Symphony of Blood, A Hank Mondale Supernatural Case (12 page)

“Sounds like those girls were a handful. Did you ever mention this to Mr.
Leifson
?”

“No. Not really.”

“Have any detectives been out to speak to you?”

“Yeah, one was here. We spoke briefly.”

“What’d you tell him?”

“I didn’t tell him much, but if he’d have asked my opinion, I would have given it to him.”

“What is your opinion?”

“Look,” he looked both ways again, suddenly
self conscious
. Then continued, “I may be wrong. I may be right. But if you ask me, Nicki’s probably just fine. Out partying is all.”

“Out partying? She’s been missing a bit long for that, don’t you think?”

“Maybe. You’re the cop, not me. But my guess is she’s off getting into trouble with that Mackenzie Blake. That’s my two cents. Take it for what it’s worth.”

“Do you remember the last time you saw Nicki?”

“Sure do. She was fighting with Mackenzie. Made a big scene right here in my lobby.”

“What were they fighting over?”

“Some boy. Bobby, I think his name was. He’d come here a few times. Good looking kid, I guess.”

“A big fight over a boy. Then she goes missing. You didn’t give it much thought?”

“Those girls fought all the time. Then I’d see them shortly after snug as two bedbugs
kissin
’ and
huggin
’. They’re a pair of drama queens.” He paused and thought for a second, then seemed to come to a realization. “In fact, Mackenzie came by later that day looking for Nicki to apologize. I’m sure they made up.”

“But you haven’t seen Nicki since then?”

“No. No one has.”

“Did you happen to see any unusual people that day?” I asked.

He picked up his cup and swirled the coffee around. “Not many unusual people come through this building.”

“Maybe a vagrant?”

He scratched his head and thought.

“A bum, I mean.”

“You know what? There was a bum that night. There really was.” Vic and I looked at one another as the doorman continued. “I remember it now perfectly. Just some homeless dude came to the door. He looked lost. I chased him off. It happens from time to time that I have to chase someone off, but it’s usually a salesman or something.”

“If we send a sketch artist over here, can you give us a description?” Vic asked.

“I suppose. I could try.”

“Let me call in and see if we have someone available,” Vic said as he pulled out his phone.

“While you’re at it…” I said, but Victor was a step ahead of me.

“Yeah, I’ll make some calls and see if I can get an ID on this Bobby.”

As Victor stepped outside to make his calls, I continued questioning the doorman. “Do you have a last name on Bobby? Maybe he can help us.”

“No. The cops have probably questioned him by now. Nicki’s dad knew the guy. Like I said, he came around here a bunch of times. Mostly with Mackenzie, but sometimes by himself too. They were part of the same circle of friends.”

“Okay. We’ll look into it.”

I stepped outside and Victor was still on the phone. He put up one finger to tell me it would just be another minute. Then he hung up and walked over.

“Johnny, Tate and the sketch artist are all headed down. They’ll be here in a few.”

Victor had that look in his eyes. The look that basically reminded me that I wasn’t a cop.

“Okay. I’ll walk down to Dempsey’s, have a drink.”

“Thanks, Hank. I’ll stop by when we’re done. Get you up to speed on any new information I get.”

“What about Singh? When you get that sketch you need to show him.”

“You have his numbers, right?”

I smiled.

“Okay, Hank. You win. When I’m done we’ll ride up to the Bronx together and show Mr. Singh the sketch.”

“My guess is he’ll recognize the vagrant.”

“Seems awfully coincidental.” Vic straightened his tie, then we shook hands.

I headed up Houston Street towards Second Avenue. Dempsey’s was just a short walk.

* *

There was a huddle in the far corner of the bar. I descended down the steps into the pub and saw Big Joe and a gang of regulars from the pool hall crowded around a television. There was more snow and squiggly lines than picture on the screen.

“Hey, Rory,” I said as I walked in.

He nodded and simply said, “Hank,” plopped two cubes of ice in a tumbler and topped it off with Jim Beam. He slid it down the freshly-wiped surface of the bar; the glass came to a stop in front of me as if Rory had it on a string.

“What’s with them?” I asked.

“OTB isn’t opened yet so they’re watching the dog races from Denmark.”

I nodded. I guess in some bars it would look weird, but in the late mornings and early afternoons at Dempsey’s, seeing a horde of degenerate gamblers huddled around a television with crappy reception, trying to catch the winner of the Danish dog races, really was just another day.

I gulped down my drink and raised my chin. Rory knew that meant I was ready for another, and he quickly obliged. When you’ve spent as much time in Dempsey’s as I have, you don’t really need to speak.

“Hank!” Big Joe yelled from across the bar, cell phone in one hand, bottle of Bud in the other, “You want in on this race?”

The screen was a total blur. It could have been a dog race, a pig race or a bull fight. I couldn’t tell.

Big Joe continued, “I’ve got a tip from one of the trainers. The four dog has been pumped with so much speed and ‘
roids
, he could lift a house. He is an absolute lock.”

What the hell? I had some time to kill.

“Sure. I’ll take a hundred on him.”

“Yeah,” Big Joe said into the phone, “Another hundred on the four.” Then to the bar he yelled, “Anyone else? One minute to post!”

Nobody else spoke up.

“Rory? Any action?” Joe asked.

Rory waved his hands and violently shook his head, then looked at me and said, “I’m broke.”

Joe nodded. “Okay, that’s it. Thanks.” Joe hung up the phone. “Let’s go four. Bring home the cash for daddy.”

“Give me one more, Rory,” I said, turning my back to the TV. I didn’t need to stare at a static-filled screen. Big Joe’s hollering would tell the story. The bell rang as the dogs launched out from their kennels. There were some grunts and hoots and cheers. “Come on four! Let’s go.” Joe’s voice was the loudest, but beneath him a few other guys yelled along with him, “Yeah four. You can do it, baby. Come on.”

The race was quick, less than a minute, followed by a long, loud, exaggerated groan of several men, all in unison.

“Fuck!” Joe shouted. “You
gotta
be kidding me.”

“Guess we lost,” I said calmly to Rory.

“Joe hasn’t picked a winner since grade school,” Rory replied. “You want another? On me.”

I sucked down the rest of my drink, then said, “Nah. Three before lunch is plenty. I’m working.”

Rory’s eyebrows raised. “Hank, I’m impressed.”

“I didn’t find religion or anything. Just working on a case.”

“I know, but turning down a freebee? Because you’re working on a case. This must be a new and improved Hank.”

I smiled. “You’ll get me back another day.” I paid for the drinks and threw Rory a generous tip, then got up and headed towards the single ray of sunlight that snuck into Dempsey’s through the tiny window.

“Thanks, Hank. Good luck with the case.”

I waved, then crumpled a hundred dollar bill and yelled, “Joe!”

He turned and I chucked the bill at him. He caught it while shaking his head back and forth. “Sorry, Hank. It was a lock.”

I sucked a laugh back into my mouth and stifled it into my belly as I turned and walked up the steps.

Once out on Second Avenue, I stopped at the newsstand, bought a copy of The Post, then walked up a couple blocks to the taco joint at the corner of Second and 6
^th
Street. I took a tray—the place was set up cafeteria style—bought some tacos and found a seat at a slender, one-man table that faced the wall. I read my paper as I ate and waited for Vic’s call.

I spent over an hour nursing my tacos and reading my paper; the place was quiet and I knew the two guys who worked there. They didn’t speak much English and I don’t speak much Spanish, but we manage enough to smile and exchange pleasantries every time I’m in the place. They didn’t mind me hogging up the table, but eventually I got antsy and went next store to the donut shop. While waiting on the line for a donut and coffee, my phone finally rang.

“Victor.”

“Hey, Hank.”

“You got the sketch?”

“Yes, we did. Looks pretty close to what Mr. Singh described. White dude, maybe fifty, five o’clock shadow, graying hair with a receding hairline.”

“Sounds like our man.”

“Did you get a hold of Singh?” Vic asked. “I’d like to show him the sketch, just to confirm a positive ID.”

“No, I wasn’t able to get him. He works nights, remember? He’s probably getting some much-needed sleep.”

“Yeah. Well, I got some interesting information.”

“Do tell.” Vic must have had something pretty good.

“I did some checking for us on this Bobby kid.”

“Yeah?” Now I knew it was good.

“I think I got a hit.”

“I’m listening.” Why did he insist on such build up? “Out with it.”

“There’s a Robert Marks. Twenty years old, lives with his family in a brownstone on the west side.”

“And?”

“He’s missing.”

“Another missing person?”

“I’m
gonna
check with Johnny at Missing Persons and make sure this is our guy, but I have a hunch.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

“Hank, I think it’s time you have a talk with your clients.”

“I know.”

“Quite frankly, it’s time I have a talk with your clients. The NYPD needs to question them. Formally.”

“I know. But you know Thomas Blake is no dummy. He’ll clam up and call his lawyer.”

“Most likely. But we’re
gonna
have to do it anyway.”

“Let me talk to him. I’ll get back to you.”

“You do that.”

“Yep.”

I gave Mr. Singh’s phone number to Victor then hung up. I bought a large cup of coffee, decided against the donut, and slowly walked downtown to my office. I knew what needed to be done, but I was in no rush to do it. The one thing I wanted to avoid was getting into an adversarial relationship with my client. Problem was, I wasn’t sure how I was going to avoid it.

* *

I walked into my office and it was quiet. Sandy’s desk was empty. Her computer was on, her jacket was hanging from the rack near the entrance, but she wasn’t around.

“Sandy?” I called out. She didn’t answer.

I walked past my office door and down the short hallway that led to the bathroom. A picture of me with my mother hung from one side of the wall. I hated that picture, but my mother hung it there; I took it down once…once, and the fit she threw was far worse than the annoyance of having to look at an eighteen by ten inch photograph of my mother hugging me every time I had to use the rest room during office hours. On the other wall hung a 1996 team photo of the New York Yankees. I won a lot of money on the series that year, so that photo never comes down.

I stopped at the Yankee photo and rubbed it for luck. I noticed the light on in the bathroom but the door wasn’t closed.

I walked up to it and peered around the corner. Sandy was using a brush to curl her long brown hair. She was wearing a tight, white top and gray slacks. Her breasts bounced up and down as she furiously brushed out the knots in her hair. Then, she took notice of me.

“Hank! Stop staring at me.”

“I wasn’t staring. I called out and you didn’t answer.”

“What is your problem? Can’t you see I’m in here?”

“I need to pee, do you mind?”

“Fine!” She walked towards me, and smiled. Then, said sweetly, “It’s all yours.” Her mood could swing faster than an Ella Fitzgerald scat.

I closed the door and took care of business. Then, I walked into my office and closed the door. I looked at the phone, then the bottle of Jim Beam, then back at the phone.

“Your mother called, Hank.” Sandy called from the other room.

“Okay.”

“Twice.”

“Okay. Okay.”

She opened the door, stuck her head in and said, “No need to snap at me, Hank. I’m just doing my job.”

“I know. Any other messages?”

“Nope.”

“Thank you.”

She closed the door and I heard her return to her desk, and then the sound of her typing something on her keyboard. I opened my phonebook, found Thomas Blake’s home number, then called.