“Thaddeus Nemerov,” I repeated.
“Now don’t tell me you’re going to remember that?”
“It might turn up again. You never can tell.”
“As Shaw is always saying.”
“What! Shaw?” I surprised Harvey with my sudden animation. “What about Gordon Shaw?”
“I don’t know a Gordon Shaw; I’m talking about the writer: George Bernard Shaw. Benny, are you feeling unwell?”
“I’m fine, Duncan. Just fine,” I said, relaxing my grip on the arm of the chair. “I know it’s not in the book, but do you know of any connection between Abram Wise and the Tatarski case?” I was shooting wild and blind, but what the hell?
“Abram Wise? You mean the crime boss? No, I haven’t seen any mention of his name. There wasn’t any involvement with organized crime in this case. Just incompetent investigation and incomplete disclosure to the defence lawyer. Neustadt was responsible for both.”
“What was behind Neustadt’s zeal, do you think? Did he know the family?”
“No. After the first blunders, I think he was covering up for himself. He was an ox of stubbornness. Of course, he was the first officer on the scene when the father was killed. That’s in the book. So he knew the family. Did you know him, Benny?” I shook my head. “He didn’t want me getting together with McStu on this book. He knew it wouldn’t do his name or character any good. He was right. He died just in time.”
“Not quite. I think he had time to write to the papers denouncing the book.”
“What else could he do? If we are right about Mary Tatarski, he was wrong. I don’t want to be too hard on Neustadt. He’s an easy target: a prisoner of old-fashioned ideas, a certain inflexibility of character.”
“Would you include dishonesty?”
“In a manner of speaking. He wouldn’t call it that, though. Any shifting of facts in aid of a foregone conclusion was legitimate as far as he was concerned. If a nasty fact got in the way, he’d dispose of it somehow, just as we have to get rid of older buildings when we put up new ones.”
“The law’s supposed to be different. If the facts don’t fit, you’re supposed to look for a new theory. That’s what makes it scientific.”
“Don’t tell me about it. I know. And most of the people at Niagara Regional know it. Neustadt was a sport, a throw-back, a walking dinosaur who didn’t know he was extinct.”
“Who knew him best, would you say?”
“Talk to Major Colin Patrick. They were good friends.”
“I’ve heard that. Would you say that Ed Neustadt had a, shall we say, sadistic side?”
“Is this just curiosity, Benny, or are you working on something? Pat told me that you’re an investigator. Am I likely to be called on to give evidence?” Something in my question had put Harvey on his guard. I wanted to know what it was.
“I don’t think so. But it’s more than curiosity. I think that there was a sadistic side to the prosecution of this case. Had that ever occurred to you?”
“Hell yes! But I couldn’t say anything as long as Neustadt was alive. McStu has already been on the phone to his publisher about a new edition of Haste to the Gallows. It’s a hard world, Benny. But, I must say that I won’t be worried about libel any more. Those nightmares are gone forever.”
“Whatever happened to Mary Tatarski’s daughter? Is she around?”
“She spent a year at Napier McNabb University in Hamilton. That’s the last we know about her. She was at her stepfather’s funeral, back in 1992, of course. Then she disappeared.”
“Disappeared?”
“Perhaps that’s a little melodramatic. I mean I think she married and settled down somewhere.”
“I guess that’s one way to disappear.” Harvey laughed at that and asked if I would like a cup of tea. I said “fine,” so we had some.
I wanted to tell Harvey that I suspected that my client might have murdered Neustadt, but I bit my tongue. Bad-mouthing clients is a hell of a way to get ahead. Pat Voisard joined us when the kettle boiled and we talked of general things. Pat told us what it was like growing up in the farming country outside town and going to school way out Pelham Road. Harvey treated us to some photographs taken on a recent skiing vacation. Before I left the architects’ office, Harvey asked me to call around again or to call if I had any fresh ideas on the Tatarski case. I told him I would.
SIXTEEN
I spent an hour or two trying to put down on paper what I’d discovered that might be of interest to Wise. It amounted to so little that I widened the margins on my typewriter to stretch out the text a little. Leaving a line blank between paragraphs helped too. It looked better that way from a design point of view.
My typing was interrupted twice, once by each of Wise’s offspring: Hart, returning my call as though we hadn’t already had words, and Julie, probably at her mother’s prompting. With Hart I made an appointment to see him at 9:00 P.M. that evening at a pub he goes to up near Secord University. That sounded promising for the prodigal son.
Julie was another matter. She’d telephoned to say that she didn’t want to talk to me.
“Why’d you call then? Because your mother asked you to?”
“You got it. I guess you’re a good detective, eh?”
“Would your father put up with less than the best?”
“Do you always answer a question with one?”
“Whenever I get a chance. You know that somebody’s trying to kill your old man?”
“I’ve been expecting to hear that he’s been murdered since before I had braces on my teeth. I used to have dreams about it. Every time I use an airport parking lot, I think that’s where Daddy’s going to be found in the trunk of a BMW.”
“I like your imagination, Julie.”
“Yeah, I’m not even telling you the good stuff. Mummy says that you’re a scrumptious bit, is she putting me on?”
“Mummy’s putting you on. And ‘scrumptious’ isn’t one of her expressions, is it?”
“I do like your voice. You’ve got a ballsy kind of voice. Bet you’re a Leo. Leo’s are unpredictable and sexy.”
“I’m pistachio. That’s what I always say.”
“What month were you born in?”
“Julie, I haven’t got time for this. If you want to see me, fine, we’ll pick a time. If you don’t want to see me it’s been nice talking to you.”
“How do you get off using my first name, Mr. Cooperman? I’m not a child.”
“You tell me what to call you, Julie, and I’ll write it down somewhere, okay? Have you any idea who wants to see your man dead?”
“Me, for one.”
“It’s a start. How come?”
“He’s a lousy father. When I was small, I never saw him. When I was a teenager, he wouldn’t let me alone.”
“Are you talking abuse?”
“I’m talking about his never letting me have any fun. He watched me like a hawk. Nobody was ever good enough for his precious Julie, so I sat home reading Vogue and Elle.”
“Is that why you married young? To get out of the house?”
“To get away from him! That’s dead on. The poor young shlump didn’t know I picked him just to drive Daddy crazy.”
“Did it work?”
“No. Daddy had it annulled before he’d figured out how to unhook my bra. I had better luck the second time. Are you still there, Mr. Cooperman?”
“Just. Why don’t you name a place where you want to eat your dinner and I’ll meet you there. I’ve got an office full of clients and my assistants can overhear everything we say.”
“I can’t do dinner. That’s out the window. Where will you be around one?”
“In the morning? I hope I’ll be in bed. What about tomorrow?”
“If you really want to see me, be at the Patriot Volunteer over the river at one. See yuh,” she said and hung up.
The Patriot Volunteer had a familiar ring to it. It was a roadhouse on the Lewiston-Youngstown road, a dance-hall and lounge that catered to locals from New York state and to Canadians who wanted to meet at a discreet distance from their own backyard. I had been there a few times years ago, but I had almost forgotten that it still existed.