“Yeah, but you check it too. It’s not enough to know he’s got a room there. I wanna know what he uses it for.”
“Gotcha.”
“O.K. Dig out the dirt.”
Steve hung up to find Tracy Garvin looking at him. “Mark Taylor asked you why you’re doing this?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s my question too.”
Steve sighed. “Like I said. I feel responsible.”
“You can handle someone’s legal problems. You can’t run their life.”
“I know.”
“So?”
“Like I said, I made an error in judgment. I gave him legal advice I shouldn’t have. Now I feel I gotta make up for it.”
“I know that, but-”
“Plus I got him out of Bellevue. Now I know I had a legal right to do that, but still. I mean, what if that asshole doctor’s right? What if he is crazy?”
“What if he is?”
“And what if he is dangerous? What if he hurts someone? Or himself?” Steve shook his head. “It’s every attorney’s nightmare. You do a good job, you win a case, you put a murderer back on the street, and he kills again.”
“I see that, but-”
“O.K., so he’s not a murderer, but still. From everything I gather, the man intends to commit a crime. That crime being fraud. He all but told me so. And I gave him advice on how to do it. If that man mocks up a will, I’ll have put myself in the position of having defrauded someone out of several million dollars.”
“I understand all that. But what good is following him gonna do?”
“I don’t know. Maybe if he pulls something, I can stop him. Maybe not.” Steve shrugged. “At any rate, it’s something to do. I feel I have to do something.”
“All right. So what do we do now?”
“Nothing we can do. Just wait and see what Mark finds out.”
Taylor called back two hours later. “You’re not gonna like this, Steve.”
“No surprise there. So far, there’s nothing about this case I like. What gives?”
“My man just called in. One of the guys tailing Walsh.”
“Oh yeah? Where is he?”
“Down in the subway station.”
“What!?”
“I told you you weren’t going to like this.”
“What’s he doing down there?”
“Celebrating, it looks like.”
“What?”
“Yeah. My man says Walsh left your office, walked out to Broadway and started panhandling.”
“What!?”
“That’s right. He started begging quarters. When he got up enough money, he bought a bottle of cheap wine, walked up to Columbus Circle, and now he’s down in the subway drinking with the bums down there.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Yeah, and that ain’t all.”
“Oh yeah? What else?”
“We checked with the Holiday Inn. Apparently all Judge Washburn asked ‘em was whether Jack Walsh had a room there. Which he does. Rented for the whole year, just like he said. Only thing is, he doesn’t use it.”
“What?”
“That’s right. His stuff’s up there, and his key’s at the desk, just like he said. But from what we get from the desk clerks, the guy shows up once or twice a month just to get something out of his room, but that’s about it. He doesn’t sleep there.”
“No shit.”
“None. Far as we know, he actually does live on the subway.
“Steve exhaled into the phone. “Oh shit.”
“You said it.”
“So he really is nuts.”
“Nutty as a fruitcake,” Taylor said.
11
Jack Walsh grunted his displeasure at the black bum with the broken tooth who was hogging the bottle. He got no response. Walsh grunted again. The bum’s muddy eyes rolled to him. Walsh fixed him with a hard stare and held out his hand. The bum snuffled, took one last swig, and then slowly, reluctantly handed over the bottle. Walsh snatched it back, held it close to his body. Then slowly, deliberately, he wiped off the top. Holding the bottle to his chest, elbows out like a basketball player protecting the ball, he glanced suspiciously around him for would-be thieves. Finding his bottle in no immediate danger, he raised it to his lips and took a swig.
Looking sideways around the neck of the bottle, Walsh could see the arm and shoulder of Jason Tindel, who had ducked behind a column when Walsh glanced around. Further down the platform he could make out the topcoat of Fred Grayson. And at the far end of the platform, one of the other two men who had picked him up when he left Winslow’s office. Detectives, no doubt.
Walsh lowered the bottle. The black bum held out his hand. So did the younger white bum who’d been drinking with them. Walsh gave them each a look, clutched the bottle to his chest. Then raised it, took another swig. Then, with another furtive glance around, he handed it to the white bum. The black bum’s bad teeth gnashed together.
The white bum took two enormous swallows. The black bum’s eyes filled with rage and despair. He growled, “Hey, hey.”
The black bum reached out his hand for the bottle. It was nearly empty. The white bum handed it over. Walsh intercepted it. He gave them both a proprietary look, then wiped off the bottle and took a swig.
There was one small sip left in the bottle. Walsh looked at it longingly, then in a grand gesture, handed the bottle to the black bum, who grabbed it and wolfed it down.
Walsh turned, shuffled slowly up the platform. As he left the others he picked up speed. By the end of the platform he was walking at a regular pace.
He reached the stairs marked “EXIT” and “TRANSFER TO #1” and went up. As he did he grinned to himself. Jason, Fred and the detectives would be picking up speed now. Columbus Circle station was a labyrinth of tunnels connecting the IND and the IRT lines. If they didn’t close in, they’d never know where he went.
He went up the steps, hung a left and walked through the tunnel that would take him under the Broadway IRT to the downtown side. He emerged at track level and headed for the downtown exit. In that direction he could take a stairway back down to the IND he’d just left, or bear right and go out any one of a number of exits from 59th to 57th Street.
He chose the closest exit, the one with the long escalator leading directly up to the street. He emerged in Columbus Circle, walked down to 57th Street, and over to the Holiday Inn.
The desk clerk paid more attention to him than usual. Walsh understood. He was an oddity, but he was a known quantity. The desk clerk’s interest was because people had been making inquiries. Probably lots of people.
Walsh got the key and went up to his room. It was, as always, exactly as he’d left it. He went to the closet, took the suitcase down from the shelf. He flopped the suitcase down on the bed, then twisted the dials on the combination lock. When he got the numbers lined up he popped the suitcase open, reached in and pulled out his checkbook and a pen. He wrote out a check to Steve Winslow for five thousand dollars. He took out an envelope, addressed it to Steve Winslow at his office, put the check in, stamped it and sealed it.
He wrote out another check, tore it out of the checkbook, folded it and stuffed it in his pocket. He took his wallet out of his suitcase, stuffed it in his pocket too.
Humming softly, he locked the suitcase, stuck it in the closet, and went out the door.
There was no one in the hallway, but when he took the elevator down he spotted Jason Tindel hanging out in the lobby. He grinned, went out the door, and headed down the street.
He stopped on the corner to drop the letter to Steve Winslow in the mailbox, then walked straight to the Chase Manhattan Bank.
He stood in line, waited his turn, and then presented his check to the teller. She was a young, Oriental woman who looked at him as if he were from another planet. He was not at all surprised when she sent him to one of the supervisors to get the check approved.
It was with obvious reluctance that the young supervisor eventually scrawled his initials on the check. Not that Jack Walsh’s credentials weren’t impeccable. It was just the way the man looked. That and the fact he kept grinning like a zany and even cackled gleefully once or twice. That was when Jack Walsh spotted Jason Tindel watching him through the bank window. Sitting there next to the bank supervisor who was inspecting what was obviously a large check, Walsh knew he had to be driving Jason crazy.