5 Client

by Parnell Hall

  So I said, “So you’ve been trying to sell the farm for five years, but no one’s interested?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I’ll have to put it on the market again. Not that it will do any good.”

  “Again?” I said. “I thought it already was on the market.”

  “It was. Up until a month ago.”

  “What?” I said, once more tense and alert.

  “It’s been off the market since last month. Now I’ll have to see the broker, register with them again.”

  “Wait a minute. I don’t understand. You took it off the market. Why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Jesus. “I’m sorry. What do you mean, you don’t know?”

  “Julie called me. Told me to take it off the market.”

  “Why?”

  “She didn’t say.”

  “Didn’t you ask?”

  “Of course I asked. She didn’t tell me. She was breezy, mysterious, the way she always was. ‘There, there, Mom, don’t you worry about a thing. Just do as I say and it will be all right.’”

  “Maybe she found a buyer.”

  “What?”

  “Some rich New Yorker who wanted an upstate retreat.”

  She shook her head. “The place is falling apart. I try, but I got no help. And even then. The foundation’s rotting away, you know? You couldn’t renovate it. Have to tear it down and rebuild. And if you’re gonna do that, you might as well just buy land. And if you’re buying land, you don’t buy flat, treeless land that’s no good for growing its keep.”

  “She must have had a reason. Didn’t you have any idea?”

  She frowned, shook her head. “Only one thing I could think of.”

  “What’s that?”

  “New highway’s going through.”

  “Oh?”

  “Not through my land. If it was, at least they’d have to pay me for that. But right along the north field.”

  “Wouldn’t that up the value?” I said. “Just the access? Why wouldn’t some housing developer want to put up a subdivision?”

  She waved it away. “Yeah. Sure. Ten or fifteen years from now, little good that’ll do me. You don’t build a flock of houses in the middle of nowhere. They’ll subdivide all right, but they’ll start closer into town. By the time they get out to my farm I’ll be long gone.”

  “All right. Well, what about a gas station? Department store. Maybe even a whole shopping mall? If this is a major highway you’re talking about—”

  “Oh it is. Four lanes wide.”

  “But it’s not a thruway? I mean it’s not like you’d be caught between exits. If someone wanted to build a mall, there’d be access?”

  She sighed. “Yeah. That’s the dream. Someone plunks down a pile of money to build a shopping mall. I’m out of there like that. Get me a place down in Florida. Getting old, you know. It’s the winters I can’t take.”

  “Well, maybe that’s it,” I said. “Maybe that’s what Julie had in mind.”

  She sighed. Shook her head. “Not a chance.”

  “Well, why not?”

  “Couldn’t happen. Not on my land.”

  “No? Why is that?”

  She sighed again, frowned, and shook her head at what I realized was another in a long line of personal affronts.

  “It isn’t zoned commercial.”

  29.

  THIS TIME I KNEW my way around. I turned into the Empire State Plaza on the first pass, parked in the garage, wrote my car location in my notebook, took the elevator up to the North Concourse, came out the right tunnel, and walked down to City Hall.

  The gray-haired clerk sprang up when I came in. She met me at the counter.

  “I got all the New York papers,” she said. “Every one. There wasn’t a mention of the City Council.”

  “I know,” I said.

  “So what’s the story?”

  I smiled. “I think you have to reexamine your reverse logic. Just because someone tells you they’re not a reporter, doesn’t necessarily mean they’re a reporter.”

  “You’re not a reporter?”

  “No.”

  “Well, you could have fooled me. What do you want?”

  I couldn’t resist. I pulled the ticket out of my pocket. “I got this parking ticket out by the monument, and I was wondering—”

  Her jaw dropped open. “I don’t believe it. After everything you said—”

  I shoved the ticket back in my pocket and held up my hands. “Just kidding. This ticket is my own damn fault, and I’m gonna pay. I don’t care about it and I’m not a reporter.”

  She looked at me suspiciously. “Well, maybe you are a reporter and you haven’t gotten the whole story yet.”

  “That’s an angle. What is the whole story?”

  “What?”

  “I have a few more questions.”

  “Oh?”

  “There’s a new highway going through.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “What about it?”

  “That’s what I came to ask you. What’s the City Council got to do with it?”

  “Nothing. It’s the Department of Highways.”

  “Yes, but that’s not quite true, is it? The City Council has nothing to do with the roadway, but the situation it creates with the land around it is another matter.”

  She frowned. “I beg your pardon?”

  “As I understand it, the highway is running through land that is zoned residential. Aren’t the councilmen voting on whether that land gets zoned commercial?”

  “Council members,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Council members. Not councilmen. There are four women on the council.”

  The sexist pig strikes again. “Right,” I said. “Council members. Well, don’t they vote on it?”

  “Yes, of course. They vote on that next week.”

  Bingo. “Well, that’s mighty interesting,” I said. “I’d sure like to know about that.”

  “Why?”

  “So I can print your denials, of course.”

  She frowned.

  “That was another joke.”

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  I shrugged. “Maybe I’m an inspector sent by the mayor’s office to check up on things.”

  “Are you?”

  “No. But if you want to play guessing games, that’s as good as any. Look. What does it matter who I am? I’m a guy who wants to know about the government. Let’s talk about the zoning thing, ’cause it’s as good an example as anything.”

  “Now I know you’re a reporter.”

  “If you say so. Look. Let’s talk zoning. When the Council votes, what will they be voting on? I mean, is this a yes or no proposition? We either zone commercial or we don’t?”

  She shook her head. “No. It’s an either/or proposition.”

  “Either/or?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, for the layman who doesn’t understand, why don’t you spell it out? Either or what?”

  She took a breath. “Well, you have to understand. The public is resistant to change.”

  “I’ll buy that.”

  “So, any time you’re going to change a zoning ordinance, you’ll have people in favor, people against. No matter what you do, you’re gonna offend someone. You can’t please ’em all.”

  “Fine. How does that apply to the situation?”

  “The highway’s going through and the land’s to be rezoned. They won’t rezone it all. That would create an outcry from the conservationists and the old-timers who want to preserve our historic values and all that. That’s why it’s an either/or proposition. The land in question is divided into two tracts. When the council meets, they’ll vote to rezone one.”

  “And the other?”

  “The other they won’t.”

  30.

  AFTER THAT, IT WAS just legwork. I love saying that, because it’s what a real detective would say. Or at least what a fictional detective would say—I’ve certa
inly read enough books with that phrase in ’em. And I know exactly what it means. It means the detective has finally cracked the case, and all that remains is the routine but time-consuming task of gathering the information, checking everything out, and confirming his theories.

  This was certainly true in my case. I had the solution now. Julie Steinmetz, the dutiful and provident daughter, had seen a chance of relieving her mother’s financial woes—and perhaps even of relieving herself of the necessity of forking over two hundred bucks a week in support payments—by the simple expedient of bribing the City Council to change a zoning ordinance. In doing so, she had incurred the wrath of someone who didn’t want the zoning ordinance changed, and who had attempted to insure the fact that it wouldn’t be by the simple expedient of having her killed. This person had gone to the elaborate precautions of arranging for a handy fall guy, in the hope of confusing the investigation so utterly that the police would never even start looking in the right direction. The fact that he had bothered to do so, meant that it was necessary. And if it was necessary, it meant his involvement in the case must be obvious if one only looked for it.

  Which wasn’t that hard. There were two tracts of land. If someone didn’t want one zoned commercial, he must want the other. This was the type of deduction even I could handle. So as I say, it was just legwork.

  It was also something I knew how to do. It was the sort of thing I did sometimes for Richard—trace down who owned a particular piece of property on which a client was injured, so Richard would know who to sue. I spent the day at the Department of Highways, the County Clerk’s office, and the Department of Taxation. I had no problem getting what I wanted. All the information was a matter of public record—anyone can ask for it.

  This is what I found: of the two tracts of land, tract A consisted of several small farms, among them that of Mrs. Steinmetz; tract B consisted of undeveloped land, eighty percent of which was owned by a single company. According to the Tax Assessor’s Office, for the past ten years the taxes on that land had been paid by Farber Kennelworth Development.

  A Manhattan firm.

  31.

  I HAD ONE MORE thing to do before I left town. I didn’t have to, I just wanted to.

  A call to the restaurant where I’d tailed POP had confirmed that Kevin Drexel had a dinner reservation for six o’clock. I timed it just right. He was sitting at the bar with the young blonde when I walked in. His face hardened when he saw me, and he took his arm from around the blonde and put his hands on the bar, clearly in preparation to stand up should the need arise.

  I dispelled the need. I put up my hands, palms out, and said in my most conciliatory manner. “Please don’t get up. This will only take a minute.”

  “No it won’t,” Drexel said “I’ve had quite enough of you. I have no comment, and I’m not answering any questions.”

  “I’m not here to ask you questions,” I said. “I’m here because I owe you an apology.”

  That got him. Whatever he’d been expecting, it wasn’t that. He frowned. “Apology?”

  “That’s right. For the other day. I was wrong. I was out of line. And I’m sorry.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. You didn’t see anything in the paper about you taking a young woman to a motel, did you?”

  “No.”

  “And you won’t. It was a mistake. All my fault. That’s why I want to apologize. For insinuating you went to a motel for a romantic interlude with Julie Steinmetz. I was wrong. You didn’t do it.”

  Kevin Drexel relaxed somewhat. He picked up his drink. Smiled at the blonde. “See, honey. I told you there was nothing to it.”

  “Right, Miss Carr,” I said. “I want to apologize to you too. I hope I didn’t cause you any worry by suggesting Mr. Drexel had gone to a motel to meet another woman. He didn’t.”

  “Damn right, I didn’t,” Drexel said.

  “Right,” I said. “You didn’t. You went there to take a bribe.”

  Drexel’s glass stopped halfway to his lips.

  “That’s right,” I said. “A bribe to influence your vote on the City Council.” I turned to the blonde. “See, Miss Carr, there was nothing sexual involved. This was a straight case of graft.”

  Jean Carr looked at Kevin Drexel. His mouth was open and his face had gone a pasty white. She looked back at me. Then back at him.

  I smiled at Drexel. “Only thing is, you didn’t get it. Julie Steinmetz was dead when you got there, so you didn’t get the money. Tough luck. Must have been a hell of a disappointment.”

  Drexel wet his lips. He seemed to be trying to think of something to say. If so, he failed.

  “So I’m sorry. About what I said. And I’m sorry you didn’t get your bribe. Too bad. It would have told you how to vote.” I shrugged. “Now I guess you’ll just have to vote your conscience.”

  I smiled at Drexel, nodded to the blonde, and walked out.

  32.

  I STAKED OUT Farber Kennelworth Development at seven o’clock the next morning. I didn’t really expect anyone to be coming to work at seven o’clock, but I wasn’t taking any chances.

  I was also pissed as hell. And if a short little man with a stringy red moustache happened to show up, I didn’t want to miss him.

  I figured it was a good bet. (Not my missing him, though that was a good bet too.) No, I figured it was a good bet he would show. Unless he was an actor hired as an unwitting dupe, or a hit man hired especially for the propose, the bogus Marvin Nickleson had to be connected with Farber Kennelworth Development. There was no other explanation. Everything fit too well. If that wasn’t true, I might as well just pack it in. ’Cause that was my deduction, I was damn glad to have made it, I was in fact proud to have arrived at it, and if it didn’t pan out I was going to feel like a kid who didn’t get to go to the movie show. I might even throw a temper tantrum.

  Which certainly would have puzzled the early morning commuters. And by eight o’clock there were plenty of ’em.

  I was on the sidewalk outside a building on Second Avenue not half a dozen blocks from the building where I was told Julie Steinmetz worked, but which was actually the building where Monica Dorlander worked. Though, actually, I was told that it was where Monica Dorlander worked, though Monica Dorlander wasn’t Monica Dorlander. Though she was, she just wasn’t Julie Steinmetz.

  So I had come full cycle. Here I was, once again, standing on the sidewalk in the bitter cold, freezing my ass off, and just like Monica Dorlander or Julie Steinmetz or whatever, the bogus Marvin Nickleson didn’t show up.

  Which didn’t surprise me. Because much as I thought he would, I also thought he wouldn’t. Because that was the only thing that made sense. The bogus Marvin Nickleson had let me see his face. That had to mean he was counting on never seeing me again. And how could he count on never seeing me again if he worked not six blocks from the address he had sent me to stake out?

  And yet he had to. I didn’t know anything about Farber Kennelworth Development, but it seemed unlikely there was a guy named Farber Kennelworth. Probably there was a Mr. Farber and a Mr. Kennelworth. By rights, the bogus Marvin Nickleson had to be one of the two. It was the only thing that made sense.

  So there I was with two conflicting theories, both of which were the only thing that made sense.

  And by late morning, when I could assume even the most prestigious member of the firm could reasonably be expected to be there, he still hadn’t shown up.

  There was no other entrance to the building, I was sure of it. The Second Avenue entrance was it. It was a corner building, but there was no entrance on the side street. And the building didn’t run all the way through the block. And there’s no subway on Second Avenue, no chance of an underground entrance of that type. And there was no garage on the block that might have connected to the building in some way. And I’d been watching the front entrance all the time. No, there was no way the guy could have gotten by.

  I worried that he had.

  By eleven-th
irty or thereabouts, since I still didn’t have a watch, I decided, screw it, I’m going in.

  I went in the lobby. I checked it out first. There was a small newsstand, some banks of elevators, and then the back wall. No entrances, no exits. No doors, locked or otherwise. Nothing.

  I checked the directory. Farber Kennelworth Development was on the seventh floor.

  I got in the elevator and checked the buttons. The bottom button was “L” for lobby. There was no “B” for basement. No lower level to take an elevator from. No, the entrance I’d been staking out was it.

  I pushed seven. The doors closed and the elevator went up to the seventh floor. I got out, walked down the hall way, and found a solid wood door marked FARBER KENNELWORTH DEVELOPMENT.

  I put my ear to the door. I could hear the sound of a typewriter within.

  Well, what do I do now? Do I go in and see who’s there? The secretary who’s typing will immediately stop and say “May I help you?” And what do I say then? Do I claim a bogus appointment with Mr. Farber or Mr. Kennelworth? That will go over big if it’s just a trade name, and there is no Farber or Kennelworth. But why wouldn’t there be? How the hell should I know? Suppose there is a Mr. Farber and I ask for an appointment and she gives me one? Or I ask to see him and she asks me, “What about?” What do I say, “Development?” Would that be stupid, witty, or exactly right? No, “a property,” that’s what you say. I wanted to see him about a property. And then she asks my name and I give her a phony one, and then she asks me to take a seat, and then she shows me in to see the guy and it isn’t him. What do I do then, say, “Sorry, Mr. Farber, I wanted to talk to Mr. Kennelworth”? That’d go over big. Or say, “Excuse me, Mr. Farber, but is your partner a dinky guy with a scraggly moustache?” That would work fine too. Jesus, and then he’s gonna ask me about the property, and what do I say? ’Cause I don’t know a thing about property. Except it comes in acres. That’s it. I say I have an acre and a half. But would that be enough to interest him? Probably not. A hundred acres. “I got a hundred acres, Mr. Farber.” What type of land, what’s it been assessed at, what do I wanna do with it?