"Oh yeah, where's my pipe and slippers?"
She slapped me gently on the leg.
"Kitten, I appreciate the effort, but I went over the police reports and Pat filled me in a little. Do we really need to dig into this thing?"
"How about where Billy Blue is concerned?"
"According to Pat, he's clean."
Velda nodded, looking at me thoughtfully. "He seems to be, but I found a store owner in his neighborhood who had seen him talking to two of his future assailants—Felton and Brix. It looked like an argument, but he couldn't be sure."
"What are you, a witch? How'd you find this stuff out so fast?"
Her smile said she liked the implied compliment, witch remark or not. "I been working the phone. Private eye's best weapon, remember?"
"Naw. A good secretary, that's a private eye's best weapon. Who's the beat cop in the area?"
"Officer named Sherman—you can thank Pat for that tidbit. Sherman knew the players in your little melodrama yesterday, including Haver, the driver? But Officer Sherman never saw all four together. He gave the Blue kid a clean bill, but said the others were all just biding time before jail or an O.D. Real hardcases for their age. Haver had just beaten up his mother the day before. She doesn't even want to go to his funeral."
"There's a picture Norman Rockwell could paint."
She frowned thoughtfully. "But, Mike, it was a shop teacher in the high school Billy Blue goes to who put me onto something. Mr. Lang thinks both Brix and Felton were hustling narcotics to some of the kids. With Billy working in the hospital, they might have seen a potential source in the boy—tried to make a supplier out of him."
I nodded. Smart cookie, my Velda. "You check at Dorchester Medical College?"
"I haven't had time." She nodded toward the phone and the fat directory on her blotter. "I could only let my fingers do so much walking.... Anyway, I thought you might like to poke around yourself."
I flipped the folder open and gave a slow scan to the four pages inside—four life histories with pertinent remarks contained on one page apiece. Idly, I wondered how many pages it would take to summarize my own life. Of course, just the fatalities I'd racked up would rate more than four.
I said, "Now I know what Pat meant."
"Oh?"
"Why he told me to lay off, I mean. These boys have interesting records. Interesting ties."
She was studying me warily. "Are you going to? Lay off, I mean?"
I gave her a big ugly grin. "If you thought I would, baby, then you wouldn't have bothered with the legwork."
"Fingerwork," she said, holding up pretty red-nailed digits. "All that means is, I know what you're going to want before you do."
"You're a good little doggie after all, honey."
"Then why don't you pet me?"
She leaned toward me, half rising, and I leaned toward her, and I was half rising myself, though I was still perched there. My fingers started in the softness of her hair, touched their way down over the firm slope of her breasts and slipped lower till nestled snugly against her flat belly. In this position, that was as far as I could reach. I stopped, cupped her face in my hands, and kissed her again.
When I pushed her back, she said, "That was mean."
"You asked me to," I reminded her.
"I meant stopping," she said.
I got off her desk and stood there and straightened my tie and said, "Just trying to maintain a little office decorum."
She was laughing and pointing at me. "What's that, our new hat rack?"
I said, "I told you I was saving it all up for you," then I covered myself with my porkpie hat and went back out into the hall. I could still hear her laughing behind the glass of the door as I headed off to find out just what it was I'd gotten myself into, playing Mighty Mouse for a kid called Billy Blue.
Chapter Two
DORCHESTER MEDICAL COLLEGE was an old, reputable, well-funded institution that specialized in rare-disease research. It was housed in two baronial-style mansions joined by a modern white-brick structure on the upper edge of Manhattan, quietly exclusive and staffed with the finest minds available courtesy of generous endowments from several giant corporations.
The nurse at the personnel desk had received her own generous endowments, but no corporations had been involved. Her hair was red-blonde and her freckled nose was almost as cute as her long-lashed blue eyes, which she batted at me when I made my inquiries.
Seemed she didn't usually give out information about employees, and unlike some people, she didn't mistake the ID card and badge for a city cop's. But the name on the ID made her eyes widen.
"I saw in the papers what happened to Billy," she said, and the blue eyes spiked with indignation. "It's all anybody around here is talking about today."
"I bet."
"It's lucky you were there. On the scene. You're a real hero, Mr. Hammer."
"Maybe, maybe not, but I'm doing follow-up and wanted to get some background on Billy."
She almost frowned. "As I said, we don't usually give out information about employees, Mr. Hammer...."
"That's a shame."
She fluttered some more. "But you are sort of almost a policeman, aren't you?"
I leaned a hand on her desk. "I never heard it put better."
Then she fetched the file on William R. Blue, age 17, and the rear view while she fished in a filing cabinet was worth the trip. She allowed me to copy down the kid's local address with references from school, clergy, and neighborhood shopkeepers.
Billy Blue was engaged in part-time work on weekdays, with a full day on Saturday, and he always accepted overtime if it was asked of him. There were no complaints from his supervisors and in seven months he had only taken off one day, for a dental visit. He had started with light janitorial work, moved into the dietary kitchen, then got assigned to Dr. David Harrin, chief of staff at nearby Saxony Hospital, who regularly taught at Dorchester.
I asked the nurse, "What does he do for Dr. Harrin?"
"Everything from sterilizing equipment to delivering supplies. The doctor has taken a rather personal interest in Billy, after seeing how enthusiastic the young man is about his job. Billy works very hard at his studies, too."
"But he's not a student here at Dorchester—he's still in high school...?"
"That's right, but Dr. Harrin took the boy under his wing. He's a nice kid, Billy, and I think Dr. Harrin sees a lot of potential in him."
I gave her a lopsided grin. "It's nice to know there are still some people like that around."
A touch of concern creased her brow. She lowered her voice as if sharing a secret: "Well, you know, the doctor lost his own son two years ago. The boy died of a heart attack a short while after a track meet."
"Damn," I said. "That's rough."
She nodded. "Especially so, what with Dr. Harrin being widowed a year earlier. His wife was killed in an automobile accident on Long Island. I imagine he feels a kinship with Billy, since the boy's an orphan himself. Did you know Billy practically supports his grandparents?"
I handed the file back to her. "Doesn't sound like Billy's exactly a problem child. But I just like to check everything out."
The blue eyes widened. "You could talk to Billy."
"I plan to."
"Or his friends at the high school..."
"Naw, that's not worth the bother. You know how it is. They're usually reluctant to say anything about other kids."
"How well I know. I have a sister that age."
"There's more at home like you?"
She didn't have a reply for that, just a smile. Then she glanced at her watch and said, "Billy and Dr. Harrin are quite close—you might want to speak to the doctor. You'll probably find him in the staff cafeteria about now." She pointed to one side. "Up those stairs and first door on the left."