There was really nothing to say about this admission.
“Look,” he said. “You’ve done what I asked. Maybe you should take Aja and your grandmother someplace safe while I deal with what’s happened here.”
“Now you got the cops and all these extra hands, I can’t think of anywhere safer than this house.”
“Okay. You have enough on your plate with your ex-wife’s problems. Leave dealing with Quiller to me.”
“If that’s the way you want it.”
Roger stood up before saying, “It is.”
27
Loopy’s Mark VII was still parked in front of the manor. My daughter walked us out. When Oliya climbed into the passenger’s seat, Aja put a hand on my wrist.
“Can I come with, Daddy?” she asked, already knowing the answer.
“Not quite yet, honey. Oliya and me got some serious chop to get through first.”
“What’s the thing with her?”
“What do you mean?”
“She’s... I don’t know... different.”
“That she is. She’s kind of like the detective you keep on saying you want to be.”
“And she’s your girlfriend?”
“No. She owes me a debt and I’m in so deep I’m letting her pay it.”
“Okay,” she said warily. “Be careful.”
“Nice office,” Oliya said after I’d shown her around my rooms.
“Thanks. Me and Aja got a good rhythm in here.”
“Her space is so much bigger than yours.”
“She keeps the files and the office tools. The only thing I do is think.”
“Why all the paper files? You some kinda throwback or something?”
“Something.”
“Well, if you want to go think, I can do some work out here.”
My first call was to Henri Tourneau. Henri’s father was a friend of mine and I looked after the young man’s progress in the police department. He’d risen to the rank of detective first grade in good time. He called for advice now and then, and on rare occasions, I’d reach out to him for help.
“Tourneau,” he said, answering the call on the first ring.
“Hey, Henri.”
“Mr. Oliver.”
“Come on, man. When you gonna start calling me Joe?”
“When I bust my first international smuggling ring.”
“You close to that?”
“Hold up. Let me get outside.”
While the call was on mute I looked up the website for the Regency Oil Syndicate, based in Tulsa, Oklahoma.
I’d just found the name I was looking for when Henri said, “I’m back.”
“How’s your dad?” I asked, warming up to a request.
“He had what they call a ministroke two months back. Mom wants him to retire but he says that he likes being a pipefitter.”
“What’s a ministroke?”
“What it sounds like. A stroke that doesn’t do as much damage.”
“So he’s okay?”
“Only thing you can see is that the baby finger of his left hand doesn’t bend. He says he never used it all that much anyway.”
“Is he home?”
“No. He’s at work down on the Brooklyn docks.”
“Give him my best.”
“Will do.”
“Um, I wanted to ask you to do me a favor.”
“Name it.”
“Half a century ago a student named George Laurel was murdered while going to Yale. I’ve been trying to get information about what happened, but it’s too long ago. Does the force still have ties to the New Haven PD?”
“Organized crime has the most.”
“Can you dig up some information on the case?”
“Try my best.”
“Thanks, Henri. Give my love to your mother.”
My next call was an 800 number so there was no way even to guess at its geographic location.
“Regency Oil,” a pleasant woman’s voice said.
“Hi. My name is Lon Preston and I was hoping that you could help me.”
“Certainly. What can I do for you, Mr. Preston?”
“I’m looking to speak to John Sledge.”
“Oh.” There was a hint of hesitation in the young woman’s voice. “I don’t have a connection to Mr. Sledge’s line.”
“Might your supervisor know how to get in touch with him?”
“What is your business with Mr. Sledge?”
“A friend of his has had an accident and he wanted me to reach out.”
“Does this have to do with Regency?”
“If your mother broke her leg, would that have to do with Regency? I mean, could somebody call you at work to tell you that?”
My words sounded like a threat. They were and, then again, they were not.
“What is this friend’s name?”
“Yuri Fleganoff.”
“Hold on.”
It took five minutes for the second voice to come on the line.
“Regency Oil,” a very masculine-sounding man said.
“Hi. I’m looking for John Sledge.”
“And you are?”
“Lon Preston.”
“And what is your business with Mr. Sledge, Mr. Preston?”
“Private.”
“You said something about a friend of his,” the voice coaxed.
“Can you put me through?”
“I need more information before that can happen.”
“So, you can put me through, you’re just refusing to.”
“I need to know why you want him.”
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Connor.”
“Well, Mr. Connor, believe me when I tell you that Mr. Sledge does not want this message out on the street.”
“I’m the manager in charge of communications,” Connor asserted.
“If your salary is below eight figures you really don’t want to know what I have to say to your boss’s boss’s boss.”
“Hold on.”
This time there was music on the suspended line. Tina Turner singing “What’s Love Got to Do with It.” I like the song, love the songstress. I was moving my upper body to the rhythm when a knocking came on the door.
“Come on in.”
When Oliya walked into the room I had the familiar feeling one gets when seeing an old friend.
“Oh,” she said. “You’re on the phone.”
“On hold. What do you need?”
“I wanted to talk to you about something. It can wait.”
“This is Aaron McCaffrey,” Billy Goat Gruff snarled in my ear.
I pointed at the offended ear and my new/old friend backed out — closing the door.
“Hello, Mr. McCaffrey.”
“Who is this?”
“You can call me Lon.”
“Lon what?”
“Look, man, you’re the third person I’ve had to talk to and I’m getting a little fed up. My name is Lon and I’m calling John Sledge to pass on a message from Yuri Fleganoff.”
“I don’t like your tone, Lon.”
“Go home and kiss your kids. You’ll forget all about the sound of my voice.”
I could feel the upper-mid-management mandibles quivering on the other end of the line.
“Hold on!”
Most of human life is defined by waiting. Neanderthal hunters would wait in shadows to ambush prey. Foot soldiers wait for the signal to attack. Hopeful young men wait downstairs while their dates wonder which shoes to wear.
Yuri Fleganoff was waiting in a forest den, hoping against hope that he’d have future delays on foreign soil.
“Hello?” a mature woman said. “Mr. Preston?”
“Yes.”
“How can I help you?”
“What’s your name?”
“Delphine. Delphine du Champs.”
“Whoa. Now, that’s a name.”
“How can I help you, Mr. Preston?”
“I need to speak with Johnny Sledge.”
“John Sledge?”
I didn’t see any reason to answer.
“What is your business with Mr. Sledge?” du Champs asked.