“Too many times,” said Kravitz. “It’s always the ones with the smiles you’ve got to look out for. Check for the halo, I say. That’s the guilty man every time.”
“According to Mickey, the girl’s attorneys called this morning to read him the riot act and threatened to sue the firm for every last shekel if Bolden wasn’t turned over to the police pronto.”
“I’d have thought they’d sue anyway,” said Kravitz.
“Ditto. From what I heard, Tommy denied ever touching the girl. Security tried to arrest him and he went ballistic. I talked to a couple people who saw the whole thing and they swore the shooting was an accident.”
“Why didn’t he stick around? Sounds to me he’s a better shot than you give him credit for.”
Bolden bit back a four-letter response. “If you find him you can ask him yourself.”
“Is that an assignment?”
“No. I think the police can cover it.”
“Where’s the girl?” asked Kravitz. “I’d like to talk to her first.”
“It’s a question we need to answer. Her name is Diana Chambers. Sound familiar?”
“No, but we do all of HW’s background checks. I’m sure she’s on file. What firm’s representing her?”
“Mickey didn’t say. Just showed us some nasty pictures of her face. It’s part of what raised our concerns. Listen, Marty, this is a rush job. We want to put out a name tomorrow about who’ll be succeeding Sol. We love Mickey, but we’ve got to give him the once-over, like everyone else. Don’t be surprised if you get a call asking about me. Everything’s up in the air.” Bolden hung the possibility of Flannagan’s taking over the firm out there like a slow one right down the middle.
“We’re always here for you, Jake,” said Kravitz, donning his salesman’s polyester jacket.
“One more thing…”
“Shoot.”
“Bolden. I need to see his file, too.”
“Yeah, let me take a look… well, well, how ’bout that… you’re going to like this. Thomas F. Bolden. We performed a new check on him last week. Guess who asked for it?”
Bolden didn’t have to. Kravitz was quick to answer his own question. “Mickey Schiff.”
“Looks like he was ahead of the game. I want everything you can get me on Schiff and Bolden by six tonight.”
“No problem,” said Kravitz. “I’ll be happy to deliver it myself. I think I know quite a few ways Prell can be helpful to you in this matter. We very much enjoy working with chief executives.”
“The firm keeps a suite at the Peninsula on Fifty-fifth. The board’s asked me to make it an off-site. Six o’clock okay by you?”
“Six o’clock.”
Bolden hung up. Jake Flannagan never said good-bye.
48
The reference room on the fourth floor of the Hall of Records was strictly government-issue from the cracked linoleum floor to the yellowing “No Smoking” signs that predated the surgeon general’s warning about the danger of cigarettes. A fleet of upright wooden card catalogues stood on the left side of the room. To the right, two dozen microfilm readers were arranged in neat rows like desks in a classroom. Only two were occupied. Behind them, receding into an infinite fluorescent glare, ran row after row of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, packed to overflowing with ledgers, registers, and the dense memorabilia that testified to patient and meticulous recording of the births, deaths, marriages, and divorces over the three-hundred-year history of NewYork City.
Jenny crossed the room, her footsteps echoing. On this snowy Wednesday, the room had the eerie, deserted feel of a museum after hours. “Hello,” she called, approaching the service counter and seeing no one.
“One second.”
A lone clerk sat at his desk in the bullpen behind the counter. He was a drab, chubby man with sleepy black eyes and frizzy black hair that surrounded his head like a swarm of flies. A copy of the New York Post sat open in front of him. Peering over the counter, Jenny saw that it was turned to “Page Six.” The gossip column. Jenny waited patiently, her public-works smile pasted in place. Finally, he closed the paper and dragged himself out of his chair. “Yeah?”
“I’m trying to help a friend trace his family tree,” said Jenny.
“That right?” The clerk not only looked the professional cynic, but sounded it. “Got a name?”
“James J. Jacklin.”
“And you’re trying to find what? Grandfather? Great-grandfather?”
“As far back as I can go.”
“Date of birth, please?”
“Excuse me?”
“Give me Mr. Jacklin’s date of birth and we’ll get this train a-movin’.” He moved his hands like an old steam train and made the appropriate chugging noises.
“I’m not sure. I thought you might be able to look him up on the Net. He’s kind of famous.”
The man shook his head sharply. Clearly, it was a frequently asked question and he had the response down cold. “No Internet access for private use.”
“Do you know where I might get on the Net around here?”
“Public library. The office. Your home. The usual.”
“It’s kind of an emergency. I don’t have time to go home.”
The clerk shrugged. Not his problem.
Jenny leaned closer. “It’s for the James J. Jacklin who used to be the secretary of defense.”
“The billionaire?”
Jenny checked over her shoulder before answering, as if concerned that others might hear her speak. “He’s my uncle.”
“Your uncle?”
“Yes.”
“So, it’s kind of your family tree, too.”
“I suppose so,” Jenny agreed, feeling like she was finally getting through to this jerk.
“Then you won’t mind paying the twenty-dollar fee.”
“What twenty-dollar-” Jenny asked sharply, stopping herself before it was too late. “No,” she said, with exaggerated goodwill. “I wouldn’t mind at all.” She fished in her purse and handed over a twenty.
The clerk snapped it cleanly out of her palm, then turned and disappeared into the maze of aisles. He came back after a minute. “Jacklin was born on September 3, 1938. Your birth indexes for all boroughs years 1898-1940 are going to be in cabinet four. Just to the left of the entrance. Start there. The birth certificate will give his parents’ names. If Mr. Jacklin was born in New York, you should be able to find them. Our records are indexed back to 1847. Prior to that date, you’ll have to check the irregulars.”
“The irregulars?” Jenny asked.
“Mostly handwritten census data. Some old address books, hospital records, stuff like that. That’ll take time. A long time. A very long time. You’ll never get that far back tonight.”
Jenny looked around the room. Only one of the microfilm readers was in use now. She spotted a few ghostly figures flitting among the stacks. The place was as quiet as the graves she was investigating. “What about you?”
“What about me?” the clerk asked.
“Do you think you can give me a hand?”
“If I helped you, I’d hardly be able to do my work.”
Jenny eyed the newspaper. “You look busy.”
“I’m swamped.”
“I’d consider it a favor.”
“A favor?” The clerk chuckled, as if he hadn’t heard that word in a long time.
Jenny handed over another twenty.
“Maybe I can get away from pressing affairs for a few minutes.” The clerk put a hand on the counter and bounded over it. Jenny thought he’d probably been waiting a long time to use that trick. He extended his hand. “Stanley Hotchkiss.”
“Jenny Pendleton”
“Hi, Jenny. Welcome to my world.”
They found James Jacklin without a problem. Born at Lenox Hill Hospital at 7:35 A.M. on September 3, 1938, to Harold and Eve Jacklin. “What do you know about the father?”
“Not much,” said Jenny. “I think he was from New York. He was a big shot during the Second World War. “