Lawrence Sanders - McNally's luck

Devlin looked to see if there was any anger in her, but she still had that crooked smile.

"I'm sorry, but I do have to leave."

"Well, don't leave before I tell you that I don't usually go to bed with strange men I meet in bars."

"I don't see why you'd have to."

"I don't."

"Why did you?"

"Because my fucking bastard of a boyfriend broke up with me and I was angry and depressed and I figured it would do me good to get laid."

"Did it?"

"Yes, but I don't like this hangover. And I don't like the feeling that you want to leave as fast as you can."

He told her, "It's not because of you."

"Why, then? You have to get to work?"

Devlin's face twitched. He picked up his pants from the floor and started to step into them.

Daryl watched and waited for an answer.

Devlin said, "No, I'm not going to work. I kind of ran out on my brother back at that bar. I want to catch up with him."

"That big guy you were with was your brother?"

"Yeah."

"And you said you two were out drinking because …" She stopped herself and put her hand on her mouth. Then she asked, "Were you telling me the truth about your father?"

"Yes."

"You really were?"

"Yes."

"Oh shit. I'm sorry."

Devlin was dressed except for buttoning his shirt. Daryl got out of the bed and walked quickly to her closet. He looked at her firm buttocks and legs and wondered how much she worked out.

She pulled out a robe and slipped it on with her back turned to him.

"Do you want any coffee or anything?"

"No thanks."

"Come on. It'll take another five minutes."

"Okay."

"Regular or decaffeinated?"

"Regular."

She left the bedroom, suddenly seeming remote and far away from him. As he put on his socks and shoes, he kept thinking about her smooth sleek belly that curved so nicely down to the dark patch between her legs. She wasn't a natural blonde. But Daryl Hannah probably wasn't either and as far as he was concerned this Daryl looked better.

Devlin sat where Lettieri had left him and worked the phone. Bellevue Hospital, New York University Hospital, Lenox Hill Hospital, and Beth Israel had no George Devlins admitted in the last twenty-four hours. Neither had Mount Sinai, Columbia Presbyterian, Harlem Hospital, St. Luke's Roosevelt, or Gouverneur.

Six hotels hadn't either.

Marilyn called him twice while he was looking up phone numbers. He'd kept her at bay. He didn't think he could do it a third time.

He threw the phone book on the floor and turned on the answering machine with the speaker on high. If it was Marilyn he wouldn't answer. If George called he'd hear the voice and pick up.

He took a quick shower with the door open and changed into fresh clothes. The last vestiges of the night before were left in a pile between the dresser and a wall.

His big brother, who didn't have a mean bone in his body, and who had taken care of him more than once when they were growing up, was gone. Why? If someone had hurt his brother, Devlin was going to find out who did, why, and make them pay for it. He was very good at doing all three.

He met Detective Lieutenant David Freedman in a small park surrounded by nonstop traffic. It was in Abingdon Square in the West Village. A play park that would be crawling with little kids by early evening when their yuppie parents returned from work. But now at three in the afternoon it was empty except for a few homeless bums and two Jamaican ladies airing out infants and visiting with each other.

Years ago Freedman had helped Devlin on a case that ended with a lot of people being killed, but made the NYPD look as if they had solved a major crime. The case had also made Freedman a lieutenant, but he never wanted to live through another one like it.

Freedman approached Devlin with a deprecating smile and a shake of his head. He was a short, wiry man with kinky black hair and the tough manner of a New York cop who had lived in the town all his life. He stuck out his hand and Devlin shook it. Devlin's smile was full force. Freedman's first words were, "I see you're still alive, Devlin."

"So far. How are you, David?"

"Still fighting the good fight."

"I appreciate you coming. And so soon. I know you must be busy."

"Yeah, yeah. You look like you've been hiding on a beach somewhere."

"On a sunny beach."

"Nice. Why are you here instead of there?"

"My father passed away. I came home for the funeral."

"Oy, shit. I'm sorry. It was sudden? How old?"

"Heart attack. He was eighty."

"He was healthy until then?"

"Yes. It was quick."

"I guess that's good. But it's a loss. I'm sorry."

"Thanks."

Freedman became the tough cop again. "So what the hell you want with me that won't get me into too much trouble?"

"I have a problem, David, and I want your advice."

Devlin told the cop about the post-funeral drinking bout with his brother, picking up Daryl, staying the night with her and losing George.

Freedman shook his head slowly. "Wonderful. Perfect. Death, booze, and a blonde."

"Yeah. Reminds me of why I don't drink very much."

"I presume your brother is not the kind of guy who disappears for a while."

"No way. He's a citizen. Wife, kids, career, house in Westchester. The whole normal everyday scene. I've called a few hospitals and hotels. No record of any George Devlin."

"This isn't good, Jack. Not in this fucking city. Not really. I tell you what I'll do. You give me the information and I'll file the report up in the one-nine. I'll make sure it gets into the channels fast and really gets assigned instead of just added to some guy's list."

"Thanks."

"I'm sorry there's not much else I can do."

"One other thing," Devlin said. "If I'm going to really canvass the hospitals and hotels I'll need some help. He could be registered under a different name or as a John Doe waiting in a crowded emergency room somewhere. I need someone who can get around and see if anybody matching my brother's description was admitted. Do you know a reliable private detective?"

"Yeah, but what about your people at Pacific Rim? That's their business. They must know someone in New York. You could get professional rates or something, right?"

"Yes, but I'd rather not have them involved unless I have to. At the moment things are a little strained between us."

"What things?"

"I think I've been trying to avoid doing the work, David. I don't feel right about some parts of it."

"The killing part."

"Yes. The killing part."

"But if something happened to your brother I'll bet you'd almost enjoy killing that person."

Devlin stared at Freedman. He had a tough, uncompromising look. Freedman had long ago decided some people deserved to be killed and he made no apologies, but he was smart enough to know that he was implying George might be dead and he apologized for that.

"Hey, I'm sorry. That was stupid. The main thing is to find your brother. Especially now. My father died two years ago. It wasn't a good feeling. I got a brother and a sister. Believe me, we're closer now. This ain't the time to lose your brother.

"I know a guy who can help you. A good, honest detective, if there is such a thing. His name is Sam Zitter. He's getting to be a crotchety old fart, but he knows what he's doing, and he gets around. He'll give you a full day's effort. He has a lot of contacts which more than make up for his age slowing him down a little bit. He's right near here, too. Go see him. He's over on Eighth Avenue, just below Fourteenth Street. The name of the place is Intrepid Investigations. Give his receptionist my name, otherwise he probably won't see you."

"Okay. Thanks."

Freedman stood up. "Let me know if you need anything else."

"Take care, David."