“Well, how do you tell them they’ve made an expensive mistake?”
Bry put his pipe aside and took a quick pull on his drink. “There’s no set formula. I just outline the reasons for making a change, and suggest an alternative site for the committee’s study.”
“Which committee is that?”
“Pardon me, I meant chairman. He and his staff then make the decision.”
“Mayor Ticknor is the chairman of the Parking Authority, I believe?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“If a change is made, it’s made on your say-so, right?”
“Well, that’s a flattering way to put it. Let me freshen that drink.”
“No, thanks. How many changes have been made?”
“I don’t know right off — I could have my secretary send you the information tomorrow.”
“Would you like to guess?”
Bry picked up his pipe again and began filling it. “Let me see — eight, nine perhaps. Something like that.”
Terrell was silent for a few seconds, watching Bry fiddle with his pipe. He had trouble lighting it, and finally put it down again with a little sigh of exasperation.
“What happens to a piece of clear property when you decide to move on elsewhere?”
“That’s not my province.” Bry seemed relieved at the turn of the conversation. “The Authority handles that.”
“You don’t know who buys it? Or what’s paid for it?”
“No, I must say I don’t.”
“Are you curious? Even a little bit?”
“I’m curious about the line of your questions.” Bry stood up abruptly. “I’ve had enough of your intimations and hints. Speak plainly, if you can.”
“All right,” Terrell said. “There’s a peculiar aroma about the Parking Authority. You may be the best architect since Christopher Wren, but you’re also a cog in what looks like the greatest swindle since Teapot Dome.”
“That’s enough,” Bry said in a stiff, angry voice. “I won’t stand for being called a liar and a thief in my own home.”
“Do you think it would sound better in court?”
Bry’s face was pale with anger. “That’s a grossly irresponsible charge, Mr. Terrell.”
“Perhaps it is,” Terrell picked up his hat, and draped his coat over his arm. “I don’t have the right to make judgments on you or your work. And I apologize for that. But it’s within my province to ask the questions I have. You and I are on the same side, I hope. And if that’s true, some of my questions should make you reassess your relationship with the Authority with a very critical eye. Don’t you agree?”
“We’re always open to suggestions for improvement,” Bry said. “We welcome public interest. It’s one of our concerns, as a matter of fact, that the public doesn’t give a damn — that we can’t rouse them to a healthy pitch of interest in what we’re doing.”
“Well, they may be having a good long look at the Authority pretty soon. Take it easy now, and thanks for the drink.”
“Don’t mention it.”
Bry followed him to the door and watched Terrell go down the gravelled walk. Terrell waved at him as he started his car, and Bry’s hand fluttered limply up from his side. He looked oddly disturbed, a tall, pale and somehow incongruous figure against the placid beauty of his elegant home.
Terrell didn’t bother returning to his desk. He went to his apartment, made himself a mild drink, and then called the paper and asked for the real estate editor, an Englishman named Kidner.
When Kidner answered Terrell he told him he wanted a rough estimate on a home in Shoreham.
“How large a plot?”
“Two or three acres.”
“Forget it, old chap. Tell the bride you can’t stand the country life. You can’t stand the expense in any case. Those little spots cost. from forty up, and that’s just the start of it. Taxes are bloody high, and you’d need a staff — no, it’s not for us, old boy.”
“It’s pretty lush then?”
“Indeed it is. Seriously now, I don’t think the houses are worth it. But if one lives out there, one isn’t shopping for bargains, is one?”
“One isn’t,” Terrell said. “Thanks very much.”
“Not at all.”
Terrell finished his drink and looked out over the city, trying to figure out Everett Bry. Was he a naive dreamer, lending his professional support unknowingly to the Authority’s swindle? Or was he in on the take? The house in Shoreham indicated the latter.
Terrell made himself a bacon and egg sandwich and drank a glass of milk. Then he put the coffee on and while it percolated, he showered and shaved, then sat down in a robe to wait for eight o’clock. It was seven forty-five; in fifteen minutes he could call Duggan. To pass the time he put on a stack of Irish records, drank a cup of coffee, and smoked several cigarettes.
At eight sharp he dialled Duggan’s home. The phone rang twice, then Duggan answered it. “Who’s this?”
“Terrell. Well?”
“I’ve got what you wanted,” Duggan said. “And I’ve got a load of trouble for myself. I picked up two of those dummy owners, and put them through the wringer. Ticknor heard about it and blew his stack. When Council meets tomorrow I’ll be suspended. A nice pay-off, isn’t it?”
“Well, you’re a cop, not an ostrich,” Terrell said. “You wanted to know, didn’t you?”
“So I know. I’m a cop — a busted ex-cop. That’s great, isn’t it?”
“Who owns those companies?”
“It jolted me. I’ve been on the inside for years and I wouldn’t have guessed it. Ike Cellars is a half-owner and that figures. But the other half-owner is old Dan Bridewell. Can you figure that?”
“Are you sure? Dead sure?”
“Christ, give me credit for being able to handle a routine investigation,” Duggan said wearily.
“Sorry. For what it’s worth, you’ve got friends in our shop. You may look pretty good in our story.”
“Thirty-five years in the business and our Huckleberry Capone of a mayor can break me for doing ten minutes of honest work. It’s nice, isn’t it?”
“Very. But don’t quit. Make them fire you.”
“I’ve already done that.”
Terrell hung up and began to dress. Bridewell — that was a sleeper. The posturing puritan, the do-gooder, the angry denouncer of mobs and grafters — in thick with Ike Cellars. It was enough to make an honest man sick, Terrell thought. No wonder Karsh was cynical.
As he was about to leave the phone rang, and he scooped it up irritably and said, “Hello? Terrell.”
“You told me to remember the name,” she said.
He recognized Connie Blacker’s voice. “I’m glad you did. What can I do for you?”
“I want to see you. I’ve... well, changed my mind.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m at the club, The Mansions. Could you come over and have a drink with me?”
She didn’t sound right, he thought. Scared maybe. Or worried. “I’ve got a date to keep first,” he said, looking at his watch. “How about nine or nine-thirty?”
“That’s perfect. It’s between my numbers. Please don’t let me down.”
Terrell looked at the phone and raised an eyebrow. She sounded very odd indeed. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll be there.”
14
Dan Bridewell lived on the South Side, in a large plain house that seemed as sturdy and uncompromising as the reputation of an honest man. It was smart camouflage, Terrell thought, as he went up the wooden steps and rang the bell. No frills or ostentation for Dan Bridewell. No martinis and gracious living in the suburbs. Just the essentials, stripped bare: money and power. Terrell was beginning to feel angry; until now his attitude had been detached and professional, like a surgeon laying open a cancerous tissue. It had been a job to Terrell, an exacting job requiring all of his skill and experience. Now he felt it was something more than that.