I wondered what Van Voorhies had to hide. Was he afraid that some nude photos of him with a girl—or a guy or a dog—were going to queer his chance to be mayor or governor or whatever?

  It was possible, of course, that he knew nothing at all about Andy McWilliams’s death. There were still some of Andy’s other clients to talk to but first I wanted to stop in and see how Caroline and Ray were getting along.

  32

  Ray Carbone was sitting in a green plastic chair in front of the door to Caroline’s room. He had put on some weight since I’d seen him last and was punishing the plastic pretty good, but he still looked like somebody you wouldn’t want to tangle with. He’d taken more punches than I had in the ring and it showed on his face, especially on his nose and around the eyes. A couple of nurses walked past him and he exchanged glances with them before he saw me.

  He stood up as I reached him.

  “Hey, Jack,” he said, sticking out his hand. “You look like you’re in shape.”

  “Still a few pounds from fighting weight, Ray,” I said, shaking his hand. “You’ve beefed up some. Making a comeback as a heavyweight?”

  “I’ve put on a few.”

  I looked at the plastic chair.

  “Couldn’t you find something a little more comfortable to sit in?”

  “Are you kidding?” he said. “I had to steal this from the cafeteria. I don’t want to be comfortable. I might fall asleep, like the cop I relieved.”

  It was a good point.

  “Why don’t you get a cup of coffee?” I said. “I’ll be here about twenty minutes or so.”

  “Okay,” he said. “Oh, one thing we didn’t discuss.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Is this a twenty-four hour job?”

  It hit me then that I hadn’t even thought about that.

  “I mean, I don’t mind,” Ray continued, “but if it is, I’ll need somebody to feed my cat.”

  “You have a cat?”

  He nodded. “A Persian.”

  “I’ll see if I can’t get someone to relieve you tonight.”

  “If you get another man,” Ray said, “I’ll take the night shift.”

  “Okay.”

  He went off to get his coffee and I went into Caroline’s room.

  “Are you awake?”

  “Miles?”

  She turned her head on her pillow and looked at me. Her face looked more bruised than when I’d seen her last.

  “Ooh,” I said, moving to the bed, “Technicolor.”

  “Oh,” she said, raising her good hand to cover her face. “I must look awful.”

  “How do you feel?”

  “Like I look.”

  I took her hand and held it.

  “Did you meet Ray?”

  “He introduced himself,” she said. “Is he another ex-fighter?”

  “He is. He fought as a middleweight, like I did.”

  “Really? Did you ever fight each other?”

  “Once.”

  “Who won?”

  “I’ll never tell.”

  “Maybe I can get him to tell.”

  “I doubt it, but you’re welcome to try. Look, Caroline, we have to talk about a few things.”

  “Okay,” she said, “but I’ve had some painkillers, so if I ask you to repeat something, please understand.”

  “Okay.”

  I told her about my meeting with Jules Van Voorhies and she listened intently until I was finished.

  “I didn’t like him,” she said. “He thought he could buy me.”

  “He probably believes he can buy anyone and anything.”

  “Well, if he’s got something in his past that would keep him out of office,” she said, with feeling, “I’d sure like to know about it.”

  I frowned as a thought occurred to me.

  “Caroline, Andy’s files on the cases from the P.I.’s he subcontracted work to were pretty skimpy. Did you look at them?”

  “Of course.”

  “Did you see the file on Van Voorhies?”

  She put her hand to her mouth.

  “What is it?”

  “I never had a chance to tell you. I thought it was funny none of the details of that case were given. I mean, there was a file, but all it had was a couple of names. I thought it was odd, because Andy was so good with files. Someone . . .” she hesitated, then went on, “someone could have . . . taken the contents—My God!” she said.

  “What?”

  “The office was broken into.”

  “When?”

  “Oh God,” she said, putting her hand to her forehead, “it was the day of the funeral. I just thought it was those people who check obituaries and then break into people’s homes.”

  “Was Andy’s office address in the obit?”

  “Oh God, I don’t remember—I never noticed anything missing—Oh, why am I so dumb—”

  “Don’t get down on yourself,” I said. “You’re not dumb. There were a lot of files for you to go through. This means I’m going to have to get a look at Walker Blue’s copy.”

  “Do you think that Van Voorhies had me beaten up?”

  “The thought had occurred to me. Men like him generally try to buy you off first, and when that doesn’t work—”

  “That sonofabitch!”

  “Now, take it easy,” I said. “We don’t know for sure that it was him.”

  “He’s a sonofabitch, anyway.”

  “Right. No argument, there.”

  “What do you think he’s afraid of?”

  “Well, it’s usually sex,” I said, “but maybe he’s a thief.”

  “If he was a thief,” she said, “that wouldn’t necessarily keep him out of public office.”

  “Touché. Caroline?”

  “Yes?”

  “Did Andy ever say anything to you about Van Voorhies? Like why he wouldn’t work on the case himself?”

  “No,” she said, “nothing beyond the fact that he was subbing the job to Walker Blue.”

  “Why did he do that?”

  “I didn’t know at the time,” she said, “but with everything we’ve discovered, I think I’ve got it figured out. You see, Andy hated politics, and did his best to avoid cases that had anything to do with it.”

  “Why take the Van Voorhies case at all then?”

  “Money, I guess,” she said. “He may not have liked politics, but he loved money.”

  I thought about him with that blonde on his arm and figured that if she wasn’t the only one, then he probably had a need for a lot of money.

  “Maybe he needed it too much,” she added.

  “We all need it.”

  “No,” she said. “Andy was different. He liked to live higher than his means. He . . . had a lot of friends.”

  I stared at her, wondering if she was talking about friends, or friends.

  “Maybe you should talk to Walker Blue,” she said, through a yawn. “Oh, I’m sorry. Those painkillers put me to sleep.”

  “I’ll leave you alone in a few minutes.”

  “No, no,” she said sleepily, her eyes heavy-lidded. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  “Caroline,” I said uneasily, “I don’t think I’ve apologized yet for . . . deserting you. I had a lot on my mind, although that’s not much of an excuse, but I’ve gotten myself straightened out and I want you to know that I’ll be here for you as long as you need me.”

  I looked at her and saw that her eyes were closed and she was breathing deeply and evenly. She had fallen asleep during my apology. I hoped she had heard some of it, because I didn’t think I’d have the nerve to say it again.

  I had wanted to ask her for the keys to her apartment but I didn’t want to wake her. I went through the drawers of the flimsy night table until I found her keys and pocketed them. I didn’t think she’d mind.

  Outside, Ray had returned with two containers of coffee. He was working on one, and the other was underneath the chair.

  “You know,” he said, “I haven’t seen a decent looking nurse in this place yet.”

  “Keep a sharp eye out,” I said. “There’s got to be one.”

  “Look, Jack,” he said, twisting around in his chair. “I can do this job alone. I don’t sleep much anymore anyway. Like I said, I just have to get someone to feed my cat.”

  “Let me have the keys to your place, Ray,” I said, “and I’ll feed the cat.”

  “Hey, thanks,” he said, handing over the key. “The food’s in the closet above the sink. Don’t give him the same flavor twice in a row, though.”

  “Picky cat, huh?”

  “Well, he is a Persian,” Ray said, “not an alley cat.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  33

  I spent the rest of the day talking to the clients Andy had had when he died, and the ones Po and Delvecchio had worked for. Some of them didn’t like being questioned again, and when I told them it was in reference to Andy McWilliams’s death some of them really got uptight.

  By the time I finished I was just about convinced that none of them had anything to do with Andy McWilliams’s death.

  When I got back to my apartment I put a call in to Walker Blue’s office, but his secretary told me he wasn’t in. I left a message for him to call me. I wanted to know what he found out about Jules Van Voorhies.

  I called Bogie’s to ask Stuart if he had that copy of Forbes.

  “I’ve got it right here behind the bar, Jack.”

  “I’ll be over later to pick it up, Stuart. Thanks.”

  I wondered about Van Voorhies’s political ambitions.

  Maybe the Forbes article would give me his background. If not, I’d have to make a trip to the main library on Forty-second Street. I wondered idly if “Van Voorhies” was even his real name. Maybe that was what he was trying to hide.

  Since I couldn’t get Walker Blue on the phone I decided to go to Bogie’s and get that magazine. Maybe while I was there I’d also have something to eat.

  When I entered Bogie’s, Stuart saw me right away and put the magazine on the bar. As I climbed onto a stool I heard some commotion in the dining room and took a look. The round table in the corner was filled with people.

  I ordered a Diet Coke and asked, “What’s going on over there?”

  “Oh, a regular customer is having a little party,” Stuart said. “An editor named Seidman just got a new job. They’re celebrating.”

  “Editor?” I asked. “What does he edit?”

  “What else?” Stuart said. “Mysteries.”

  I worked on my Coke and read the Forbes article. It told me that Van Voorhies was actually born in this country to Dutch parents who then took him to Europe to live. He came back here and attended college at Harvard. As well as being a big shot trader and sports and hotel mogul, he was a lawyer. He wasn’t yet in Donald Trump’s class, but I guess that’s why he was renting in the Trump Tower, and not the other way around.

  “Another Coke?”

  “And something to eat,” I said. “I’ll have some tortellini.”

  “A vegetable?”

  “Some broccoli.”

  “Isn’t that fattening?”

  “Broccoli?”

  “Tortellini.”

  “I’ll work it off.”

  He shrugged and put the order through.

  I was wading through the tortellini when the phone rang. Somehow I knew it was going to be for me and was ready when Stuart handed me the phone.

  “Jacoby?” Hocus said.

  “Is this more good news?” I asked.

  “More of the same, buddy,” he said. “They found your snitch.”

  “Binky?”

  “Yep.”

  “Where?”

  “In a cardboard box on Tenth Avenue,” Hocus said.

  “Dead?”

  “Very.”

  “How?”

  “The same as Two-John Wheeler, Jack,” Hocus said. “His throat was cut.”

  I dropped my fork on my plate.

  “Any reason for me to come down?”

  “Not unless you like looking at bodies.”

  “How long was he there?”

  “I’ll know more when Doc Mahbee does the autopsy, but he’s been there a few days, maybe more.”

  “What kind of weapon?”

  “Same as the other one—sharp blade. He was sliced clean and easy.”

  “Was he killed there, or left there afterward?”

  “Can’t be sure. Either way there was a hell of a lot of blood.”

  “Yeah,” I said, remembering what Jenny Wheeler had looked like in that cheap hotel room. “How’d you find out about this one?”

  “Oh, I keep my ears open.”

  “I appreciate the call, Hocus.”

  “Sure. How’s your girl?”

  “She’s not—she’s fine. I’ve got Ray Carbone sitting on her.”

  “She should be safe then,” he said. “Hope I didn’t spoil your meal.”

  He had, but I said he hadn’t and hung up.

  34

  When I left Bogie’s it was nearly midnight. I was filled to the gills with coffee, wondering if it wouldn’t have been better to be drunk. Binky was a snitch, and most of the time he was a lowlife, but in spite of that I had liked him. He had the charm of the rake, which often stood him in good stead with women, and sometimes charmed men, as well—and I don’t mean in a sexual way. He was just a likable guy, and now he was dead.

  Why?

  And why was Andy McWilliams dead, if he wasn’t a victim of the Backshooter?

  I knew why Jenny Wheeler was dead. That one wasn’t so hard. She was dead because she could have cleared Salvatore Scalesi of a murder charge—or because she could have convicted him.

  I was sitting on two cases here, when under normal circumstances I was just competent enough to work on one at a time. My paying job was finding out who killed Jenny Wheeler. And how had I gotten roped into that? I mean, murder is a cop’s job. Still, if I’d been a little quicker, maybe Jenny wouldn’t be dead.

  To be painfully honest, the Wheeler case was at a dead end. All I could do in the morning was to start canvassing Jenny’s friends to see if anyone knew anything. Maybe she had bragged to someone that she had blown a real Mafia Don.

  As for the other case, there seemed to be no one who could tell me anything but Andy McWilliams himself—or Andy’s ghost. I could find Andy’s ghost in one of two places, I thought: his office, or the office in his apartment. If I found information that could get me killed, I’d keep it close to me.

  I hailed a cab and gave the driver Caroline’s home address, fingering the key in my pocket. I had some communing to do with a ghost.

  35

  I felt funny letting myself into the McWilliams apartment. I mean, I was there looking for a ghost, and if the ghost of Andy McWilliams was there, then he had heard his wife proposition me that night. Granted, I had turned her down, but a ghost could still take that personally, couldn’t he?

  I walked down the hall to the dining room and left the keys on the table. The last time Caroline had gone out she’d left a lamp on in the living room and, from the looks of it, in the bedroom as well. At least, that was what I thought at the time.

  I considered going into the kitchen for a Pauli Girl, but decided against it. Instead I headed straight for the office.

  As I moved into the doorway I saw the mess the office was in. Drawers had been pulled out and emptied onto the floor and books had been swept from the bookshelves. Obviously the room had been searched, and with an eye more toward thoroughness than neatness.

  It was at times like this I wished I carried a gun.

  I moved slowly into the office, but quickly realized that there was no place in the room that anyone could hide. Whoever had searched the office was gone.

  Or so I thought, until something came crashing down on the back of my head to prove me wrong. Believe me, there are easier ways to be proven wrong.

  36

  I dragged myself up off the floor and into Andy McWilliams’s swivel chair. I hoped his ghost wouldn’t mind. Who was I kidding? He was probably laughing at me uproariously. Sure, pal, there was no room for anyone to hide in the office, so the dude came out of the bedroom and laid you out.

  Good move.

  I sat back, head loose on my neck, and waited to see if the back of my head was going to fall off. When it didn’t I put my hand back there and was gratified to feel that there was no blood. A lump, but I could live with that.

  I got up and went to the kitchen for some ice. I filled a towel with it, held it to the back of my head, and went back to the office. Once again I sat in Andy’s chair and surveyed the carnage.

  Andy had been killed months ago. Why search his office now? I couldn’t figure it, unless Caroline or I had simply pressed the right button on somebody.

  I looked around the office, which, of course, I had intended to search myself, and wondered where I could look that hadn’t already been searched.

  I became aware of an odd whirring sound and realized that the desk top had been swept clean, including the phone. I picked it up and put the receiver in place and the noise stopped. I kept my hand on it, still looking the office over. Even the few framed pictures that had been on the wall had been thrown to the floor. There was broken glass all around, as well as pages that had been torn from books, obviously in frustration.

  Where could I look that they hadn’t already looked! The answer, of course, was right under my hand. The phone. Andy’s phone, with all those one-touch buttons on it. I pulled the phone over to me and scanned his abbreviations. I ignored the obvious ones and concentrated on the one that had intrigued me on my first visit: “Tower.”

  Actually that was no longer such an obscure reference. It could have meant the Trump Tower. If that was it, why would he have put it on his phone? He hadn’t worked on the Van Voorhies case himself. I would have expected the numbers he put into his one-touch system to be the ones he used frequently. Of course, he could have had other clients in the Tower, but I don’t set much store in coincidence.

 

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