Lawrence Block - In the Midst of Death

"You got a good deal, Doug."

"Only clever thing I ever did in my life, Matt. And I wasn't looking to be clever. It's just I'm comfortable here and I hate moving."

I took a sip of my coffee. It wasn't much worse than what I'd had for breakfast. I said, "How did you and Broadfield get to be such buddies?"

"Yeah, I figured that's why you were here. Is he crazy or something? Why did he go and kill her? There's no point to it at all."

"I know it."

"He always struck me as an even-tempered guy. Men that size have to be steady or they do too much damage. A guy like me could have a short fuse and it wouldn't matter because I'd needa cannon to do any damage, but Broadfield — I guess he blew up and killed her, huh?"

I shook my head. "Somebody knocked her over the head and then stuck a knife into her. You don't do that on an impulse."

"The way you said it, you sound as though you don't think he did it."

"I'm sure he didn't."

"Jesus, I hope you're right."

I looked at him. The large forehead and the thick glasses gave him the look of an extremely intelligent insect. I said, "Doug, how do you know him?"

"An article I was doing once. I had to talk to some cops for research, and he was one of the ones I talked to. We hit it off pretty well."

"When was that?"

"Maybe four, five years ago. Why?"

"And you're just friends? And that's why he decided to turn to you when he was on the spot?"

"Well, I don't think he has too many friends, Matt. And he couldn't turn to any cop friends of his. He told me once that cops don't usually have many friends off the force."

That was true enough. But Broadfield didn't seem to have many friends on the force, either.

"Why did he go to Prejanian in the first place, Doug?"

"Hell, don't ask me. Ask Broadfield."

"But you know the answer, don't you?"

"Matt—"

"He wants to write a book. That's it, isn't it? He wants to make a big enough splash to be a celebrity, and he wants you to write his book for him. And then he can do all the television talk shows and grin that cute grin of his and call a lot of important people by their first names. That's where you come into it. That's the only way you can come into it, and it's the only reason that would have sent him to Abner Prejanian's office."

He wouldn't look at me. "He wanted it a secret, Matt."

"Sure. And afterward he would just happen to write a book. In response to popular demand."

"It could be dynamite. Not just his role with the investigation but his whole life. He's told me the most fascinating stuff I've ever heard. I wish he'd let me tape some of it, but so far every thing's off the record. When I heard he killed her I saw the chance of my life going down the drain. But if he's really innocent—"

"Where did he get the idea of doing the book?"

He hesitated, then shrugged. "You might as well know it all. It's a natural idea, cop books are big these days, but he might not have thought of it by himself."

"Portia Carr."

"That's right, Matt."

"She suggested it? No, that doesn't make sense."

"She was talking about doing a book herself."

I put my cup down and went over to the window. "What kind of a book?"

"I don't know. Something like The Happy Hooker , I suppose. What's the difference?"

"Hardesty."

"Huh?"

"I'll bet that's why he went to Hardesty."

He looked at me.

"Knox Hardesty," I said."The U. S. District Attorney. Broadfield went to him before he went to Prejanian, and when I asked him why he didn't make much sense. Because Prejanian was the logical man to go to. Police corruption is his special area of interest, and it wouldn't carry much weight with a federal D. A."

"So?"

"So Broadfield would have known that. He only would have picked Hardesty if he thought he had some kind of an in there. He probably got the idea of writing a book from Portia Carr. Maybe he got the idea of Hardesty from the same place."

"What does Portia Carr have to do with Knox Hardesty?"

I told him it was a good question.

Hardesty's offices were at 26 Federal Plaza with the rest of the Justice Department's New York operations. That put him just a couple of blocks from Abner Prejanian; I wondered if Broadfield had dropped in on both of them the same day.

I called first, to make sure Hardesty wasn't in court or out of town. He was neither, but I saved myself a trip downtown because his secretary told me he hadn't come in, that he was home with stomach flu. I asked for his home address and telephone number, but she wasn't allowed to give them to me.

The telephone company wasn't similarly restricted. He was listed. Hardesty, Knox,114 East End Avenue , and a phone number with a Regent 4 exchange. I called the number and got through to Hardesty. He sounded as though stomach flu had been a polite term for hangover. I told him my name and that I wanted to see him. He said he didn't feel well and started to hedge, and the only decent card I had was Portia Carr's name, so I played it.

I'm not sure exactly what reaction I expected, but it certainly wasn't the one I got."Poor Portia. That was a tragic thing, wasn't it? You were a friend of hers, Scudder? Be very anxious to get together with you. Wouldn't happen to be free right now, I don't suppose. You would? Good, very good. You know the address here?"

I figured it out in the cab on the way over there. I'd somehow managed to take it for granted that Hardesty had been one of Portia's clients, and I'd envisioned him hopping around in a tutu while she flailed at him with a whip. And men in public office with political ambitions don't usually welcome inquiries on their unorthodox sexual practices from total strangers. I'd expected outright denial that he knew Portia Carr ever existed, or some hedging at the very least. Instead I got a very eager welcome.

So I'd obviously added things wrong. The list of Portia's prominent clients didn't include Knox Hardesty. Theirs was a professional relationship, no doubt, but it was his profession that was involved, not hers.

And that way it made plenty of sense. And it fit in with Portia's literary aspirations and connected neatly to Broadfield's ambitions in that direction.

Hardesty's building was a prewar stonefront fourteen stories tall. It had an Art Deco lobby with high ceilings and a lot of black marble. The doorman had auburn hair and a guardsman's moustache. He established that I was expected and passed me on to the elevator operator, a diminutive black who was barely tall enough to reach the top button. And he had to reach it because Hardesty had the penthouse.

And the penthouse was impressive.High ceilings, rich, high-pile carpet, fireplaces, oriental antiques. A Jamaican maid led me into the study, where Hardesty was waiting for me. He stood up and came out from behind his desk, his hand extended. We shook hands and he waved me to a chair.

"A drink? A cup of coffee?I'm drinking milk myself because of this damned ulcer. I picked up a touch of stomach flu and it always aggravates the ulcer. But what will you have, Scudder?"

"Coffee, if it's no trouble. Black."

Hardesty repeated the order to the maid as if she couldn't have been expected to follow our conversation. She returned almost immediately with a mirrored tray holding a silver pot of coffee, a bone-china cup and saucer, a silver cream and sugar set, and a spoon. I poured out a cup of coffee and took a sip.

"So you knew Portia," Hardesty said. He drank some milk, put the glass down. He was tall and thin, his hair graying magnificently at his temples, his summertime tan not entirely faded yet. I'd been able to picture what a striking coupleBroadfield and Portia must have made. She would have looked good on Knox Hardesty's arm, too.