Schell and I, who had been wearily sipping coffee, sat up and focused on the words-"Arrest Made in Barnes Case." The big man returned to the table and sat down with his cup.
"What's the dope?" asked Schell. "My eyes aren't awake enough to read yet."
"They picked up a guy, Frederick Kern, a hophead, connections to the Klan, a record of minor burglaries-one for assaulting an off-duty cop in a bar some years back. He's done some time, a couple of months here and there. The cops tell, I think for the first time, that the girl was found with that Klan rag. They say the cause of death was strangulation. The story they're telling is that Kern was a nut job on a lone mission to revive the local Klan. He picked on Barnes, because, as they put it in the article, back in the twenties it was falsely believed by the Klan that Barnes was behind a good deal of the rum-running on the North Shore. Of course, they go on to say that Barnes had been cleared of these false allegations a long time ago. I love what money can do."
"Do you buy it?" I asked.
Antony shook his head.
"Obviously a railroad job," said Schell. "No doubt Kern's a lowlife, probably not all that smart. They needed a quick arrest in this case, so they went through their files after finding out about the symbol, came up with this loser, and dragged him in. Case closed. Everybody looks good."
"I'd love for this to be over," said Antony, "but I have to agree with you, Boss. This reeks."
"Strangulation," said Schell. He looked over at me. "Do you remember any marks on the girl's neck when you found the body? There'd be bruises."
Now that some time had passed, I was able to think back to the image of the body without feeling I was going to get the dry heaves. I steeled myself and let the image come into my mind. "The light wasn't good," I said, "but what I remember is that she was very pale and that was it. No marks, no bruises."
"I don't remember marks around the neck," said Antony. "But like I told you before, I was in a hurry to get out of there."
"Maybe we could take that fed badge and papers I lifted off that guy a few years ago in Penn Station and put it to good use here," said Schell. "We go visit the coroner and tell him there's an investigation going on above the level of the local cops and see if we can get him to spill something. If he can prove to me she was strangled, I'll reconsider and drop the whole thing."
"Not a bad…" Antony started to speak, but at that instant the phone in the office next to the kitchen rang.
While Schell went to answer the phone, I asked Antony what Schell had meant when he'd referred to Penn Station.
"Oh, that," he said. "We were signed up to do a sйance for this rich old hermit in the city. The guy's life was a real mystery, murder to find anything we could use when we did the job. Schell was desperate for information on the guy. We knew some people who could tell us a few things, but he'd paid them off really well or had scared them into keeping their mouths shut.
"Anyway, we decided we needed to pose as cops in order to get them to sing. We were in Penn Station talking about it, and right there, we spotted this guy. We knew he was a bull, undercover. I mean he was the flattest flatfoot you ever saw. Anyway, we worked out a plan. We passed by the guy, arguing. I pushed Schell, he bumped into the guy, apologized profusely, et cetera. The guy was going to say something but takes one look at me, and I give him my bear wrestling stare, and he lets it go. We walk away, and Schell, of course, has the guy's wallet. When we opened it later, we found out he wasn't a cop, though. He was a federal agent, FBI."
"What happened with the rich old hermit?" I asked.
"The fucking guy died before we could jerk his chain. If we were ever going to see him again, it would have to have been at someone else's sйance."
"Have you used the FBI stuff since then?"
"No, it's not the kind of thing you want to play with if you don't have to. Posing as an agent carries a stiff sentence. If those guys catch wind of a scam, they'll find you by hook or by crook. We let it sit after that."
Schell came back into the kitchen. "Okay, gentlemen, let's move. Ten minutes, in the car. I've got a line on something good," he said. He'd already turned and started down the hall to his room to get dressed when I called after him, asking what it was.
"Lydia Hush," he called back.
No more than ten minutes later, Antony had the Cord rumbling at an idle, and Schell and I got in.
"Where to, Boss?" asked Antony.
"Head down toward Syosset," he said, "then take Berryhill Road to Eastwoods going west."
Once we were on our way, I asked Schell if he'd spoken to Lydia Hush.
"No, not her. It was Tremaine. He just got back from a stint in Philadelphia."
"Who's Tremaine?" I asked.
"Abel Tremaine, King of the Cold Readers," said Antony. "The guy's a real pro, smoother than a gin shit."
"He said he'd been meaning to call me for a while," said Schell, "but that it had slipped his mind, and then he had to take off for a job in Philly. Anyway, he just got back last night and he remembered. He said this guy in the business, Lester Brill, had called him a while ago and asked about us, wanted to know whether we could be trusted, etc. So Abel tells the guy he knows us and that we're trustworthy. Answers a few questions, you know, professional courtesy. Told him we had Diego working with us now and so on. You know how Tremaine likes to talk."
"So, you think this is how she found out about us?" asked Antony.
"More than likely," said Schell. "Tremaine said the guy told him he needed to check up on us because he was going to do a job with us. Later on, though, he realized that this guy is a lightweight, not bad for tea parties and rotary club gigs but not a real con. Then he started to thinking that it was highly unlikely we'd be working with him. By then, though, Tremaine was off to Philly, but he made a note to call us as soon as he got back in town just in case it wasn't on the up-and-up."
"Have you ever heard of him before?" I asked.
"No," said Schell. "You ever hear that name before?"
"Never heard of him, Boss," said Antony.
"We'll pay him a visit and find out why he's so interested in us," said Schell.
"I hope he doesn't have any kids who play baseball," said Antony.
The address Tremaine had given to Schell turned out to be the Immaculate Redeemer Nursing Home, a sprawling one-story building set back from the road among scrub pine. As we pulled into the parking lot, Schell said to Antony, "I don't think you have to worry about a repeat of yesterday's drama."
"I don't lean on cripples or feebs," said Antony. "That's where I draw the line."
"Admirable," said Schell.
As it turned out, Lester Brill wasn't a cripple or a feeb but a sharp-looking older gentleman with silver hair, a trim goatee, and a cane. We found him in a dayroom, playing cards with some of the other residents. When Schell introduced himself, Brill seemed to know immediately why we were there and excused himself from the game. He led us to his room and, once we were inside, closed the door. As he seated himself in a rocking chair, he waved his hand at the bed and invited Schell and me to sit down. "Sorry, Goliath," he said to Antony, "but I don't think my bed can handle the strain."
Antony nodded, folded his arms, and leaned his back against the door.
"Mr. Brill, you called Abel Tremaine and told him you'd be working with us and asked for information concerning our operation. Why?"
"I love this young man's getup," said Brill, pointing his cane at me. "I bet that disarms the marks."
"Who was it that wanted to know about us?" asked Schell.