George Chesbro: Shadow of a Broken Man

Garth nodded absently. "Could be. Morton was pretty famous in his own right. You'd think they'd have spent a lot more time than they did looking into his murder."

"A police cover-up, Garth?"

"Christ, I hate to think so, but it could be. Ordered at the highest level. If the police were ordered to cut off the investigation, they probably weren't even told why."

"Hey," I said quietly, "maybe we should try to find out."

Garth slowly shook his head. "There's a lot of juice and muscle in that file."

"Power's never bothered you before. A man's been murdered, and his killer was never caught; another man who's supposed to be dead may be alive. Those seem like pretty important considerations to me."

Garth's eyes went cold. "I wouldn't have showed you this stuff if I didn't feel the same way. But I'm official, and you're not. I just don't think it would be a good idea to call that number; you could end up with more trouble than you're bargaining for."

Or Garth might, although he didn't say so. Rafferty, dead or alive, was a broken man who cast a large shadow. "I don't want to start using information that can be traced back to you."

The silence was prolonged. Finally he said: "Shit. Go get 'em, Mongo. Use your discretion as to what information you think you can use."

The tension that had been building inside me suddenly evaporated. My brother had signed on, and it gave me a good feeling. No more games. "What about this O'Connell?" I asked. "Can I talk to him?"

"That's up to O'Connell. He's retired." Garth took a neatly folded paper out of his pocket and handed it to me. "Here," he said. "I got that out of the P.B.A. directory."

The address was a retirement community in southern New Jersey called Sunny Acres. I stuck the paper in my pocket and rose.

"What about that steak, Mongo? It would go good with eggs this time of morning."

"Don't cash that rain check yet, brother," I said, heading for the door. "I'm still on a tight schedule. You wouldn't want me to miss that Aeromexico flight." I hoped it sounded lighter than I felt. I realized now that I'd been a fool to take Foster's money in the first place; I'd hoped to skip a stone across a dark lake and have simple answers come rippling back to me. Instead, I found myself sinking steadily deeper into a quagmire of lies, fear, and murder.

I was already making a list of enemies I could turn the case over to when I left.

Outside, I dug Foster's business card out of my pocket as I crossed the street to a phone booth. His answering service informed me he was home that day. It was becoming obvious that I was going to save a lot of time-and Foster's money-if he'd let me talk to his wife.

I dialed his home number and a woman, presumably Elizabeth Foster, answered. The tone of the single "Hello" was tense and hollow. Unless the Fosters had been fighting all morning, it was the trembling voice of a woman teetering on the edge of emotional breakdown.

"Mrs. Foster?" I said gently; I felt as if I were talking to a patient.

"Yes? Who is this?"

"My name is Robert Frederickson, Mrs. Foster. I've done some business with your husband. May I speak with him, please?"

"Just a moment, Mr. Frederickson."

After a short pause, Foster's tightly controlled voice came on the line. "What do you want, Frederickson?"

"Can you talk?"

"I'd rather not." The tone was hard, clipped. "Why the hell are you calling-?"

"I think it's important, Foster." I was getting a little testy myself.

"Hold on a minute."

It was almost five minutes before he came back on the line. "All right," he said. "Elizabeth's out in the garden. You talk and I'll listen."

"I think it may be time I talked to your wife."

"No." There was a strange note in his voice; the hard edge was blunted. "In fact, I've been thinking the whole thing over and I think I may have been making a mountain out of a molehill."

"This molehill is bigger than you think it is."

I heard him catch his breath. "You've got something?"

"Yes." I didn't want to lay it all out yet, but I didn't want to fold my tents either. "Can you meet me?"

"Where?"

"I'm at Eighth Avenue and Fifty-fourth."

"I'll be there in a few minutes." He hung up.

I called the number in Washington without giving myself time to think about it. The phone was picked up on the first ring.

"Aptown Florists," a woman answered.

That didn't sound quite right. I hung up and dialed the number again, double-checking each digit.

"Aptown Florists." It was the same young, cheery, woman's voice.

"I'd like to speak with Mr. Lippitt."

There was dead silence at the other end. The idea of a phone blind hadn't occurred to me; I had a vision of a lot of flower cutters suddenly stopping work.

"I'm sorry, sir." Her voice had aged; it was now professional, wary. "We have no Mr. Lippitt working for us. Perhaps you'd like to speak to Mr. Raines."

"I doubt it. Mr. Lippitt was the man who took my order."

"What order was that, sir? I don't believe you gave me your order number."

I could feel the woman listening very closely. "The flowers were for Victor Rafferty," I said slowly. "I can't remember the order number. It was five years ago. The order may have been premature, and I'd like to discuss the whole matter with Mr. Lippitt."

There was another silence. Then: "Isn't it a little late to be discussing a floral order that went out five years ago?" "No, missy, I don't think so. These flowers were for a funeral, but the man may still be alive." I paused for effect. "That's what I want you to tell Lippitt if he happens to drop by the shop."

This time there wasn't any argument. The woman's voice was fast, sharp. "May I have your name and a number where you may be reached, sir?"

I gave her the information and hung up just as Mike Foster pulled up to the curb in a late-model blue Oldsmobile.

I slid in beside him. He checked the rearview mirror, then pulled out into the traffic and drove uptown toward Harlem. His face was set in a scowl. The muscles under the brown skin of his face and arms worked, and his hands were clenched on the wheel.

His voice shook. "I thought I'd made it clear that this was a matter between you and me."

"It could save a lot of time-"

"I will not permit you to talk to my wife!" he said slamming his hand against the steering wheel. "Elizabeth is worse; I'm afraid she's going to have some kind of breakdown. Damn it, you agreed that you wouldn't talk to her!" He sucked in his stomach. "Now, if I didn't make it clear before-"

"Stop the car, Foster."

"Huh?"

"Stop the car."

Foster pulled the car back over to the curb. I opened the door and got out. When I looked back he seemed uncertain.

"I don't like being bawled out before the fact," I said quietly. "In fact, I don't like being bawled out at all."

"Uh, look, Frederickson-"

"I took your money and you're entitled to what I found out, along with an opinion or two. First, Richard Patern did design the Nately. Museum, but he admits to getting the idea and inspiration from someone else. He says he doesn't know who, and I believe him. I don't believe the man who claims he saw Rafferty go into the furnace. By the way, did you know Rafferty was reported missing two days before he's supposed to have died?"

"No," Foster said sheepishly. "Elizabeth?"

"No. A very heavy government agency that doesn't mess with small fry. Also, the neurosurgeon who saved Rafferty's life was murdered a few days before Rafferty's supposed final accident. I think there's a connection."

"You do?" Foster said weakly.

"And I'll tell you something else: I think there's a good possibility that Victor Rafferty is alive, but the smart money says to forget it. That's up to you. Goodbye."