Feelers (15 page)

This was a good alternative also. Then he would go get it and he and the Wolfman could go off and leave me out of this.

Third, if Danny had looked for the stolen money and not found it where he left it, then it meant somebody else got it. Who? How was I to know? It could be almost anybody. One of Danny’s relatives, maybe, or the old man Mr. Trux, or one of his kids, or a plumber or a contractor . . . the five million could be long gone.

This was a bad alternative because convincing Danny and the Wolfman that I did not have their treasure would not be easy. I would have to find who did take it and put them on a trail leading away from me. My task would be a difficult one.

What I needed to do was discover whether the situation was one, two, or three. Unfortunately, the Wolfman probably had none of the answers as yet. Odds on, only Danny knew whether he had found the money or not, and where it was hidden. Unfortunately, it was not a simple matter of asking him. I did not know where he was. Finding him—or him finding me—might put me in great peril. But if I waited until Wolfman found Danny
and asked him, and if the finger ended up pointed at me, I would be locked into alternative number three.

My brain hurt. I was trapped, and yet I had to head them off.

Once again, I thought of how I would gladly donate a portion of the money to a good cause if only fate would show me the way out.

There was someone standing at the driver’s window.

“Morty.”

I will be brutally honest: I screamed like a little girl and honked the horn by accident.

“Ooo, Morty, don’t do that. You scared me.”

It was Frog at my window, his aftershave stinging my nose.

“My God, Frog,” I groaned. “You scared the shit out of me. Why did you sneak up on me like that?” I rested my head on the steering wheel.

“Sneak? I just walked up. Man, did you hear about Mary?”

“Yes, Frog, I heard. Horrible.” My head was still on the steering wheel.

“Who would kill Mary? Why?”

“I . . . I don’t know. What are you doing around here at this hour? They said your mother was sick or something.” I managed to pry my head off the wheel and lean back, my heart lunging in my chest.

“What? No, no, she’s dead, remember.”

“Yes, of course I do. But that is what they said down at Oscar’s.”

“I had some errands. Who do you think would kill her? Someone we know, maybe?”

“I . . . I don’t know.”

“I heard there was a guy passing around flyers with another guy’s picture on them. A con of some sort. You don’t think that maybe—”

“Well, Frog, everybody else knows, so you might as well. That picture was of Danny Kessel.”

“Danny Kessel . . . you mean that guy back when, the guy who stole the five million and the cops never got it back?”

“Danny’s uncle lived on Vanderhoosen. I cleaned out his house. Near the one you cleaned.”

I heard Frog hold his breath.

“On
Vanderhoosen
?”

“On Vanderhoosen.”

“Ooo,
Christ
.”

“I did not find five million dollars in that house, Frog. Please say you believe that.”

“Yeah, yeah, sure . . . so what you’re saying is that he’s looking for the guy who cleaned the house?”

“It is possible. Very possible. And he went to Mary to find out who it was.”

“Ooo,
Christ
. You don’t think she told who it was, do you?”

“It is possible he got the information from her one way or the other.”

“Morty, what’re you gonna do? Go to the cops?”

“And hand over the money I
did
find? That is
my
money.”

“Yeah, don’t go to the cops. Don’t go to the cops. Can I help?”

“I don’t know, Frog.”

“You have my number—keep me informed of what’s going on, OK?
Christ
.”

“Good night, Frog, I will call you.”

“Take it easy, man, OK? And don’t go to the cops.”

“Yes.”

I heard his footsteps retreat rapidly.

So what could I do that did not involve meeting with Wolfman or Danny?

As I had done with Mim, I supposed I could try to fill in a few more holes in what I knew to try to get a clearer picture of what alternative faced me. If I knew how Mary was killed, or what the cops knew, perhaps that would tell me if Danny was hunting me, and I would know I was in the worst possible spot.

Ah
.

I could not just walk into the police station and ask them the particulars of the case.

But I could walk into the
Brooklyn Gazette
and ask Dexter, the clubfooted reporter.

IT WAS AFTER ONE IN
the morning. Why would I think to find Dexter at the paper at that hour?

True, I did not know him well, but I read the
Gazette
, and Dexter had had a number of big stories, scooped the Manhattan tabloids a time or two on a big mob trial, had an exposé on Latino gangs that went national, and had won some journalism awards—something the
Gazette
was proud to note at every opportunity. Hands down, he was their star reporter. In barrooms across the borough, beery patrons wondered aloud if Dexter had outgrown the
Gazette
, and why he had not moved off to bigger and better things at the Manhattan papers. Some wondered if the
Gazette
and Dexter were becoming one and the same. It was said he had a bed under his desk and could be found in his office pounding out his stories late into the night. It was said he slept little.

Through the heavy glass doors of the sleepy glass office building was a rent-a-cop and security station.

“Is Dexter in? I am a friend.”

The guard looked like he could barely stay awake as he poked and prodded his phone.

“Hello, can you tell me if Mr. Lewis is in?” he said into the receiver. He had the roller-coaster accent of Jamaica. “Hold on.” He put the phone to his chest and looked to me. “Who are you, now?”

I told him; he told them. He put the phone down, turned a sign-in book to me, and handed me a building pass. “Turd floor, mon.”

Exiting the small elevator on the third floor was like falling into a cold lake of air-conditioning and fluorescent light. The reception desk was empty. Beyond that was the hum of ventilation and the flicker of computer screens. Cubicles stretched to the far side of the fluorescent lake and glass-wall offices on the far shore. The cubicles were empty. No people were in sight.

“Ooo. Morty?”

Far to my right, at an office in the corner, was a head sticking out of an office. It was mostly a bald head, with hair around the sides.

“Dexter, hello.” I was a little taken aback. I had not seen him without his Panama hat and remembered him with a thick head of hair. Perhaps his hat was both his trademark and his camouflage.

“Come!” He waved at me, smiling, and his shiny head retreated back where it came from.

I found my way over to his doorway and was greeted by a grin and hearty handshake. “Morty, this is a huge surprise.”

Dexter was in a white shirt open at the neck, brown suspenders, tan modified chinos, and black mismatched blocky shoes. His small, dark, cluttered office was stacked with papers, and the shelves crowded with awards large and small. There was also a photo of his parents, and of him at the mob trial. That there was
no photo of bride and brood was not much of a surprise. A man must often choose between family and his ambitions.

His Panama hat was on a coatrack in the corner.

“Here . . .” Dexter cleared a stack of papers from a chair next to the door. “Sit, Morty.”

I sat, and he lurched around to the other side of his desk and collapsed in his chair. There was a window behind him, looking east, and in the distance I could see the lights of Coney Island, the Parachute Drop tower clearly visible. His office’s fluorescent lights were not on, only an old lamp by his desk that looked like a flying saucer. It lighted his desk and little else.

I have to say, as pleased as I was to find Dexter in his office at this late hour, I became a little worried by how overjoyed he seemed to be to see a man who was just an acquaintance, and probably a reminder of some pretty rough times in high school.

“I’m glad to find you in, Dexter. It has been a long time.”

He didn’t answer this, just nodded his head and smiled. “You know, Morty, I haven’t forgotten that you were one of the few people back when, back in the day, who didn’t bust my chops about the foot. You were jake, and I appreciate that to this day.” He leaned forward on his desk, shoving a laptop computer to one side. “And yet I know we are not friends. There’s no reason, just that we only know each other from then. Am I right?”

“Yes, of course. You seem very happy.”

Dexter seemed to be hardly able to contain his pleasure. “Ooo. Happiness!” He held a finger aloft. “Somebody once said, ‘Happiness is satisfaction disguised as joy.’ ”

“I suppose so. You are wondering why I am here.”

His grin blossomed into a smile that spread across his stubble, his eyes shiny, his head shaking slightly. “I know why you are here.”

“You do?”

“Somebody comes to see me late at night I get all happy. Why? Because I know I’ll get a satisfied feeling, you know? Why? Because the only reason anybody comes to see me at an hour like this is to tell me something I might not know, and I get satisfied knowing things other people don’t.”

“And this makes you happy. I understand.”

He leaned back in his chair, out of the light, tapping his fingertips together. His eyes were twinkling with lamplight. “And I get a great deal of satisfaction trying to figure things out, putting one thing together with another until I understand secrets. You were at the Upscale Realty murder scene. I saw you there.”

I guess my eyes widened, because he reacted by chuckling.

“Don’t worry, Morty. I know you didn’t do it.”

“Did someone say I did?” I found myself standing.

“Relax, Morty, relax. Here . . .” He leaned down, and I heard the puff and soft thump of what must have been a college refrigerator door open and close. He set two Miller beers on his desk, opened both, and handed me one. “I also know the cops wanted to talk to you—what was it you said your name was? Bob? But you lit out. Don’t worry. I didn’t tell them who you were. I did go by your place looking for you later. Word has it you and Mary Duggin were good friends.”

“Yes. I saw her earlier today.” I sank back into my seat. “You are right. I probably can tell you a few things—possibly related to her death—that you do not know. But I must make myself clear, Dexter. I not only came to give a little information but to get it.”

He reached out and thumped the desk, a jaunty display of applause. “Morty, you and I might be friends yet. Glad to hear you say that. I don’t like idiots, and I would have been disappointed if you were an idiot.”

Now I had to decide what to trade him for what I wanted to know, without dragging me into it. I decided to get what I could out of him first. That would help me decide how to massage the information. I didn’t need Dexter chasing my money and the story of how I got it for the
Brooklyn Gazette
.

He waved a hand at me, for me to start.

“I want to know what happened to Mary.”

“Stabbed. Here.” He pointed to his eye.

I shivered. Poor Mary. I really did like her. She had a good soul.

“Do they know who did it?”

“No.”

“Any leads?”

“You mean the police?”

“Yes, do they have any suspects?”

“Not yet.”

“Any idea of . . . the nature of the crime? Was it a robbery?”

“Petty cash missing, looks like. He used the key from around her neck to open the strongbox.”

I shivered again. My check was probably still in there, with the business name and phone number and the subject: “House Cleaning/Vanderhoosen.”

“Of course,” he continued, “they don’t know what else may have been in there that the perp was looking for. Do you know, Morty?”

“I’m not done. So are they convinced it was just a robbery?”

“They’re not sure.”

I wasn’t getting what I needed.

“But you wanna know what I think?” I heard that giant black shoe bump the underside of the desk. “I think this guy did it.”

He held up the flyer. The flyer the Wolfman had been passing
around the bar. “His name is Danny Kessel. He got out of prison yesterday. Stole . . . but you know this, don’t you?”

Reporters were as good as the police at reading people.

“I know that flyer. A cop of some kind was passing it around Oscar’s.”

“Yeah, I know. And I know you were there.”

“Where did you get that flyer?”

“Mary’s desk. It was sitting right there. The cops let me hang around the crime scene. But this isn’t that one. Once I saw it, I realized somebody was looking for a con. This is a prison photo. How would she have it unless somebody was canvassing the neighborhood?”

“You know who the cop was that was handing it around?” I asked.

He tossed the flyer on the desk. “Not yet. I was hoping you could tell me.”

“I do not know. But I know he drives a black SUV.”

“Morty? Tell me something I don’t know for a change. I’m not an idiot, either.”

We looked into each other’s eyes for what must have been thirty seconds.

“I see,” he finally said, breaking eye contact and leaning back once more in his chair. “So. If you won’t tell me, it means that the information you have about this might implicate you or someone you care about. Hmm?”

I looked at the ceiling.

“Now what could a feeler have to do with all this?” He, too, looked to the ceiling, as if reading my thoughts up there. “Well, that is something of itself. You know, if you’re somehow mixed up in this, Morty, I might be able to help. If you help me. Otherwise, I have to go out on the street and spend all kinds of time
asking questions about you, where you hang out, who you hang out with . . .”

Fanny. He would find out about her, and the tight ones, and figure it all out in a short time, I was sure.