“Your point eludes me, Mike.”
“The point is that if you’re lying to me about Vincent being home last night, all night... or if I discover that your son is responsible for these killings, any of these killings... I intend to turn him over to Captain Pat Chambers.”
He was nodding. “Of the Homicide Division. Yes, I spoke with him earlier. Well, I would expect you to.”
“Captain Chambers was a close friend of Lt. Shannon’s. Pat will make sure that — if your son is guilty — Vincent will spend the rest of his life in prison.”
“That doesn’t worry me.”
“Really.”
“Yes, my son is innocent.” His brow tensed. “And I very much want you on the case, Mike, clearing my boy.”
I sighed. Patted my knees. Stood.
“So be it,” I said.
He stood, too, and offered his hand and I shook it. A firm shake, but moist. The old man’s smile looked like a sculptor slipped with his chisel and hadn’t quite pulled it off.
I went out, winked at the Ice Lady, whose pursed-lipped, crinkled-chin reaction was at least technically a smile, and started to head out. Earlier, I’d again noticed that Vincent’s office appeared empty.
But now the heir to the Colby throne was in, behind his desk, while a figure that I was pretty sure was William Owens, managing director of the firm, stood with his back to me, getting the Riot Act read to him. Vincent’s angry voice, though muffled, was booming behind the glass, what he was saying unclear, but his rage unmistakable.
The little blonde Red Riding Hood in big-framed glasses was goggling from behind her receptionist desk, looking alarmed. I raised a hand to calm her and headed toward that office, but I hadn’t made much progress before Owens, flushed and tearful, came bounding out.
Owens saw me and our eyes locked. Still moving, he said in a breathy rush, “I don’t know what he was going on about! He just went off!”
Vincent came charging up behind Owens, and turned him around like a naughty child and shook him like such children once were shaken, in what I’m told were less enlightened times.
“Screw up like that again,” Vincent was snarling, “and your ass is gone from here. Understand? Gone!”
Vincent, still holding onto this supposed friend by a shoulder, drew his other hand back in a fist, poised to punch. I got between them and the fist froze long enough for me to grab the wrist brandishing it.
“Go,” I said to Owens, who scurried, muttering, “Thank you,” heading out into the boiler room in a blur of striped shirt and orange suspenders.
Vincent’s face was damn near scarlet, his eyes big and bulging, his nostrils flaring, like a rearing horse. The musky smell of his cologne — Obsession? — came off him like steam.
“You let go of me, Hammer! Let go of me or—”
I let go of him.
Then I slapped him.
The Ice Lady must have called her boss, because Colby was there in seconds, moving faster than a man his age really should.
“What are you doing, Mike?” my client demanded.
Vincent was standing there, dazed, weaving, rubbing his cheek, blinking like somebody who got soap in his eyes.
“What you should have,” I said, “when he was a lot younger.”
I glanced back like Lot’s wife and saw the father walking his shaken son into the nearby glassed-in office. As I made my way through the boiler room, all eyes were on me, even the ones in headsets engaged in the latest cold calls.
I saw a lot of smiles.
Chapter Nine
Velda and I caught an early dinner at P.J. Moriarty’s on Sixth and 52nd at Radio City before the mahogany-paneled steak-and-chophouse got really busy.
It wouldn’t take long for that endless parade of bar stools to fill up, and for the conversation to build to a friendly din, punctuated by the occasional popped cork or dropped dish or clatter of silverware. Soon the red-leather banquettes — one of which we’d easily snagged — would become prime real estate.
I had the corned beef and cabbage while Velda got a small chef’s salad with turkey, which is probably all you need to know about either of us. The only business we discussed had to do with an arson investigation for one of our best insurance clients. We didn’t go over the Colby job until the coffee had arrived and I was done with the cheesecake. Velda had two petite bites — the kind of cheesecake she embodied taking discipline.
I filled her in on the trip to the Solstice Fitness Center and my return visit to Colby, Daltree & Levine.
“Either Vincent is playing me,” I said, “or somebody is trying to frame him. We’ve got death by a forbidden martial arts move and young Colby studying with a tenth-degree black belt trainer. We’ve got a series of murders all connected in some way to our client’s son, with one of the victims a cop who was looking at Colby like Ahab eyeing that white whale.”
At the end of her workday, Velda still looked fresh, the arcs of her dark hair touching the wide shoulders of a lime silk blouse that needed no pads to be in fashion.
She frowned in thought over the rim of her coffee cup from which she’d just sipped. “Do you think Casey Shannon was convinced of Colby’s guilt?”
I shook my head. “Probably not. Casey was still investigating.”
“What kind of unofficial case file did your friend Shannon leave behind?”
“Nothing’s been found, and Pat and his crew — including the top forensics guys — gave Casey’s pad a thorough shake.”
“And?”
“And came up with bupkis... at least as far as I know. Pat is stingier with information than usual.”
“Any chance they missed it?”
I shrugged. “Always a chance of that. And if Casey had come up with something — either indicating Colby’s guilt, or someone else’s...”
She was nodding. “And hadn’t moved on it.”
“...it could still be somewhere in that apartment.”
She sipped coffee, her expression growing thoughtful. Then she said: “The police are finished with the place, aren’t they? Can’t you get in and have a look around yourself, Mike?”
I smirked. “It’s still a crime scene, baby. Closed off with good ol’ yellow tape with DO NOT CROSS in big black letters.”
“Why, don’t you have scissors?”
That deserved a smile and I gave her one. “Normally, Pat would let me in. But he’s only dealing me cards he thinks he can use my help on. He wants Casey’s killer himself. He doesn’t want me spoiling his fun.”
Half a smirk dug briefly into a pretty cheek. “Because you’d just kill the bastard, whereas Pat wants to prolong the agony.”
“Some people just aren’t nice.”
A waitress came by and refilled my coffee. I nodded thanks, then stirred in sugar and cream and said, “There won’t be any cop on the door or anything... but I could be seen by a neighbor, working my little lock-pick routine. Still, it might be worth the risk.”
She gestured with a tapered hand, its nails bright red. “Why not get some help? Call Shannon’s peach-fuzz partner, Chris Peters. You said he was pretty broken up about his mentor buying it. If they were that close, good chance he has a key.”
I sipped and smiled. “Doll, you could get by on looks alone... but you don’t. That is a damn good suggestion.”
“Thank you. Want my company?”
I shook my head. “If I can get hold of Chris... and he gave me his card, with his home number on the back, offering to help if I needed any on this thing... two will be company, and three a crowd.”