“I have a medical facility to run here, Mr. Hope. I have close to three hundred patients here and a staff only half that size. I’m particularly shorthanded today as concerns male attendants. Mr. Murphy is off on Wednesdays—”
“Mr. Murphy?”
“Yes, Jake Murphy... and two of my other male attendants are on vacation. One learns to expect virtually anything from the patients here, but Sarah’s sudden affection for Jake comes as a total surprise. Until now she’s expressed nothing but contempt for him. Now, all at once, it would seem a dire necessity that Jake accompany her this afternoon. Jake or one of the other men. And I’m afraid that’s impossible. I’ve done everything within my power—”
“Yes, I realize that.”
“—to respect the court order, which requires us to effect a safe and expeditious transfer to Southern Medical. But I cannot jeopardize the well-being of the other patients here in order to satisfy what, I must be frank with you, is the whim of a desperately ill woman — something I feel certain you will learn within the next few days from your team of unbiased doctors at Southern Medical.”
His tone was sharp and impatient. There was a long silence on the line.
“Dr. Pearson,” I said, “surely if Sarah—”
“Sarah seems to believe she’s going to the Governor’s Mansion this afternoon, rather than to a receiving facility for observation and examination. Quite understandable, of course; she’s a sick woman. But she’s been driving us crazy over what she should wear — should it be the red dress or the yellow, no, the red is too garish, should she wear flats or heels, should she wear jewelry? She has finally decided on a yellow dress, exceedingly high-heeled sandals that might be more appropriate on a burlesque runway, and a simple strand of pearls. Fine. For my part, Mr. Hope, she can go in a burlap sack. The results will be the same no matter what she wears. But I cannot allow her to dictate which of the staff will accompany her. We have schedules here, we have responsibilities here, and it will be Christine Seifert who gets into that car with her at five o’clock. I do not wish to discuss this further, Mr. Hope.”
“Thank you for your courtesy,” I said, and hung up.
Bloom’s long-distance call to Arch Realty, on Summer Street in Stamford, Connecticut, was answered by a woman who seemed enormously puzzled by his uncertainty.
“Well,” she said, “is it Andrew Nelson Hennessy or Andrew Nelson Hennings?”
“Whichever one you’ve got there,” Bloom said.
“Well, we have an Andrew Nelson Hennessy, if that’s who you want,” the woman said.
“Yes, please,” Bloom said.
“Well, just a minute,” the woman said, sounding offended.
Bloom waited.
“Hennessy,” a man’s voice said.
“This is Detective Bloom of the Calusa Police Department,” Bloom said. “Am I speaking to—”
“Of the what?” Hennessy said.
“The Calusa Police Department,” Bloom said. “Is this Mr. Andrew Nelson Hennessy?”
“It is.”
“Sir, we’re investigating a homicide here, and I—”
“A what?” Hennessy said.
“A homicide, sir, and I wonder if you could answer a few questions for me.”
“Well... I guess so. Certainly.”
“Mr. Hennessy, it would appear that Arch Realty owns apartment one-oh-six at three-seven-four-two Westerly Drive on Whisper Key in this city. It would further appear—”
“Who did you say this was?” Hennessy asked.
“Detective Morris Bloom of the Calusa PD. It would further appear, sir, that the telephone in that apartment is listed to Arch Realty, and that Arch Realty owns the car in the garage for that apartment — a Mercedes-Benz 380SL with the Connecticut plate WU-3200 — and that it has been paying both maintenance fees and telephone bills for the apartment since July of last year. Your signature is on the automobile registration and checks received for maintenance fees, and I’m assuming it’s also on the checks sent to General Telephone.”
“Yes?” Hennessy said.
“Is that correct, sir?”
“Why do you want to know this?” Hennessy asked.
“As I told you, we’re investigating a—”
“What does Arch Realty have to do with a homicide?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out, sir. A woman named Tracy Kilbourne was occupying that apartment until her death—”
“I don’t know anyone named Tracy Kilbourne,” Hennessy said.
“But you were paying the maintenance fees and telephone bills for the apartment she lived in, isn’t that so?”
“I don’t know who was living in that apartment,” Hennessy said.
“Arch Realty does own the apartment, doesn’t it?”
“It does.”
“And you don’t know who was living in it?”
“I do not.”
“How can that be, Mr. Hennessy?”
“The apartment was purchased for the convenience of the officers of Arch Realty. For whenever business takes them to Calusa, Florida.”
“Was the car also purchased for the convenience of Arch Realty officers?”
“It was.”
“I see. And was Tracy Kilbourne an officer of Arch Realty?”
“I told you I don’t know anyone named Tracy Kilbourne.”
“Then she was not an officer of Arch Realty, is that right?”
“I am not aware that she was an officer of this corporation.”
“You’re the treasurer of the corporation, aren’t you?”
“I’m the treasurer, yes.”
“Have you ever used that apartment on Whisper Key?”
“I have not.”
“Which officers have?”
“I have no idea.”
“I wonder if you’d mind giving me the names of the other principal officers of the corporation, Mr. Hennessy.”
“Yes, I would mind.”
“Why’s that?”
“I feel under no obligation to do so.”
“You realize I can easily find out who—”
“Yes, you do that,” Hennessy said, and hung up.
At three o’clock that afternoon, I called Hertz to rent the car that would transport Sarah, Christine Seifert, and me to Southern Medical. Considering Sarah’s feelings about Brunhilde, I asked for the roomiest car they had. The girl on the telephone told me I could have a premium-size car similar to an Oldsmobile 88 or a Mercury Grand Marquis for $58.99 a day. But if I wanted her advice, they were running a special this month on luxury sedans — four-door, six-passenger cars like a Lincoln Town Car or a Cadillac Sedan DeVille — and I could get one of those for only $49.90.
I told her I wanted the luxury car.
What the hell.
Take Sarah away in style.
A man named Salvatore Palumbo answered the phone in the Corporation Division of the office of the secretary of the state of Connecticut in Hartford. He was surprised to be hearing from someone in Florida, and he immediately asked Bloom how the weather was down there. Bloom told him it was beautiful (which happened to be true, although Floridians often lied about such things as the weather) and then told him what he was looking for. It was Bloom’s impression that in most states corporations as well as limited partnerships were required to file annual reports—
“Yes, sir,” Palumbo said. “In Connecticut, it’s on the anniversary of the original incorporation.”
— and that these reports had to list the names and addresses of all the officers and directors.