"King of Hearts must have come around again. Are you going to show Bowman the letter?"
"I guess not. No, that letter is confidential. It's from a client."
"A dead client. Your contract with Lenihan-which didn't exist when he was alive anyway because you'd never agreed to be a party to it-is breached upon his death.''
"Is that the kind of so-called logic they taught you at Georgetown? I'd always thought the Jesuits had a finer appreciation for the moral potential in legalistic murk. Anyway, until I hear otherwise I'm going to consider Lenihan's estate as my client. His estate, and his good intentions. He really sounds in the letter as if he was about to climb out of the grubby pit he thought he'd spent all his life in. Maybe I can still help him do that."
"Don, he'll never know."
"Yeah, he won't. I want to meet the people who prevented him from knowing it though. That has nothing to do with contracts."
"Well, you're going to do what you're going to do."
"Short of getting my head bashed in, yes. Or yours. If it looks as if it's coming to that, the hell with it."
"Thank you."
"I'll give them the money and fly to San Juan. If I have it."
"Who's delivering the money to you?"
"Lenihan didn't say. I plan on asking the deliverer a few questions though."
"Maybe it'll never show up. Maybe it's on the way to San Juan or Bogota.
Then where will you be?"
"Room 1407 at the Hilton. For the rest of my life."
"Well, you'll get to finish Proust."
I phoned a contact at the Federal Building and asked him if Jack Lenihan's name had come up in any recent narcotics investigations.
"Funny you should ask. Ned Bowman was just wondering about that too. I just got off the line with him."
"What frame of mind was he in?"
"He was the usual charmer. Hey, Strachey, what do you think of all this snow? I figured you'd be off at Killington or Mount Snow. Half the younger guys in the office are out sick today-called in with the flu, but, hell, I know better than that."
"The snorkeling is poor at Mount Snow this time of year. So when Bowman asked about Lenihan, what did you tell him?"
"Lenihan was clean as far as I know, and I'd know. Evidence can take a while to develop-forever in too many cases-but names I've got plenty of.
They come up, and Lenihan's is not one of them. I'd say he learned his lesson when he slipped away from us in eighty-two. That's rare, but it happens."
"Isn't it possible he'd just gotten back into it? Within the past couple of weeks?"
"Possible, yes."
"His killing has the earmarks, right?"
"From what little I know. But being clubbed on the brain is a real popular way of getting killed in America. Aunt Minnie, Cousin Bud-everybody does it. Don't you read the Post?"
"I'm just looking for a pattern here."
"I see it was your car Lenihan got dumped in. If it was dopers I'd say they were sending you a message, Strachey. Listen, pal, you got some kind of problem? You know what we're here for."
I said, "No, no problems of mine. I'm just trying to clear my car's good name."
"What's its name?"
"Rabbit."
"No investigator worth shit is gonna have a car named Rabbit. My car's called Fox. You really ought to get one of those, do your work a world of good. Look, if I can help out, let me know. And if you should hear about anything relating to my field of expertise that might interest me, I'd appreciate it."
"Sure, as always."
"Not always."
"Sometimes."
"That's more like it."
I spent half an hour phoning Herb Brinkman and other people who had known Jack Lenihan socially. I learned that he had had no known close friends other than Warren Slonski and that no one had even seen him socially for the past three months. He had pretty much dropped out of sight in mid-October. Everyone who had known Lenihan had been shocked by the news of his death and couldn't imagine that he had made such a lethal enemy-unless he was dealing dope again.
I lay back on the bed I'd rented for a night-or longer- and thought about Lenihan's letter. Outside, the gray sky over the Rensselaer hills was falling apart as if an icebreaker had chugged through it. White sunlight poured across my legs, was gone in an instant, then broke over me again. It was twenty till ten and I had time for one more quick call, to a friend at American Airlines.
"Don Strachey. I need some flight information."
"Where to, Donald? To warmer climes, I'll bet."
"I wish. But this isn't for me-yet. A John C. Lenihan may have been in Los Angeles on Monday. I'd like to know when he went out there and when he came back."
"I don't believe, sir, that you quite understand how our system works. What I will need is a flight number and a date."
"Listen, Alex, that's why I'm calling you. You have that information. You're the airline, I'm the inquiring consumer. Can't you rummage around in your machine? Let's say he went out Saturday and came back Monday or Tuesday. Try that."
"He might have gone United or USAIR."
"From Albany you've got the most flights and the best connections. Just shake that thing a couple of times and see what drops out, will you?"
"Hang on, I'm putting you on hold."
"Don't play any music."
He did-a mononucleotic string arrangement of "Good Golly, Miss Molly."
Stevenson, Richard
Stevenson, Richard — [Donald Strachey Mystery 03] — Ice Blues
It went on for minutes.
"Donald?"
"Yo."
"A John Lenihan flew to LAX, changing at O'Hare, last Friday, January eleven, departing Albany five-eighteen P.M., arriving Los Angeles eight thirty-one. Mr. Lenihan returned on Tuesday, January fifteen, departing LAX at ten-fifteen A.M., changing at O'Hare, arriving Albany at seven-forty P.M. Lenihan-isn't that the name of the guy who was murdered, John Lenihan?"
I wrote the dates and times in my notebook. "No, that was John Hanrahan.
This one's a friend of mine."
"I thought I heard it was Lenihan. They found his body in a car somewhere-at a garage, frozen solid."
"Say, how's Joe doing?"
"Fantastic. He finishes his residency in June, and then we might get to spend half a day together."
"What will you do to celebrate?"
"He'll probably sleep. I'll watch some TV."
"Well, cheers."
"Thanks."
I removed the five small keys from Lenihan s letter. Each had a number painted on it, one through five, with what looked like fuchsia-colored nail polish. The numbering was sloppy, as if done with a nail-polishing brush, and small bits had begun to flake off. I inserted the keys onto my own key ring, pocketed the letter, and headed out into the winter playland.
FIVE
I pushed the button under J. Lenihan three times and got no response. It looked as if he had lived alone since his split with Warren Slonski. My Sears card popped the front-door lock on the old Victorian town house, now broken up into six small apartments. Sooty dun-colored paint was flaking off the stairwell walls, and the winding staircase itself hung ten degrees into the abyss and groaned as I moved up it. I stayed close to the wall.
My lobster pick got me into Lenihan's apartment, where lobster had not been served recently, just eggs, peanut butter and Wonder Bread. The kitchenette and one small drafty room were strewn with clothing, books, papers; the place had been turned inside out recently by someone, or someones, no doubt including the Albany cops. Whoever had done it had possessed keys, or at least a lobster pick.
Among the debris beside the rumpled daybed were a phone book, on the back of which were the word "Ma" and a Los Angeles area number, which I wrote down. I found no checkbook, phone bills, or other useful financial records-I figured Bowman must have waltzed off with them-but I did come up with a single stub off a week-old payroll check with Lenihan's name on it from Annie's Quiche Quorner on Lark Street. I knew the place.