“Can I get you gentlemen anything further? Coffee perhaps?”
“Two coffees,” I said. “And the fruit tart my friend has his eye on.”
“Very good.”
“And perhaps an aperitif,” added McDeiss, “just to settle the stomach.”
I thought about saying something, the price of the dinner was rising with every word and the bill would come barking like a rabid Chihuahua when my statement arrived at the end of the month. But then I figured if I was facing bankruptcy, and I surely was, I might as well enjoy the fall.
“Make that two,” I said.
“Very good.”
“All right, Detective,” I said after the waiter left. “Let’s have it.”
He leaned forward, his elbows heavy on the table. “The information you asked for wasn’t easy to get. The files from two decades past are in external storage. I had to send an intern to do the search, it took him three days.”
“Okay, so the dinner’s paid for.”
“Unidentified floaters approximately twenty years ago. The time frame was loose, so I gave us four years of leeway on either side, eight years total. We came up with four bodies. Of the four, one was female, one was a child – an unidentified child, is that lousy or what? – which leaves us two. One was a black man of approximately sixty years of age. I have a picture, but that doesn’t sound like who you’re looking for. The other was a white man approximately twenty to twenty-five years of age, hauled out of the Delaware, not far, as a matter of fact, from where we found Joseph Parma. No identification was on the floater’s person.”
“Do you have a photograph?”
“Yes, but you won’t like it. His face was missing.”
“Missing?”
“Taken off, most likely by a boat propeller, and his teeth were smashed too.”
“Good God.”
“Fingerprints gave us nothing, and this was before DNA, so identification proved impossible.”
“Do you have the file?”
He reached beneath the table, opened his briefcase, took out a stack of files. He slid a thin manila folder across the table to me like he was dealing giant playing cards. “I anticipated your interest and made a copy for you. Don’t open it here, even a bad photocopy of the photographs could put a passerby off his appetite.”
I pushed the file to the side of the table and left it there. “What about the missing persons?”
“Same eight-year time period. Only unsolved missing persons with the name of Tommy or Thomas or Tom. You’d think that would be rare enough, but you’d be wrong. Seventeen. I brought them all. I think I have a few that might interest you.”
“Go ahead.”
“Thomas McNally, small-time bookie and numbers runner, just by chance happened to grow up on the same block as Joey Parma. Left his mom one night, said he had a date. Mom was excited. Thomas McNally didn’t date much and I suppose this date wasn’t so successful. Never returned.”
I took the file, gave it a quick glance. It didn’t feel right. Whoever the Tommy was whom Joey Cheaps had killed, he had certainly not been small time, not with that suitcase, not with that money. Besides, the initials were wrong, and if the kid had grown up on Joey’s block, Joey would have recognized him for sure. “Who else?”
McDeiss tilted his head and closed one eye. “You don’t like that one?” He took out another file, opened it. “Tommy Barone, age fifty, very connected, a right-hand man to Scarfo when Little Nicky still ran things. A long record of violent offenses, did a stint in a federal prison. Left one night to meet the guys and play a little high-stakes poker. His regular game at some dusty storefront men’s club right up the street here called the Sons of Garibaldi. Barone was a good card player, supposed to have been lucky, but not that night. Never returned.”
Some middle-aged mobster, not even close. “Who else?”
McDeiss ran his tongue up and down the inside of his left cheek. It looked like a hamster was doing calisthenics in there. He leaned down and took out another file. “How about this. Tom Grand, seventeen, turned tricks on Twelfth and in Fairmount Park, at the bathrooms. He was reported missing by some of his fellow hustlers, who hadn’t seen him working the park for a while. A few weeks before, he told them he had a sugar daddy that was keeping him fat and then he disappeared. Never found.”
That didn’t seem right either. The intials worked, T.G., and he might have been able to steal the money, who knows what goes on between a hustler and his sugar daddy, but what about the pictures of the naked woman? Tom Grand? Don’t think so. “Who else?”
“Who else? Is that what you’re asking? Who else?”
Just then the waiter came with our coffee cups, two little aperitif glasses, and a bottle of Courvoisier. While a busboy poured the coffee, the waiter filled our fancy little glasses with the golden brandy.
McDeiss picked up his glass. “To Victor Carl, a son of a bitch who is holding out on me, as usual.”
We both drank to that. Lovely.
“If you give me more information,” he said after he put his glass down, “maybe we could move this parade along.”
“Just give me a brief rundown of the rest.”
“This isn’t right. You have information that might be of material interest to a current homicide investigation.”
“Maybe I do.”
“You’re playing games with me, boy. I don’t like games.”
“Oh, look, Detective McDeiss, they’ve brought your tart.”
The waiter laid out a small tart covered with glistening slices of bright fruit.
McDeiss picked up his fork as if to threaten me and then attacked the tart instead. The tension in his face eased as the fruit and the custard and the pastry mixed together in his mouth.
“Well what exactly is it you’re looking for?” he said calmly after finishing. He took his glasses out of his pocket, put them on, peered at me over the frames for a moment, and then went quickly through the files. “Is it the baker, never showed up for his morning bake? Is it the family man with three children and a load of debt? Is it the truck driver on a haul from Maine to Florida? Is it the law student who slipped away from his failing grades? Is it the mysterious handyman who just showed up one day and then two months later was gone? Is it the podiatrist who broke into his-”
“Where was the law student a law student?” I said.
McDeiss stopped, gave me a careful look, went back through the files until he found what he was looking for. “University of Pennsylvania.”
“What was his last name?”
“Greeley,” said McDeiss.
“That’s the one,” I said, my hand out for the file, which he ignored.
“Tommy Greeley,” he said, reading now. “Twenty-four. A third-year law student at the University of Pennsylvania. Reported missing by his mother in Massachusetts, a place called Brockton. Hadn’t been to school in weeks when the report was filed. Lived alone. No sign of him at his apartment. The girl that was supposed to have been his girlfriend, according to his mother, didn’t even know he was missing. School said he was failing out. It looked like life wasn’t working out for him and so he just up and ran away. It happens.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it. You want to see?”
“Yes.”
He took off his glasses, handed me the file. “You sure the guy you’re looking for isn’t that Tommy McNally? He seems a more likely candidate. I figured if Joey Parma was involved it had to be a lowlife that was missing. Not a law student, for God’s sakes.”
“Are you implying, Detective,” I said as I examined the file, “that not all lawyers are lowlifes?”
“There are a few I’ve met that seem decent enough. Mostly retired folk.”
The file contained write-ups of the mother’s initial report and the cursory follow-ups done by a police detective. Once he found the girlfriend’s evident lack of interest and the failing grades, the detective figured he had figured it out. No reason to listen to the harping of a distraught mother in a distant state when there were more pressing matters. Not much there, to be sure, but this was my boy, Tommy Greeley, I could feel it. The initials matched the ring, the Penn Law connection was clear, and there was a girlfriend – I leafed through the file – a Sylvia Steinberg. I made a mental note of the name. But how would a law student end up with a suitcase stuffed with money? How would a law student be so calm and cocky under the pressure of a midnight rough-up? There was something missing still, a second shoe that needed to drop.