Dirty Harold bothered me all night. There was a recurring dream in which I had somehow become a film director; Barnes was an actor who couldn't remember his lines. He was naked, sitting in a pool of grease and gnawing on a hamburger while I harangued him.
"Are you now, or have you ever been, an architect?"
No answer.
"Are you an actor, Harold? Are you acting? What the hell are you all about, Harold?"
No answer.
The alarm rang precisely at eight. I slapped it into submission and went back to sleep. The phone woke me up fifteen minutes later.
"You'd better get your ass down here, brother," Garth said in his cheery morning growl. "I think I've got something that'll interest you."
"You said ten."
"I'm saying now. Where's your sense of dedication? Get it down here!"
"All right. Let me get some coffee."
"Bring coffee," Garth said. The line went dead.
I fell into my clothes and made my way downtown to the station house. Garth was sitting at his desk, studying the contents of two pea-green manila folders. He held out his hand as I entered and I stuck a container of coffee into it. He didn't look up.
"What have you got, Garth?"
He motioned for me to sit down as he passed one of the folders over for me to see. "Read it, Mongo," he said seriously.
The field report on the investigation into the murder of Dr. Arthur Morton was about as brief a report as I'd ever seen; all it contained was the bare facts of Morton's death.
The neurosurgeon had been killed by a single bullet in the brain. The bullet markings indicated that it had come from a gun equipped with a silencer, which probably made the killer big-league professional. The caliber of the gun was British. There had been no signs of a forced entry into the office, and as far as the investigating officers could tell, nothing had been taken or disturbed. There had been no clues, no suspects. The title page of the file was stamped UNSOLVED.
Garth didn't object when I took out my notebook and wrote down the name of Morton's widow, along with a few other details. "There's not a whole hell of a lot here," I said.
"That's what I thought would interest you. Whoever killed him was no amateur."
"Obviously. Morton decided to stroll into his office at three-thirty in the morning so he could get himself killed by a professional." I pointed to the second folder. "What's that?"
"Oh, this?" he said with a gesture of mock surprise. "This is Victor Rafferty's file."
"Victor Rafferty had a police record?" My voice reflected my shock.
"No," Garth said. "But there was a Missing Persons report filed on him."
"What's the date?"
"August 15, 1969." "The same day that weird picture outside his house was taken." I reached out for the folder. "Can I see?"
"No," Garth said, placing his hand on it. "This is pretty heavy; it's flagged."
"A Missing Persons report flagged? Who flagged it?"
Garth looked grim. "I can't even discuss it. I'm probably risking my job just having this file on my desk." He rose. "I've got to go to the john. Just remember, you haven't seen any police files on Morton or Rafferty. Understood?"
I winked. "Understood."
Garth walked out of the office and I opened the Rafferty file. The first thing that caught my attention was a line that read REPORTED BY________. It had a code number instead of a name.
I was suddenly conscious of Garth looking over my shoulder. "I thought you'd gone to the head."
"I'm still there."
"What's that?" I asked, pointing to the number.
"I don't know," Garth said evenly.
"What the hell do you mean, you don't know? Don't you work here?"
"It's a code number that has something to do with the Feds. That's why it's flagged. Ordinary detectives like your humble brother aren't even supposed to look at these things. My guess is that it's the D.I.A.-Defense Intelligence Agency."
"Can you find out for sure?" I asked.
"No way."
"Who would put a number like that on?"
"The Commissioner, m'boy, and you're not going to question the Commissioner."
"Garth, do you think the Feds could have been after him?"
"It looks that way."
"So, with government agents presumably after him, Rafferty shows up on a Sunday at his metallurgy lab to inspect the furnaces." I tapped the report. "Doesn't make much sense, does it?"
"Not when you put it that way."
"It wasn't even his wife who reported him missing."
"Maybe she didn't miss him," Garth said wryly.
"She might have known where he was, or at least why he left."
Garth shrugged. "Why don't you ask her?"
"I can't," I said, suddenly feeling foolish. "That's one of the conditions of my employment. Her present husband's the one who's interested, and he doesn't want me to talk to her. He says he's worried about his wife's mental state, and I believe him."
"She must have a lot of answers."
The phone rang. Garth picked up the receiver and began speaking with the person on the other end. I took the copy of the newspaper photo out of my pocket and studied it. It was as inscrutable as before, but I was convinced Rafferty had been somewhere nearby when the picture was taken. If true, it meant he'd probably had something to do with the two men on the ground.
"Rafferty was picked up," Garth whispered, his hand over the receiver.
"Where?"
"It's in the report."
Garth continued his telephone conversation and I resumed my reading. What followed in the report was even more intriguing. Rafferty had been picked up by ambulance in a restaurant on the morning of Saturday, August 16. He'd been taken to Roosevelt Hospital-where he'd escaped from the custody of an officer named Patrick O'Connell. There was no report from O'Connell, and no indication of how Rafferty had escaped from what was described as a maximum-security ward. There was also no mention of why Rafferty had been taken to the hospital, or why a Missing Persons had been filed in the first place.
There was a name: Lippitt. Below the name was a telephone number. I copied it down.
"Interesting, isn't it?" Garth said drily as he hung up.
"Why isn't there a report from this O'Connell?"
"It could have been pulled," Garth said, looking directly at me. "Or he could have been ordered not to write one up."
"Why do you say that?"
"The file is flagged; top priority, very sensitive."
"You recognize the area code on this telephone number?"
"Washington, D.C.," Garth said quietly. "There was a directive to call that number the moment anything turned up on Victor Rafferty." Garth rose and walked to the window. He stared out at the blaring traffic, the pedestrians, the hookers, the pimps, the thugs and murderers, all caught up and swirling in the polluted bloodstream of New York City. "I don't like it, Mongo," he said at last. "The whole thing stinks. Why don't you get your ass to Acapulco?"
"My ass will be toasting in Acapulco soon enough. First it would be interesting to hear what this Lippitt has to say."
Garth turned back from the window. "I don't like your being involved with it, Mongo."
"You know," I said, watching him, "the Morton investigation just doesn't make it. It was closed out three days after Rafferty's supposed death, which makes it just about the shortest unsolved murder investigation on record. You think it got choked off?"
Garth nodded absently. "Could be. Morton was pretty famous in his own right. You'd think they'd have spent a lot more time than they did looking into his murder."
"A police cover-up, Garth?"
"Christ, I hate to think so, but it could be. Ordered at the highest level. If the police were ordered to cut off the investigation, they probably weren't even told why."
"Hey," I said quietly, "maybe we should try to find out."
Garth slowly shook his head. "There's a lot of juice and muscle in that file."
"Power's never bothered you before. A man's been murdered, and his killer was never caught; another man who's supposed to be dead may be alive. Those seem like pretty important considerations to me."
Garth's eyes went cold. "I wouldn't have showed you this stuff if I didn't feel the same way. But I'm official, and you're not. I just don't think it would be a good idea to call that number; you could end up with more trouble than you're bargaining for."
Or Garth might, although he didn't say so. Rafferty, dead or alive, was a broken man who cast a large shadow. "I don't want to start using information that can be traced back to you."
The silence was prolonged. Finally he said: "Shit. Go get 'em, Mongo. Use your discretion as to what information you think you can use."
The tension that had been building inside me suddenly evaporated. My brother had signed on, and it gave me a good feeling. No more games. "What about this O'Connell?" I asked. "Can I talk to him?"
"That's up to O'Connell. He's retired." Garth took a neatly folded paper out of his pocket and handed it to me. "Here," he said. "I got that out of the P.B.A. directory."
The address was a retirement community in southern New Jersey called Sunny Acres. I stuck the paper in my pocket and rose.
"What about that steak, Mongo? It would go good with eggs this time of morning."
"Don't cash that rain check yet, brother," I said, heading for the door. "I'm still on a tight schedule. You wouldn't want me to miss that Aeromexico flight." I hoped it sounded lighter than I felt. I realized now that I'd been a fool to take Foster's money in the first place; I'd hoped to skip a stone across a dark lake and have simple answers come rippling back to me. Instead, I found myself sinking steadily deeper into a quagmire of lies, fear, and murder.
I was already making a list of enemies I could turn the case over to when I left.
Outside, I dug Foster's business card out of my pocket as I crossed the street to a phone booth. His answering service informed me he was home that day. It was becoming obvious that I was going to save a lot of time-and Foster's money-if he'd let me talk to his wife.
I dialed his home number and a woman, presumably Elizabeth Foster, answered. The tone of the single "Hello" was tense and hollow. Unless the Fosters had been fighting all morning, it was the trembling voice of a woman teetering on the edge of emotional breakdown.
"Mrs. Foster?" I said gently; I felt as if I were talking to a patient.
"Yes? Who is this?"
"My name is Robert Frederickson, Mrs. Foster. I've done some business with your husband. May I speak with him, please?"
"Just a moment, Mr. Frederickson."
After a short pause, Foster's tightly controlled voice came on the line. "What do you want, Frederickson?"
"Can you talk?"
"I'd rather not." The tone was hard, clipped. "Why the hell are you calling-?"
"I think it's important, Foster." I was getting a little testy myself.
"Hold on a minute."
It was almost five minutes before he came back on the line. "All right," he said. "Elizabeth's out in the garden. You talk and I'll listen."
"I think it may be time I talked to your wife."
"No." There was a strange note in his voice; the hard edge was blunted. "In fact, I've been thinking the whole thing over and I think I may have been making a mountain out of a molehill."
"This molehill is bigger than you think it is."
I heard him catch his breath. "You've got something?"
"Yes." I didn't want to lay it all out yet, but I didn't want to fold my tents either. "Can you meet me?"
"Where?"
"I'm at Eighth Avenue and Fifty-fourth."
"I'll be there in a few minutes." He hung up.
I called the number in Washington without giving myself time to think about it. The phone was picked up on the first ring.
"Aptown Florists," a woman answered.
That didn't sound quite right. I hung up and dialed the number again, double-checking each digit.
"Aptown Florists." It was the same young, cheery, woman's voice.
"I'd like to speak with Mr. Lippitt."
There was dead silence at the other end. The idea of a phone blind hadn't occurred to me; I had a vision of a lot of flower cutters suddenly stopping work.
"I'm sorry, sir." Her voice had aged; it was now professional, wary. "We have no Mr. Lippitt working for us. Perhaps you'd like to speak to Mr. Raines."
"I doubt it. Mr. Lippitt was the man who took my order."
"What order was that, sir? I don't believe you gave me your order number."
I could feel the woman listening very closely. "The flowers were for Victor Rafferty," I said slowly. "I can't remember the order number. It was five years ago. The order may have been premature, and I'd like to discuss the whole matter with Mr. Lippitt."
There was another silence. Then: "Isn't it a little late to be discussing a floral order that went out five years ago?" "No, missy, I don't think so. These flowers were for a funeral, but the man may still be alive." I paused for effect. "That's what I want you to tell Lippitt if he happens to drop by the shop."
This time there wasn't any argument. The woman's voice was fast, sharp. "May I have your name and a number where you may be reached, sir?"
I gave her the information and hung up just as Mike Foster pulled up to the curb in a late-model blue Oldsmobile.
I slid in beside him. He checked the rearview mirror, then pulled out into the traffic and drove uptown toward Harlem. His face was set in a scowl. The muscles under the brown skin of his face and arms worked, and his hands were clenched on the wheel.
His voice shook. "I thought I'd made it clear that this was a matter between you and me."
"It could save a lot of time-"
"I will not permit you to talk to my wife!" he said slamming his hand against the steering wheel. "Elizabeth is worse; I'm afraid she's going to have some kind of breakdown. Damn it, you agreed that you wouldn't talk to her!" He sucked in his stomach. "Now, if I didn't make it clear before-"
"Stop the car, Foster."
"Huh?"
"Stop the car."
Foster pulled the car back over to the curb. I opened the door and got out. When I looked back he seemed uncertain.
"I don't like being bawled out before the fact," I said quietly. "In fact, I don't like being bawled out at all."
"Uh, look, Frederickson-"
"I took your money and you're entitled to what I found out, along with an opinion or two. First, Richard Patern did design the Nately. Museum, but he admits to getting the idea and inspiration from someone else. He says he doesn't know who, and I believe him. I don't believe the man who claims he saw Rafferty go into the furnace. By the way, did you know Rafferty was reported missing two days before he's supposed to have died?"
"No," Foster said sheepishly. "Elizabeth?"
"No. A very heavy government agency that doesn't mess with small fry. Also, the neurosurgeon who saved Rafferty's life was murdered a few days before Rafferty's supposed final accident. I think there's a connection."
"You do?" Foster said weakly.
"And I'll tell you something else: I think there's a good possibility that Victor Rafferty is alive, but the smart money says to forget it. That's up to you. Goodbye."
I slammed the car door shut and started hoofing it back down Eighth Avenue. There was a squeal of tires as Foster's car backed past me and screeched to a halt beside a fire hydrant. Foster got out and hurried up to me.
"Frederickson," he said, breathing hard. "Just hang on a minute. Please."
I stopped. A cop appeared from the shadows of a storefront and began writing out a ticket. Foster ignored him.
"I… I don't know what to say," Foster continued. "You're telling me Rafferty may be alive?"
"In my opinion, it's a reasonable possibility."
"Do … you think Elizabeth knows for sure?" His voice cracked.
"Maybe. We won't know until we talk to her, Mike. It all comes back to that." We were standing in the middle of the sidewalk being jostled by people going in both directions, but Foster didn't seem inclined to move.
"Look, I'm sorry about the way I came on back in the car. I am really worried about Elizabeth. It's incredible what you've found out in such a short time."
"There's much more. There has to be. Your wife could have all the answers. You know, Mike, sometimes it's better to face up to a problem."
He looked pained. "I just don't want to take that kind of a chance. If anything should happen to her-"
"Something has already happened to her, Mike. It was five years ago, and it's still eating at her. She's obviously a principal in this case. Sooner or later, I think the police are going to be back in on it."
"Why do you say that?" he asked sharply.
"Because of the murder I mentioned; the man's name was Arthur Morton. If I continue this investigation, I think it's going to open the lid on a can of worms someone tried to close five years ago. The process may already have begun."
"Why?" he said, alarmed. "Have you been to the police?"
"No." It was only a half-lie; I didn't consider talking to Garth going to the police.
"Then how do you know all this?"
"Mike, I don't think you really want a lecture on detective work. You've got a decision to make. If you want me to continue, you're wasting my time and your money by keeping me away from your wife; it's like walking around the world to get across the street."
Foster looked shaken, and I felt sorry for him; I'd been beating him over the head with two razor-sharp horns of a dilemma. But it was Garth who might take it upon himself to reopen the case, and it could cost him his job. In light of that possibility, I didn't mind putting a little pressure on my client.
Foster was staring at his feet. I nudged him and pointed to his car, which was decorated with a buff-colored thirty-five-dollar ticket. "You'd better get your car out of here before the tow truck shows up," I said.
He looked at the car absently, as if it belonged to someone else. "Can you keep on working a little while longer?" "If that's what you want. It's your money, and I don't leave until Thursday. May I talk to your wife?"
"Would you wait on that just a while longer?" he said, a plea in his voice.
I shrugged. "All right, Mike." It was his money, and I'd given him my best advice.
He seemed relieved, "Can I buy you breakfast?"
It was after ten; I hadn't eaten, but I wasn't hungry. "Some other time. If you're still my client, I've got work to do."
"I'm still your client, Mr. Frederickson. Can I drop you someplace?"
"The nearest car-rental agency. You might as well come along, since you're paying for it."
"Where are you going?"
"South Jersey. I want to talk to the cop who had Rafferty."
Foster blinked. "The police had Victor?"
"I don't want to take the time to explain now, Mike. I'd like to get on the road."
Foster nodded toward the big Olds with the buff decoration on the windshield. "Use my car. I'll take a cab home. Tomorrow's Sunday. Leave it in the street in front of your apartment house and I'll pick it up in the morning."
"What about your wife? Won't she wonder where the car is?"
"I'll tell her it broke down. Go ahead and take it."
I removed the ticket, got into the car, and pulled the seat up all the way. In the rearview mirror I saw Foster, hands jammed into his pockets, staring after me. I liked the man; he was groping blindly, sifting through the ashes of the past because he thought it could help his wife. I was convinced those ashes weren't cold, only banked; they could still burn.
I turned at the corner and Foster blinked out of sight.