“Usually, this place oozes music,” Kinnaird said morosely. Presumably because he was not playing that night, he was drinking a pint of Harp.
“Maybe you should play something for us. You have your banjo.”
“I’m not at a level to perform solo. I’m a rank beginner,” Kinnaird admitted, killing that idea.
Fortunately, there was business to attend to. Liz pulled out her Ziploc bag and turned it over to her companion, if “companion” he could be called.
“Ellen’s,” she said.
“Ah, indeed,” he replied. “At last, one is privy to some physical evidence.”
“To be sure,” Liz heard herself say. “I wonder if his formality is contagious?” she asked herself.
“Of course, I already have the poinsettias.”
“Have they revealed anything helpful?”
“Two different blood types. Hers, as reported in the press. And that of another person, as yet unidentified, of course.”
“Blood type?”
“B-negative. Uncommon.”
“Uncommonly good.”
“Let us hope. But it’s useless without additional evidence with which to match it.”
“I hope we’ve got that here,” Liz said, glancing at the Ziploc bag.
Kinnaird made no comment.
“And how shall you be spending the holidays?” she said, noting as she did so that it was unlike her to use the word shall.
“That remains to be seen,” Kinnaird replied cryptically. “And you? How shall you spend your time off?”
“Not ‘off.’ I shall have to echo you,” Liz said. “‘That remains to be seen.’”
“You’ve no plans? I’m surprised.”
“Oh, I’ve got plans, all right. I just don’t know the specifics. I’ll be on assignment for the Banner, covering whatever comes up: incendiary Christmas trees, kids choking on small toy parts, that sort of thing, I suppose. I hope there will be time to find fruitful developments in the Johansson case.”
“Ah, there we are in accord,” Kinnaird said.
Accordingly, shall we relax our vocabulary a bit? Liz thought but did not say aloud. Instead, she laid her right hand palm-up on the table and said nothing.
Cormac Kinnaird picked up her hand and pressed his lips to it.
Since he said nothing at all after that gesture, Liz dearly wished—as probably he did, too—that there had been some music playing. But there was no tune to be heard. So Liz picked up her new friend’s left hand and gently kissed the calluses on the tips of each finger.
“Tir Na Nog is a kind of Celtic paradise, you know,” he said.
“I know it now,” she replied. When he wouldn’t meet her eyes, she added, “I’m off to Manhattan before dawn tomorrow, so I must get some rest. You had better find yourself a pub where music is playing.”
Looking over her shoulder as she left Tir Na Nog, Liz saw the man who had kissed her palm pick up the plastic bag of evidence and his Irish tenor banjo with equal enthusiasm, without allowing his striking blue eyes to follow her out the door.
Remembering her encounter with the Doberman, simple joy at being alive and unscathed almost overcame Liz’s perplexity at the doctor’s behavior and her own impulsiveness. As soon as she reached Gravesend Street, she settled in for a short winter’s nap, knowing she would have to rise at 4:45 a.m. in order to catch her train.
Chapter 11
Liz closed her eyes and dozed in the Amtrak train until it reached the Connecticut coast. Then she purchased a cup of coffee from the café car and enjoyed the view of Long Island Sound over the reeded shoreline. It always amazed her how unspoiled some of the landscape appeared to be, considering the densely populated nature of the nearby New York metropolitan area.
Taking her eyes away from the view, she took out the copy of the taxi receipt. It measured only one and a half by two inches, but the small slip of paper carried a considerable amount of information. Headed by the words, “I ♥ NEW YORK,” the receipt recorded the cab’s medallion number, the date of the trip, start and end times, trip number, rate, miles, fare, and a telephone number for the “Consumer Hotline.” As insurance against losing the receipt, Liz copied the information into her reporter’s notebook. Then she sat back until the train arrived in Penn Station.
After exiting the train, Liz made her way up the escalator to the taxi stand, took her place in line, and finally secured a yellow cab. Once inside, she told the driver her aunt’s address. Then she said, “I wonder if you could answer a few questions for me? I’m a reporter working on a missing person’s case and I’d like to know how to identify who was driving a certain cab at a particular time.”
It was unclear if the cabbie’s heavy accent was affected or if he genuinely had trouble understanding her. What was certain was that he would not answer her question.
Arriving at her aunt’s address, Liz requested a receipt before getting out of the cab. The driver took out a pad of receipts and filled one out by hand.
“Why aren’t you printing one from the meter?” Liz demanded.
“Not working,” he said, driving off as soon as Liz was clear of the cab.
The hand-written receipt delivered far less information than did the printed one.
After an evening of laughter and delicious dining with Janice, Liz rose early and phoned the telephone number on the taxi receipt. It seemed the “Consumer Hotline” was hot indeed, since it was constantly busy. When half an hour of calling kept producing a busy signal, Liz decided to seek out another cabdriver.
At Janice’s street corner, she hailed a cab. Once inside, she began with a less honest conversational gambit.
Giving the driver an address located far downtown, Liz turned her smile on him and said, “I wonder if you could help me? I’m writing a book with a taxi driver as the hero. Just one of his good qualities is his helpfulness when a woman leaves a diamond ring in his car. I’m trying to find out what a driver like you would do if he found something valuable in his car.”
“I would turn it in, of course.”
“Where would you turn it in, I wonder?”
“At the nearest precinct.”
“Do you mean a police station?”
“If it was valuable, yes. Sometimes I also have called people on the phone, you know, when they drop something like a wallet that has an address in it. Then I meet them in a coffee shop and return it myself.”
“What a nice thing to do!” Liz enthused.
“Well, honestly, I sometimes get a reward if I do it in person. So it pays to be nice. Of course, it isn’t always a happy ending like that. It all depends on the next rider. After someone loses something in the cab, it is usually the next passenger who finds it, not the cabdriver. We can’t check the backseat every time someone gets out of our cab.”
“Of course not. Do you ever take things back to the dispatcher’s office?”
“We’re hail-only in New York.”
“What?”
“We don’t need dispatchers in Manhattan. People flag us down in the street.”
“What about your garage?”
“I don’t have one. I’m independent. I got my own vehicle. I park this at my place at night, not at some garage. That’s why I take valuables to the precinct. I guess drivers that work from garages might take valuables to their bosses.”
The cab came to a halt in traffic.
“If I gave you a printed receipt, could you tell me which garage the cab came from?” Liz asked. She handed the driver the copy of Ellen’s receipt.
“For that, you have to call the number on the receipt.”
“It’s always busy. Could you radio in and get the information for me?”
The driver hesitated.
“I’ll pay double for this ride.”
That decided it. The driver pulled over, and with the cab idling and the meter running, he took his time gathering the information.
“Do you know where that taxi garage is located?” Liz asked.
“You should’da asked me that when you got in my cab. It’s a block from where you got in.”
“Would you mind turning around and taking me there?”
“The things people will do for a story!” the driver said. “You realize it’s quite a few blocks, in traffic? And at double the fare, it’ll cost ya.”
“No problem. With this receipt, should I be able to find out who was driving a certain cab during a particular trip?”
“If it was my cab, they could. Like I told you, this is my vehicle. Unless I’m on vacation and I rent it to another driver when I’m away, I’m the one driving it. If you called the number on the receipt, they’d ask you the medallion number. That’s my cab. The taxi commission would point you to me. But, like I said, it isn’t always up to me to find your valuables. You’re outta luck when you lose something if the next rider doesn’t turn it in.”
“I see. I’m not too worried about valuables. What if you drove a cab from a garage? Then how would I know if you were the driver at a particular time?”
“You can ask at the garage. Here it is,” he said pulling up to the curb.
The taxi garage was located next door to a red-painted building that looked like it had been custom built as the subject for an Edward Hopper painting. A lone customer sat absorbed in the New York Post behind the plate glass window, which was painted with a salmon-pink image of a minaret and the words “Fabulous Falafel” in bright blue lettering.
Liz passed by the felafel shop and made her way into the garage. There, two mechanics, supine under a battered taxi, leered at Liz, behaving far more like alpha males than did the Banner’s mailers. One of them directed Liz to an office at the far end of the work area. On her way past the men, Liz tried, with difficulty, to feign interest in the surroundings. There wasn’t much to catch the eye: a few out-of-date license plates, a vending machine offering “Salted Peanuts: 25 cents,” and a girlie calendar.
The office held more to look at, as Liz soon learned. As she entered the room, its sole occupant signaled her to wait while he carried on a heated telephone conversation with a taxi driver.
“I’m telling you, my friend, that’s how it is,” he said. “You either get in here with that cab this minute and turn it over to the guy on the next shift, or I consider you on duty and earning. Don’t give me a song and dance about being in the boroughs. I don’t care if you’re at Montauk Point,” he added, referring to the easternmost point of 118-mile-long Long Island. “You’re due in now, pal. And make sure your cab’s clean. I’ve had two complaints in the last three weeks about your filthy trunk.”
Liz took the opportunity to look around the office and found it to be well organized. Keys to cabs were hung on numbered cup hooks screwed into one wall. Below the keys was a system of open cubbyholes, each one labeled with a driver’s last name. Another wall was hung with fan belts, numerous family photos of the man in the office and his brood, and an oil painting of Mount Fuji, done in flaming hues that suggested either a violent sunset or an ongoing eruption of this symbol of Japan.
Slamming down the phone, and shrugging his shoulder in the direction of the painting, the garage manager said, “One of our drivers painted that.”
“It’s pretty good.”
“Yeah? Maybe for a guy from Canarsie who’s never been east of Queens. Frankly, I think he got the Jap mountain mixed up with the Eye-talian one. You know, Mount Vesuvius. The thing looks ready to blow.”
“Or like it’s already flowing with lava,” Liz laughed.
“You didn’t come in here to discuss art. What’s on your mind?”
“I’m here because I’m writing a mystery novel. . .”
“I don’t want anything to do with that.”
“Please, hear me out. I’ve got a taxi driver in my book—who saves the day. But before he does, he gets in some hot water. I don’t want him to be too goody-goody, you know, because then it won’t be surprising if he’s the hero.”
“Yeah?”
“I was hoping you’d let me know some things a driver could do that would jeopardize his career, like keeping his vehicle messy.”
“That’ll do it. Or smoking without the passenger’s permission. Or keeping the cab out beyond your hours so the next guy can’t drive it, like the clown I was just talking to is doing, as we speak.”
“That’s really helpful,” Liz gushed. “I was thinking about having a character lose something in a cab. Then she tries to find it by using her receipt. I probably have a receipt here,” Liz said, digging in her pocket. “Here’s one. What would happen if she followed up on this receipt?”
Her companion examined the receipt and narrowed his eyes.
“By the way, my name is Liz,” she said, turning a big smile on him. “What’s yours?”
“It’s Jake. Hey, listen, if you’re trying to get one of my guys in trouble, you’ve come to the wrong garage. This cab isn’t one of ours.”
“Let’s try another one,” Liz said, pulling out the hand-written receipt.
“This one’ll tell you jack-shit,” Jake said. “It’s not legal.”
“What do you mean?”
“See here,” Jake said, pointing to the printed receipt. “This one has the medallion number. It I.D.s the cab and much more. This other one here doesn’t tell you a thing. You lose something in that cab and it’s gone—forevah.”
“I gather your drivers use the right kind of receipt.”
“You bet!”
“And they return found articles to you?”
“Right again.”
“So, if my character loses something in one of your cabs, you’d be able to tell if it was turned in.”
“Assuming it was turned in and not taken by the next rider in the cab. Listen, what is it you’re looking for? I don’t believe you’re a mystery writer. You’re looking for something for yourself, aren’t you?”
“You ought to be a detective yourself, Jake. You’re right. The missing item I’m looking for is the cab itself. And here’s the receipt that identifies it.”
Jake scrutinized the receipt. Then he looked Liz over slowly.
“You a cop?” he demanded.
Liz remained silent until Jake realized his mistake. Obviously, the cab was one of his. And there was something questionable about it.
“This isn’t a real receipt. The paper’s too good and the edges aren’t torn. Who are you and what are you after?”
“A reporter. Beantown Banner. A woman called Ellen rode in that cab before she went missing from a Boston suburb a few days ago. She’s just a librarian and housewife and mother of an eight-year-old daughter,” Liz said, moving her gaze to the Jake’s family photos. “I’m trying to find her.”
“Cut the violins,” Jake said. “And the appeal to my fatherly instincts. If I help you, it’s more a question of this,” he said patting his pants.
Liz looked away and stood up from the stool.
“Not that! My pockets,” Jake said. “That guy brought in the bucks. And now he’s not showing up for work. I want my driver but I don’t want to call the cops on him. I’ve got a lot of foreigners working for me. Cops make them nervous.”
“I can’t promise the police will never be involved, but I can tell you that at this point, my interest in your cab and driver is a question of grasping at straws. Is the cab here?”
“No, it’s with the jerk-off I was just trying to haul back from the boroughs. What use would the cab be to you, anyway?”
“Honestly, I’m not sure. I know the missing woman rode in this cab. And it’s just about the only lead I have. I thought
I’d see if she left anything behind in the cab, or maybe retrace where she’d been by looking at cab records. Now there’s the stunner that the cabdriver’s unaccounted for.”
“Not only that. . . ” Jake broke off. “The hell with the other foreigners. I wanna know what Hasan’s up to.”
“That his name?”
“Yeah, Hasan. Sonofabitch calls himself Samir Hasan. OK, how about you go to the corner felafel place and get us a couple o’ coffees? I take mine black. Then I’ll see what I can do.”
As Liz left the office, she heard Jake radio a cabbie.
“Shit!” he shouted. “Why did you have to pick today of all days to follow my orders for the first time? Get your ass in here!”
When Liz returned with the coffee, Jake was standing outside the garage beside an idling cab. “Here it is, spick-’n’-span for the first time in memory.”
“Ah, no! He cleaned the cab?”
“Inside and out!” Jake said, opening the trunk. “What’s this?” he demanded of the driver who could do nothing right.
“Just junk. No valuables.”
Jake joined Liz as he opened the plastic shopping bag. Inside were a small child’s Yankee-insignia sweatshirt, a couple of cardboard coffee cups, and a book of matches. While Jake angrily dismissed the driver, Liz got into the front seat and opened the ashtray. Butts galore. She dumped the contents into a Ziploc bag. Then she looked in the glove compartment. It contained the vehicle’s registration and a grocery list. Nothing more. She pocketed the list.
“Hey, what are you taking from that glove compartment?”
“Just a grocery list. It might have been Ellen’s.”
“In the glove compartment? Why would a passenger’s list be in the glove compartment?”
“Looks like one of your drivers used it to test a pen on.” Liz turned the paper over and pointed to some squiggles. “Would you like to keep it?”
“Nah!” Jake said, tying up the plastic bag and setting it on top of the one untidy item in the room, an overfilled trash container.
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