Peter Spiegelman - Death's little helpers

“People we do business with,” she said, looking around the room. “Industry contacts, fund managers, people from the companies we coverthe same people who called before he went away.”

“Anyone who’s been calling more often lately?”

She looked intently into her glass and swirled the crushed ice around. “No one I can think of,” she said finally. “I told you, a lot of people call us; I don’t keep track of them all. But I know you’re the only one who’s come around.”

“Until now,” I said. The bartender came by and offered Pratt a refill on her soda. She nodded. “When you thought this was me, what did you think I was looking for?” I asked.

Pratt shook her head. “I don’t know… nothing specific. Something to help you find Greg, I guess.”

“Any ideas on what that might be?”

She peered at me from behind her smudged lenses, and there was irritation in her voice. “I don’t know. I don’t know any more about where he is than I did the last time we talked. Isn’t finding him supposed to be your area of expertise?”

I let that go and drank some of my drink and thought some more. Behind me, laughter erupted from the group of tourists.

“You report this to anyone at Pace?” I asked.

Pratt’s dark eyes were wide. “No. No one.”

“Who are you supposed to tell?”

“Security, I guess- and Tampon. He wants to know anything about people looking for Greg.”

“So why haven’t you called him?”

“I don’t know. I was… worried, I guess.”

“About what?”

She looked at me for a long while. “I talked to you too much that night, and I shouldn’t have. And I’ve been worried ever since about Tampon finding out. I was afraid if I told him about this, one thing would lead to another…” She sniffed and rubbed her nose with the back of her hand. “It could be my job,” she said softly.

I nodded at her. Pratt sank her hands into the pockets of her slicker and sat hunched and silent. It was warm in the bar, but she looked as if she were tensed against a cold wind. A tourist barked out a loud guffaw and Pratt started.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

Pratt stared at me. Her nose was red and her lips were chalky. She nodded. “This whole breakin thing is… creepy,” she said. Her voice was nearly a whisper. “When I thought you’d done it I was mostly mad, but now”- she swallowed hard and shook her head-“now it’s got me thinking and… I’m scared.”

“Of what?”

She looked beyond me, into the noisy crowd. “Four or five days in the last week, I’ve seen this car parked near my place, and a guy in it that I think is watching me.”

I put my glass on the bar and spoke very quietly. “What kind of car, Irene?”

Pratt’s eyes narrowed and came back to mine. “It’s black, a Pontiac I think, and new-looking.”

I thought of the cars that had trailed me over the bridge, the night I’d come back from Fort Lee. One of them had been a black, late-model Grand Prix. “And the guy in it?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know… a white guy with dark hair and a mustache… in his thirties, maybe. Just a guy.” Her face was taut, and she dug her hands deeper into her pockets.

“Was he there today?” I asked. She nodded. “Has he said anything to you, or done anything?”

“Nothing. He’s always reading a paper or a book; he’s never even looked at me. It’s just a feeling I get.” Her shoulders twitched as if a chill had rippled through her. “What’s going on, March?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “But someone besides me has been looking for Danes, and someone- maybe the same someone- has been tailing me and staking out my place. It could be the same person who creeped your office, or the same person who’s been watching you.”

“Jesus Christ,” Pratt said, and she rose quickly and clumsily. Her voice was an angry rasp. “What the fuck is going on? What did you get me into?”

The bartender looked at us and frowned. “Sit down, Irene,” I said, and I took her arm. She shrugged my hand away, but sat. “I told you, I don’t know what’s going on, but whatever it is, it probably has more to do with Danes than with me.”

“That’s great to hear,” Pratt said. “It’ll be a real comfort the next time I see that car, or when somebody breaks into my office again.” She ran her fingers through her hair, over and over. “So what the hell am I supposed to do?”

It was a fair question, and I thought about it for a while. “You do three things,” I said finally. “First, you try to calm down. I know it’s not easy; I know this breakin thing is scary as hell, and being tailed is even worse, but I think whoever’s doing this is interested in Danes, not in you.”

“You think-”

“Second, you go back to work and report the breakin at Danes’s office to everybody you’re supposed to, but you leave your office out of it.” Pratt took a breath and started to speak; I ignored her. “You’ve already signed in at your building today. If Turpin and his pals find out about the breakin, and that you were at work but didn’t report it, they’ll start to wonder about you. If they also find out you’ve talked to me, you’ll be in deep shit.” Pratt sputtered but I held up my hand. “Don’t worry. They won’t hear it from me, but that doesn’t mean they won’t hear it. I assume you called me on your office phone today.” She went white.

“Shit. Oh, shit.”

“That’s why you don’t want them wondering about you. You tell them about Danes’s office and nobody gets suspicious; nobody has a reason to check the calls from your phone.”

Pratt put her hand on her forehead. “Oh, shit.”

“Third, after you report this, you go home. If that car is parked outside your place, or if you see that guy again, you call me.”

She cursed softly for a while and then went silent. After about a minute she took a deep breath and sat up. Her voice was steadier when she spoke. “And if I see him and call you, then what?”

“Then I’ll come over and have a chat with him.”

“Have a chat with him. What the hell does that mean? Is that like cement overshoes or something?”

I laughed. “It means I’ll talk to him and see if I can find out what he’s doing and why.”

“Christ, I can’t believe this,” she said, and shook her head. “You’ll get there quick if I call you? You won’t leave me hanging?”

“I won’t leave you hanging, Irene, but I don’t think this guy is any threat to you. I think he’s staking you out in the hope that Danes will turn up. But if you get scared or feel threatened, call the cops.”

She cringed and shook her head some more. “The cops? Oh, Christ.”

I put my hand on her arm, and this time she let it stay there. “Call Turpin, tell him your story, and keep it simple. You haven’t done anything wrong, Irene; this will all be fine. Just calm down.”

Pratt took another deep breath and squared her shoulders. She stood and drained her soda and looked at me. Her dark eyes were rimmed with red. “All right… all right,” she said, and she managed something like a smile. “I can do this. But when you figure out what the hell is happening, you tell me, okay? Don’t leave me hanging, March.”

“Okay,” I said, and she nodded at me and walked out of the bar. I watched her yellow slicker sift into the crowd.

Something was going on- I had known that- but now I knew that whatever it was had some organization and size. Whoever followed me had also tailed Richard Gilpin out in Fort Lee and staked out Irene Pratt’s place too. More likely than not, they were also the same guys who’d been sniffing around Danes’s apartment. And now they’d broken into the Pace offices. They were not perhaps the most skillful operators in the world, but they didn’t seem to want for manpower.