“You never offered to pay before. It’s not the cleanest place in the world, but the food’s good.”
He was right, the food was very good, and came in large portions. The money they saved on appearances obviously went into the food.
Over breakfast I told him what I had found out about Leo Piper.
“Where did you get this information?”
“Sources,” I said, “well-informed sources.”
“And what do you want in return?”
“In return?”
“Jacoby, stop pulling my prick, I’m trying to eat breakfast.”
“All right. I’d like to know what the police in Brooklyn have on the name Piperneski, or Leo DeGuere.”
“From eight years ago?”
“Or more.”
“And what if there is something?”
This was dicey.
“I don’t want you to tell them that you know where he is.”
“Oh?”
“I need something I can use on him, Hocus. When I’m through with him you can have him.”
He finished chewing what was in his mouth and washed it down with a sip of coffee.
“You’re crazy.”
“Why?”
“You want me to make an official request for information and then not act on it?”
I shrugged and said, “So make it an unofficial request.”
“And what if there are no outstanding warrants on him?”
“I’ll have to try something else.”
“What are you up to, Jack?”
“I can’t tell you the whole story, Hocus. You’ll have to ask Heck Delgado . . . after we’ve cleared Knock Wood Lee.”
“Are you that sure of his innocence?”
“Yes,” I said. “I’m as sure of his innocence as I was of my brother’s when you arrested him for killing Eddie Waters.”
Hocus frowned, looking uncomfortable, and waved the waitress over. She freshened his coffee and then did the same for mine when I nodded.
“Well?” I asked when she left.
“I don’t know why I should—” he started, then stopped and sipped his coffee. “All right, I’ll see what I can do. If there’s nothing on paper I might know someone with . . . a long memory.”
“I appreciate it.”
“You’re going to owe me a big one for this, Jack.”
“What?” I asked, pretending to be surprised. “Breakfast doesn’t cover it?”
“Not hardly!”
I paid the check and walked him back to the precinct.
“What’s happening with the Saberhagen case?”
He looked uncomfortable again.
“It’s not going too well. We haven’t been able to come up with anything.”
“Did you question her . . . friends . . . at the institute?”
“Yeah, we questioned everybody, and now we’re going to question them again.”
“Before you mark it inactive.”
He shrugged.
“If I had the time . . .”
“Forget it,” he said when he saw that I wasn’t going to continue. “You’ve got enough on your hands.”
“Yeah.”
He started inside and then turned back.
“What was that other name again?”
“DeGuere.”
“Right, and Pipersneski?”
“Neski,” I said, “Piperneski.”
I had awakened that morning with a gorgeous bruise on the point of my left shoulder, and a problem raising the arm above shoulder level. I took a hot shower and four aspirin, and called the precinct to make sure that Hocus was going to be in that morning. After that I made some calls and started the word going around that I was looking for a man named Piperneski. If that didn’t draw Leo Piper out, nothing would.
I admit that my spur of the moment decision may not have been a good one, especially when I thought about Tiger Lee. It wouldn’t take Leo Piper two seconds to figure out how I found out his real name.
Ray Carbone was a friend of mine who had just retired from the ring himself at age thirty-five. Actually, much as in my case, he was “retired” during his last fight. Never a top ten fighter, Ray was always the man that managers put their boys in with when they wanted them to have a “tough” fight. He was also ducked by a lot of fighters whose connections felt they weren’t ready to get in with a banger like him. He was the most respected unranked middleweight—or fighter, for that matter—I ever knew.
And right now he was looking for work, so I decided to give him some.
“Ray, it’s Miles Jacoby.”
“Hey, Jack. How goes it?”
“I should ask you that.”
“Ah, I just got to get used to it. You know how it is.”
“Yeah, don’t I. Need some work?”
“Doing what?”
“Looking after somebody.”
“I ain’t a headbuster, you know. I ain’t looking for that kind of work.”
“I know that. I’m not looking for a headbuster. I’m looking for somebody I can trust to look after someone who’s a friend of mine.”
“Like who?”
“You know Knock Wood Lee?”
“Sure. He’s in the slammer, ain’t he?”
“He is, but his lady isn’t.”
“The tiger lady?”
“Right.”
“Somebody gonna bother her?”
“Somebody might try, Ray. I want you to make sure that they don’t.”
“Who’s picking up the tab?”
“My client.”
“Okay, Jack, you got yourself a boy. When do I start?”
“You know where they live?”
“Yeah, down on Mott.”
“Well, get on over there and check in with me from time to time by phone.”
“How long is this job gonna be for?”
“I’m not sure, Ray, but hopefully not very long. My client will go for fifty a day.”
“Who’s the client? The man in the can?”
“Can’t say.”
“Well, I’ll take good care of her, Jack. She’s a dish.”
“Just make sure nobody breaks that dish.”
“I hear ya.”
With Lee covered, and Hocus doing some digging on Leo Piper, I went to my office to indulge in what Eddie used to call “a good think.” He used to do it with bourbon, but I’m a new breed and I do it with coffee.
Most of my work on Wood’s case so far had been with the other bookies that Alan Cross owed money. Out of that, an interest in Piper had been born. I still had not, however, delved into Cross’s private life beyond his place of business. That made me think of his book, and I brought it out and put it on the desk next to my coffee container.
Leafing through it idly I wondered how I could get it to do me any good, since all it had were first names and phone numbers, and no addresses. I could have asked Hocus to check the numbers out for me through the phone company—and through official channels, of course—but he couldn’t check them all, and how would I know which ones to have him check?”
The book was arranged alphabetically, and I glanced idly at names until I came to the page with names starting with “F.” I stopped short when I recognized one of the names, and then turned to the “G’s.” Both names were there, and the phone numbers were the same.
Fallon Dewitt and Ginger McKay were both in Alan Cross’s book!
That revelation started a whirlwind of thoughts flashing through my mind. First, I had come into contact with both Fallon and Ginger during my search for Melanie Saberhagen. Now their names had shown up during my investigation in Knock Wood Lee’s case. How could such a coincidence have occurred?
Also, now that their names had popped up, each had the skills to have beaten Cross to death, given the proper circumstances.
Was this a coincidence, or was it a legitimate connection between two seemingly unconnected murders?
I picked up the book and started to go through it page
by page. I didn’t have to go any farther than the “B’s,” though, before I came across another name I knew.
Brown.
Granted, it’s not an uncommon name, but that’s all it said, “Brown,” with the phone number and those odd letter abbreviations after it.
I flipped through the rest of the book but I didn’t find Greg, Dan, or J.C. I didn’t find Melanie either, although I did find the name “Mel.” There was no indication as to whether it was a male or a female, though.
I put the book down and picked up the phone. There was one other thing I wanted to check, which would blow the word “coincidence” right out of the water.
“The institute,” a voice said, answering the phone.
“I’d like to speak to the director, please,” I said to the woman.
“Who may I say is calling, please?”
“Tell him it’s Miles Jacoby.”
“Hold, please.”
He came on the line a few moments later.
“I read about Melanie Saberhagen, Mr. Jacoby,” he said, “if that is what you’re calling to tell me.”
Did I detect a hint of disapproval in his tone? I didn’t have time to stop and wonder.
“I’m calling to ask you one question, sir, and the answer may be important both to the Melanie Saberhagen murder and another case I’m working on.”
“I see. One question.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very well, then. Ask it.”
“I’m sure you’ve read about the murder of a man named Alan Cross over the past week.”
“Yes,” he said, thoughtfully, “but I believe they’ve made an arrest. It involved gambling, didn’t it? They arrested a bookie, I believe.”
“Yes, they did. Sir, my question is this. Was Alan Cross at any time a student at the institute?”
“Yes,” he said, and I was surprised at how quickly he answered.
“Yes?”
“That is what I said, Mr. Jacoby. He was a student here at the institute.”
“How long was he a student?”
“Three years. He was quite promising, too.”
“I see. Up until what time was he a student?”
I knew I had gone past my one question limit, but it didn’t seem to concern him, so I just steamrolled along.
“Up until the day he was killed, Mr. Jacoby,” he said, stopping my steamroller right in its track.
So much for coincidence.
I thanked Bayard, hung up, and discovered that I was holding my breath. I let it out slowly and picked up Alan Cross’s book.
What did it all mean now? At least three of the people I had met while looking for Melanie Saberhagen knew Alan Cross well enough to have their names and phone numbers in his book—whatever kind of book it was. Had Melanie been at the institute long enough to get to know Cross? Was she the “Mel” in his book?
I turned the pages of his book again to the “M’s” and looked at the phone number next to the name “Mel.” I didn’t recognize it, but nobody was going to call me and tell me whose it was, so I picked up the phone and dialed it.
She said “Hello,” and all of her bitterness managed to come out in that one word.
It was Ida Saberhagen’s telephone number.
Twenty-Six
I was unsure of what to make of—or do with—all the new information I had in my hands now, so I decided to go over to the hospital and bounce it off Hank Po to see what he thought of it.
He listened patiently, thankful for the reprieve from boredom, and then said, “It sounds confusing enough but I think all you really need is to go over it again, step by step.”
“Are you volunteering to listen?”
“Am I in a position to do anything else?”
“Okay, then,” I said, standing and beginning to pace as I spoke, trying to get matters into the right perspective.
“On the one hand I’m hired to find Melanie Saberhagen and on the other hand, I take on the task of clearing Knock Wood Lee of the charge of murdering a man named Alan Cross.” I stopped and scratched my head. “This is silly. I’m making it harder than it should be. The simple fact of the matter is that there was never any reason to believe that these cases were connected, and now certain connections have arisen that can’t be denied.”
“The connections being that Alan Cross knew some of the people at the institute, was in fact a student at the institute himself, and may have even known Melanie Saberhagen.”
“Who is now also dead, killed in a similar fashion.”
“Well, there’s a connection, all right, you can’t deny that.”
“The question is, what do I do about it?”
“Give it to the cops.”
“I thought you’d say that. Give it to Hocus, huh?”
“Or Vadala. He’s got Wood’s case.”
“Yeah, but he’s not working on it. At least Hocus is working on the girl’s murder . . . if he hasn’t marked the case inactive by now.”
“Or you could work on it yourself and wait until you have something more concrete to take to Hocus. If you give Hocus something he can sink his teeth into, he’d talk to Vadala and Vadala would have to listen.”
“We all know he’d never listen to me.”
“Well, you’ll have to make up your mind, Jack.”
“I think I had it made up already, Hank. Talking to you has just clinched it.”
“You’re going to work on it?”
“How’d you know?”
“I know you,” he said, “and it’s what I would have done.”
“I’ll talk to the girls first,” I said, thinking out loud, “especially Fallon. She’s the smarter one, and she seems to have a relationship with Brown.”
“Watch Brown, Jack,” Hank said, warningly.
“I’ll watch him. I think my priority might be to find out just what kind of book this is,” I said, taking the book from my pocket.
“Can I see that?”
“Sure,” I said, handing it him, “maybe you can figure out what it all means.”
I watched him while he leafed through the book, waiting for a light bulb to appear over his head, but ultimately he frowned and handed it back to me.
“Beats me.”
“Wait a minute, maybe we can dope this out together,” I said, leafing through the book myself. “You ever see abbreviations like this before?”
“They’re either abbreviations, or some kind of code,” Hank said. “Either way, I’ve never seen them before.”
“Well then, what kinds of people keep a book like this?”
He shrugged and said, “Bachelors?”
“That’s got to be out. This is more than just a guy’s little black book. He’s got guys’ names in here.”
“So maybe he swung both ways.”
“Brown strike you as that type?”
“No.”
“Me neither,” I said. “So who else?”
“Prostitutes?”
“You trying to tell me Cross was hooking on the side and this was his trick book?”
“No good, huh?”
“I think maybe you’re getting a headache.”
He touched the bandage on his head and said, “You know, I think you’re right.”
I put the book away in my pocket and said, “Let me get out of here and let you rest. Thanks for listening.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t help more. Maybe when I get out—”
“When you get out of here you’ll still have a lot of resting to do.” I started for the door and said, “I’ll keep you posted.”
“Do that . . . and don’t forget to watch out for Brown. More and more I’m starting to believe that he’s the guy who did a number on us. He’s a bad dude, Jack.”
“Hey, when I was fighting, I was pretty bad too, you know.”
“Yeah,” he said as I left, “that’s what I heard.”
Twenty-Seven
My next move was going to require a lot of patience. In the ring I was th
e kind of fighter who constantly applied pressure, trying to make something happen. Outside the ring, I had little more patience than I’d had inside, but this time I was going to have to make an effort.
I rented a car and parked it illegally across the street from the apartment shared by Fallon and Ginger. I took up position in a deep doorway and proceeded to keep my eyes on the front door of their apartment building. What I wanted was to catch Fallon when she was alone and see how she stood up under some pressure. There had to be something she could tell me about Alan Cross, otherwise why would her name be in his book?
I had been in position about an hour when Ginger left the building. I waited for her to turn a corner, and when she did I crossed the street, entered the lobby, and rang the apartment bell. There was no answer. Either Fallon wasn’t in or she wasn’t answering the bell.
I left the lobby and found a pay phone. When I dialed their phone number and no one answered after a dozen rings, I chose to believe that the apartment was empty, and went back to my doorway.
Ginger came back an hour later, stayed for under an hour, and left again, and there was still no sign of Fallon. After four hours I was starting to lose my patience, but I remembered stories Eddie used to tell me about hour-long, day-long, sometimes even week-long stakeouts. Eddie was a very patient man, just one of the attributes that made him an excellent detective. It was the lack of patience that would probably keep me from ever being as good.
I decided I’d give it until the end of the day and then try something else.
Ginger came back again and left in under an hour again, but this time she was dressed to stay out. I was amazed that she had been able to get changed that quickly.
It was about a half an hour after Ginger left that final time that Fallon showed up. A car pulled up in front of the building and I could see the driver’s face clearly.
It was Brown.
Fallon’s face wasn’t clear to me, but I recognized her by her profile. She got out of the car, kept her back to me, and entered the building. I waited for Brown to pull away and disappear before I left my doorway and crossed the street. Too late I realized I should have gotten his plate, but it was probably too dark.
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