The furnishings were fine wood with plush upholstery, and framed landscapes spruced up the palatial walls — none of this modern art nonsense that had only been around for a hundred years or so. A fireplace big enough to accommodate a couple of St. Nicks and their bags of goodies was overseen by a huge gilt-framed standing portrait of a middle-aged man in formal attire, circa 1920 — the late Vernon P. Colby (a nameplate boldly read), who resembled a more severe, dignified but every bit as handsome version of his grandson Vincent.
The man who came trundling around a mahogany desk, which was smaller than a tank but not much, had similar facial features to his son and that of his own gilt-framed father. But this was a smaller man, made even more so by the vastness of the chamber, somewhat portly — no matter how hard his well-tailored charcoal pinstripe suit tried to conceal it. His silver hair lay in curls like his son’s, that Roman Emperor effect again, but his well-grooved face was home to a skinny salt-and-pepper mustache, while his gilt-framed father and window-enclosed son were clean shaven.
“Mr. Hammer,” Vance Colby said, his hand extended even before he’d reached me, his voice mellow like his son’s, “you’re kind to respond to my entreaty so quickly.”
“Sure,” I said, as we shook. His hand was small but his grip large. “But you didn’t indicate the nature of your, uh, entreaty.”
“Sit, sit, sir. Please.”
He was gesturing to a pair of two-seater couches facing each other by the hearth, a modest gas fire going, the cold snap out in the real world making it appropriate. The low-slung coffee table between us had a gleaming pot of its namesake waiting on a silver tray with china cups to be filled.
“Coffee?” he asked, as if the thought had just occurred to him.
“Thanks.”
He poured, then told me to help myself to cream and sugar, which I did.
As he settled back on the couch, a steaming cup in hand, my host said, “I’m of an age, Mr. Hammer, to know of you first-hand, from your newspaper exploits.”
That was second-hand, really, but I just said, “I’m of an age to have had them. Might I ask, sir...” His formality was catching. “...if you mean that as a compliment, or just an observation?”
“A compliment, definitely,” Vance Colby said, sitting forward, putting the coffee cup on a coaster on the glass top between us. He grinned and it seemed a little forced. “You know, somehow I always felt that we had a lot in common.”
Yeah, I was just thinking that.
But what I said was, “How’s that, Mr. Colby?”
He flipped a hand. “Well, politically, for instance.”
I grunted a laugh. “Not unless you haven’t voted for twenty years, either.”
That widened his eyes, which were faded blue and not the pretty eyes of his son — that must have been Vincent’s mother’s DNA.
“Really, Mr. Hammer? A man with your strong opinions doesn’t vote? Why ever not?”
“It only encourages them.” I sat forward. “Sir, I’m going to guess you already have a big-ticket private security company handling both your business and your home. And we only have two licensed investigators in my firm, including my secretary. We’re very good, but we’re a staff of two.”
He was nodding. “Understood.”
I sat back. “And even if you don’t already have a security outfit, I’m not an appropriate choice for your needs.”
He sat back as well. Folded his arms. Some shrewdness came into his voice, which was a relief, because I had not been impressed so far. “You already know why you’re here, don’t you, Mike? If I may address you that way.”
“Sure, if I can call you ‘Vance.’” I sipped my coffee, which was world-class, like Juan Valdez himself had delivered it on his burro. “I get uncomfortable when I’m on a first-name basis with somebody who expects a ‘mister’ out of me in return.”
He chuckled at that. “Of course. Obviously, this is about my son.”
“Yeah, we exchanged greetings when I got here.” Sort of. “You must be glad to have him back here at work.”
Vance nodded, but seemed distracted. “Vincent was only in the hospital overnight, but, uh... before we go any further, I’d like to get you on retainer. Make this official. What would you say to $1,000?”
“Yippee?”
A grin blossomed, unforced this time. “I’ve taken the liberty,” he said, and reached in a jacket pocket for a check fold. He tore the check out and handed it to me — he’d made it out in advance, and somehow I just knew he’d used a fountain pen. Probably a Mont Blanc.
But I raised a traffic-cop palm with one hand, the check drooping from my other.
“Is there a problem?” he asked, frowning, confused.
“A technicality. I work through an attorney. You become his client and that grants us the attorney/client confidentiality privilege.”
His eyebrows went up and so did the corners of his smile. “Very wise, Mr. Hammer.”
“My terms are $250 a day, the retainer my minimum. You cover expenses. My secretary will give you a detailed accounting at the wrap-up.”
A hand flicked the air, as if shooing a fly. “Let’s call it $1,000 a day, bump the retainer to $10,000, and you cover your own expenses.”
“Sure.” Having a rich client already had its benefits. “Unless there’s out-of-state travel. That you’ll cover.”
“Certainly.”
I carried a small stack of my attorney’s cards in my wallet and got one out and handed it to him. Then my host rose, went to his mahogany monster of a desk, and filled out a new check (with a fountain pen), crumpling the old one and tossing it in a mahogany wastebasket. This chamber was an office, after all.
When I had the ten grand tucked away, I said, “Now we can talk. If your son is back at work, after such a short hospital stay, what’s the problem?”
Seated across from me again, he leaned forward, hands folded and draped between his legs. He had a look of parental concern that every working private investigator knows too well.
“Mr. Hammer,” Vance began, and sighed, and was searching for words when the words of someone else interrupted, loudly.
“What the hell is he doing here?”
The door behind me slammed as Vincent Colby entered, stalked across an Oriental carpet, talking to us as he approached, his face flushed, his eyes narrowed, brow furrowed, fists tight.
The father looked up as the son towered. “Son, I’m engaging Mr. Hammer here to find the offender.”
Colby’s fists went to his waist as he positioned himself at the end of the coffee table, his back to the fire, standing there like a demented Superman. “The ‘offender’? You mean the son of a bitch who ran me down? That offender?”
“Yes,” his father said calmly. “The driver.”
Young Colby turned toward me. He stuck out a forefinger in my direction, more casual than accusing, as if at a zoo identifying which chimp threw monkey shit at him.
“I don’t like this person,” he blustered. “I don’t like him one little bit.”
He was twice as loud as necessary and he began to pace.
“Hammer said offensive things about someone I care deeply about, and he’s lucky I didn’t break him in half, then and there.” Finally his eyes landed on me and his upper lip curled back. “But it’s just not my habit to abuse the elderly.”
I crossed my arms, and put my right ankle on my left knee as I took it all in expressionlessly. A comment or a grin from me would just make this worse. Nothing to do but wait it out.
“I will find the ‘offender,’” young Colby said. “I have a good idea what happened, and who is responsible! And if I’m wrong, I know where to start after that.”