"Yes, yes. Nice boy, Hari. Been doing business with for some time now. Yes, yes. Sold me some cards. Very nice, very nice."
"Forgive me for asking, it's really none of my business. What cards, exactly?"
"No problem, no problem. Here, let me show you." The little man turned around; kneeled down next to an ancient floor safe and spun the dial. Swung open the thick black door; reached inside and extracted a metal box. Placed it on the counter. "Here we go, here we go." The repetition was getting old fast. Burger removed a half dozen baseball cards; spread them on the counter.
This is what I saw: vintage baseball cards with names, stats and photos of Mickey Mantle, Shoeless Joe Jackson, Ty Cobb, Lou Gehrig, Babe Ruth and Jackie Robinson.
"Mr. Burger, if I may ask, what are these worth?"
"Well, well, Mr. Picker. These players, if they were the right edition and manufacturer would top a million easily. But, but, they're not. Doesn't mean they're not valuable though. A quick sale would be maybe $20,000.00. If I held onto them, perhaps $30,000, maybe a little more, maybe."
"And the deal that you struck with Hari?"
"Forgive me, Mr. Picker, Mr. Picker. Would you be kind enough to tell me what this is about."
"Sure, we'll get to that in a minute. What was the deal?"
"No problem, no problem. Hari comes in, see. Gives me this cigar box. Tells me to go through it. He walks around the store and looks at the comic books over there. Comes back over here and puts three or four comics on the counter. Green Lantern. I remember because he's wearing that stupid shirt. Full grown man wearing super hero t-shirts. Who would think, think?"
"And…"
"Oh yeah, oh yeah. Sorry. I offered him twelve grand. He wants fifteen. I think about it. Okay, I give him the fifteen. Threw in the comics. Now, now, please tell me. What's this all about?"
"Hari's dead."
Leon Burger stood absolutely still for what must have amounted to a full minute. No shock, no surprise, no nothing. A blank face. Then he said, "How?"
"Murdered. Mr. Burger, I want to thank you for your time. You have been very helpful."
I turned; opened the front door; called my dog and headed for home.
Strike 2
"What's your interest in this matter, Mr. Picker?"
I was sitting in the law offices of 'Sharke, Lawless amp; Cozener, LLC'. Unfortunate surnames for those in the legal profession. Well appointed offices residing on the second floor of a stone building; off of Germantown Avenue in Chestnut Hill. Amy had provided me with the name of the estate lawyer.
"A very close friend was murdered two days ago. Bigfoot Henderson. Excuse me, Hari Henderson. This was shortly after cleaning out the property on Ardleigh; the one for which you are the executor."
Char Cozener appeared to be in his mid-sixties. Average height, perhaps five-ten, white hair combed back, plastered with Brill Creme, ears which stuck out, no lobes and steely grey eyes. Fifteen or twenty pounds overweight.
"And you believe that there may be a connection."
"Precisely. Maybe you can tell me a little about the deceased. Something about his life."
"To be perfectly honest Mr. Picker, I don't see how it can help. On the other hand, it can't hurt. I liked Hari, done business with him for years. Nice boy.
"Peter Carrington III recently passed away at the age of one-hundred and twelve years. Old family, old money. The original fortune was made by Peter the first; apparently running guns and ammo for the wars going on in the world at that time. That produced the seed money for Peter number two. An industrialist, fingers in everything."
"And our Peter?"
"What may have been referred to in other times as a gentleman, a man of leisure. The fortune left to him was so vast that even I don't know the full extent of it. That family has monies hidden all over the world in accounts that show up nowhere."
I was curious. "What exactly does a man of leisure do with his time?"
"In Peter's case there were two passions. Traveling and collecting. As a matter of fact, the reason for traveling was to collect more stuff. Antiques, art; particularly paintings, pottery, old documents, military stuff. His real passion, however, was sports. Anything to do with sports. Loved baseball from the time he was a lad wearing knickers."
"Mr. Cozener, what happened to his collections? As you are well aware, Hari's job consisted of the kitchen, pantry, the basement and garage."
"Everything of value went to an auction house in New York. All of his collections were extensive, but the baseball card one was staggering. I believe that was the exception. It went to another outfit, also in New York, which specializes in sports memorabilia. I don't recall the name off the top of my head; I can look it up if you wish."
"Not necessary, but thanks." The auction that Cozener was referring to is Gotta Have It! They've been around since 1994 and specialize in authenticated sports, entertainment, Rock amp; Roll and historical memorabilia. Not old by auction house standards, but apparently they get good prices. Which, when it comes down to it, is the only thing that matters.
I thanked Mr. Cozener for his time. He asked me to pass his condolences on to Mrs. Henderson and if I would be so kind to keep him informed.
I walked west for two blocks. Went into a pizza joint and ordered a Sicilian slice with a Mozzarella and Eggplant Parm topping and homemade iced tea. Took it outside to sit at a wrought iron table under an umbrella.
I mentally rehearsed everything that I knew about Hari's death up to this point. Decidedly, it wasn't much. Hari picks up a choice cleanout here in Chestnut Hill. Merely a few rooms, but still very profitable. Apparently, he finds somewhat valuable vintage baseball cards in a locked floor safe. An unaccounted portion of a much larger collection. Valuable, but not valuable enough to kill for, I think.
Literally, a handful of people actually know what was in the steel box from the safe. So far as I'm aware, Hari's crew; Rebel and Chucky, Danny Boy Boyle and the sports dealer Leon Burger. But not Amy. She only seems to know that it was baseball cards, not which specific cards. Did Rebel, Chucky or Danny Boy tell anyone else?
Last evening, over dinner at my place with Kelly and TJ, I had asked TJ to get me the contact info for Hari's crew. I tried both their numbers; neither picked up. The message that I left requested a return call as soon as possible.
Speak of the Devil. At that moment my cell rings. "Mr. Picker, it’s Chucky. You wanted me to call?"
"Sure. When can we meet? The sooner the better."
"Anytime today, Mr. Picker. Boy, I can't believe it. I loved that man like a father." Hari was only a few years older than Cheese. "You tell me when and where, I'll be there. You bet. Anything that I can do to help."
"I'm in Chestnut Hill. Let's say two o'clock. Antiquarian's Delight. You know it?"
"Sure thing, Mr. Picker. Two o'clock it is."
I crossed the street at Bethlehem Pike. Several stores down I picked up some natural, homemade dog biscuits. Put them in my pocket. At West Evergreen I crossed again and started walking towards my car.
A block from the Avenue I heard footsteps behind me. Heavy footsteps.
One hundred feet ahead I could see my parked car.
The next two things appeared to happen at once.
Kato leapt from the Morgan. He came tearing towards me.
Simultaneously, the sound of two men rushing up from behind.
I turn quickly. Tall and thin; short and stocky. T amp;T is raising his arm holding a. 38 caliber Smith amp; Wesson. S amp;S is gripping a blackjack in his left paw.
My black and tan monster springs from his hind legs. Kato’s teeth come down hard on Tall's right wrist; the one holding the gun. I actually hear bones crunching. Tall drops to his knees and screams.