry and Katarina had been out somewhere, he couldn't remember where. They had left the bookstore or gallery and decided to walk back to Henry's place. The sudden spring storm caught them off guard. Katarina's quick temper ha
d her throwing a fit. She was enraged that her hairdo was ruined. She went on about it for three blocks, angry that they didn't take a cab, blaming Henry, though she had suggested the walk. She might have even cursed God, but Henry couldn't remember for sure. She finally stomped her feet while they waited at the light, and said, "Damn it, look at me! I am a mess!"
Henry smiled as he remembered his reply. It was along the lines of, "Yes, you are. I would say you closely resemble a wet rat." He had chuckled to himself, but she hadn't said anything. She was stunned. Henry had then added, "Not everyone can pull off the wet rat look, but I think it works for you." They were both soaked to the bone. It was a warm rain, unseasonably warm for spring in New York, and then there was a break in the downpour. The sunlight sneaking through the gap in the clouds made the wet street and cars seem all shiny and new. Katarina, had started giggling, slung her arm through his, and before they reached the other side of the street, the giggle had bubbled over into a full blown laughter.
Henry never told her that he had meant it, every word. He couldn't remember a time where she had looked more beautiful. There was something about having her hair soaked, her makeup running, and her rage lose control, which exposed her core, for good and bad. Henry liked truth and at that moment, she wasn't a stunningly beautiful woman because of the clothes or makeup; she was beautiful because she just was. The chaos and rain had shown him that. That may have been the moment he fell for her. Though he couldn't be sure…there were other moments too, so Henry decided to add it to the gray-area category.
Henry kept thinking about holding her hand at dinner. It was warm, soft, and familiar, though in truth, it wasn't familiar at all. It was more of a want of familiar, which was now stirring the emotions and meddling with Henry's mind. He turned away from the window, then walked to the edge of his desk, choosing to sit on the corner. To a fly on the wall, it may have appeared that he was staring off into space, but he wasn't. He was staring back in time, to their dinner, and directly into her lovely eyes. He was so focused that even his peripheral vision wasn't working.
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