Shadow of a Broken Man

by George C. Chesbro

  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 p
olice 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.

  6

  The Olds was big, powerful, smooth-riding. Slipping out of Manhattan through the stone umbilical of the Lincoln Tunnel, I made good time in the light weekend traffic. Within an hour I had passed through the depressing yellow air of northern New Jersey and was immersed in the flat, deadly monotony of the New Jersey Turnpike.

  I was off the Turnpike by two thirty. A gas-station attendant gave me some directions and I headed northwest.

  Sunny Acres was a pleasant retirement community, spacious and clean, at least on the outside. I parked in a visitor's space and approached an elderly couple who were walking hand in hand. I introduced myself and asked about Patrick O'Connell. After a few giggles, they went into conference and eventually agreed that O'Connell could probably be found shooting pool in the recreation hall. They gave me directions, and we wished each other a nice afternoon.

  Inside the recreation hall, I immediately spotted O'Connell as the lion among the lambs. He was silver-haired, with the aura of a good man slightly tarnished by the residue of cynicism and roughness that being a New York City cop leaves on you like a second layer of skin. His ruddy complexion blended with the garish colors of his short- sleeved Hawaiian shirt. Doughy flesh that had once been muscle now swung loosely under his arms, but there was still plenty of strength there. He limped slightly; the sides of his shoes had been slit to make room for his bunions.

  O'Connell and a few of the other men in the room turned to stare at me, but they soon turned their attention back to the game in progress. O'Connell was the star; it was obvious that he was used to the role, and enjoyed it. He took ten minutes to beat a wily-looking old man at Rotation, interspersing a variety of trick bank shots with a running stream of banter delivered in an exaggerated Irish brogue. When he got tired of the game, he turned his cue over to another man and made his way to a small self-service bar in a corner of the hall.

  He found a beer in a small refrigerator in the back, then came around and sat down on one of the stools with a contented sigh. I sat down beside him. His gray eyes flicked over my face, then returned to gaze at the foaming beer can in front of him. He was too much of a New Yorker to ask what a dwarf was doing in a retirement community, sitting beside him at the bar.

  "My name's Frederickson," I said as I took out my P.B.A. courtesy card and laid it next to his elbow. "I'm a private investigator working out of New York. I'd like to talk to you about a case you were involved in."

  O'Connell examined my card like a cop looking for evidence of forgery; finally he nodded his approval. "I've heard of you, Frederickson." The Irish brogue had acquired a heavy Brooklyn accent. "Don't you have a brother on the force?"

  "Garth," I said. There was nothing the matter with O'Connell's mind. "May I ask you some questions, Mr. O'Connell?"

  "You want a beer, Frederickson?"

  "Yeah. Thanks."

  "Get it yourself, if you don't mind. My goddamned feet are killing me. Bunions."

  I helped myself to a beer and returned to the bar. The beer was warm.

  "Don't think too much of private cops?" O'Connell said, staring at me hard. "Some of them have been known to interfere with the work of duly appointed police officers."

  "You check with Bardeen," I said, invoking the name of Garth's precinct commander. "He'll tell you I always cooperate with the police." I cleared my throat, swallowed some warm beer. "I'd like to talk to you about a man named Victor Rafferty."

  That struck a chord. He grunted and spun around on his stool to face me. "What's up?"

  "Frankly, I was hoping you might be able to tell me. I've been hired to investigate Rafferty's background. I know you were involved with him, at least for a few hours."

  "Craziest few hours I've ever spent in my life!" O'Connell said with feeling, his eyes coming alive,

  "Those are the hours I'm interested in. I can see they stick in your mind."

  He nodded his gray head slowly. "And that's for sure."

  "You were in Roosevelt Hospital with Rafferty. Do you know why he was taken there?"

  O'Connell shrugged. "I suppose he was sick."

  "With what?"

  He seemed slightly embarrassed. "I haven't got the slightest idea. As far as I was concerned, it was a routine bit of business. I just happened to be the closest cop to the restaurant when Rafferty had his accident. Somebody pulled me in off the street."

  "Do you remember the name of this restaurant?"

  "Uh, Cakewalk. Jack's Cakewalk, I think. I'm pretty sure it was near West Thirty-fourth. Anyway, I walked in and found this guy lying on the floor, out cold."

  "Had anybody inside the restaurant seen what happened?" "A waiter. Must have been ninety if he was a day. It was hard to understand him because he didn't have any teeth, and he'd left his bridge home that day." O'Connell shook his head in admiration. "Tough old son-of-a-bitch. Still working. He'll probably live forever."

  I hoped he'd made ninety-five. "Do you remember his name?"

  "No, but
I do remember that he told a weird story. Didn't make a bit of sense. He kept on babbling about Rafferty throwing food."

  "Throwing food?"

  "Yeah. Throwing food. I told you it didn't make sense. The ambulance boys were just loading Rafferty in when I got a call from the precinct house. The chief told me in no uncertain terms that I was to stay with Rafferty and make sure they locked him up good when we got to Roosevelt."

  "He was on a Missing Persons list, right?"

  "I guess so."

  "The police don't usually go around locking up missing persons, do they?"

  "No. I was curious too, but I had my orders. I got in the ambulance and went with Rafferty to the hospital. I made sure they took him up to the security ward on the fourth floor."

  "How secure was security?" I asked.

  He thought about it for a moment. "Roosevelt isn't really set up for that kind of thing. Security? I'd say maximum inside the room, minimum outside. There weren't any gates in the corridors, no bars on the windows. But the room was bolted from the outside, and the door was absolutely solid, flush to the wall on the inside."

  "Was Rafferty admitted by a particular doctor?"

  "No. I think they had their orders too. They just wheeled him in and locked us both up."

  A feisty old man with a moustache and wearing red Bermuda shorts three sizes too big for him came over, cue stick in hand, and tried to entice O'Connell back to the table. O'Connell promised him a game later, and he tottered away.

  "Too many old guys here," O'Connell said quietly. "Nice guys, but..." He let the sentence trail away.

  I tried to keep his mind from wandering off. "What were your instructions, besides keeping an eye on him?"

  He removed a handkerchief from his pocket, slowly and methodically wiped up a puddle of beer. "That was it," he said when he'd finished. "I was just told to keep him on ice until this guy got there to relieve me."

  "Was this man coming from Washington?"

  "Yeah. They told me that."

  "Was his name Lippitt?"

  O'Connell was clearly impressed. "Yeah! Hey, how'd you know that?"