George Chesbro - Shadow of a Broken Man

I slammed the car door shut and started hoofing it back down Eighth Avenue. There was a squeal of tires as Foster's car backed past me and screeched to a halt beside a fire hydrant. Foster got out and hurried up to me.

"Frederickson," he said, breathing hard. "Just hang on a minute. Please."

I stopped. A cop appeared from the shadows of a storefront and began writing out a ticket. Foster ignored him.

"I… I don't know what to say," Foster continued. "You're telling me Rafferty may be alive?"

"In my opinion, it's a reasonable possibility."

"Do … you think Elizabeth knows for sure?" His voice cracked.

"Maybe. We won't know until we talk to her, Mike. It all comes back to that." We were standing in the middle of the sidewalk being jostled by people going in both directions, but Foster didn't seem inclined to move.

"Look, I'm sorry about the way I came on back in the car. I am really worried about Elizabeth. It's incredible what you've found out in such a short time."

"There's much more. There has to be. Your wife could have all the answers. You know, Mike, sometimes it's better to face up to a problem."

He looked pained. "I just don't want to take that kind of a chance. If anything should happen to her-"

"Something has already happened to her, Mike. It was five years ago, and it's still eating at her. She's obviously a principal in this case. Sooner or later, I think the police are going to be back in on it."

"Why do you say that?" he asked sharply.

"Because of the murder I mentioned; the man's name was Arthur Morton. If I continue this investigation, I think it's going to open the lid on a can of worms someone tried to close five years ago. The process may already have begun."

"Why?" he said, alarmed. "Have you been to the police?"

"No." It was only a half-lie; I didn't consider talking to Garth going to the police.

"Then how do you know all this?"

"Mike, I don't think you really want a lecture on detective work. You've got a decision to make. If you want me to continue, you're wasting my time and your money by keeping me away from your wife; it's like walking around the world to get across the street."

Foster looked shaken, and I felt sorry for him; I'd been beating him over the head with two razor-sharp horns of a dilemma. But it was Garth who might take it upon himself to reopen the case, and it could cost him his job. In light of that possibility, I didn't mind putting a little pressure on my client.

Foster was staring at his feet. I nudged him and pointed to his car, which was decorated with a buff-colored thirty-five-dollar ticket. "You'd better get your car out of here before the tow truck shows up," I said.

He looked at the car absently, as if it belonged to someone else. "Can you keep on working a little while longer?" "If that's what you want. It's your money, and I don't leave until Thursday. May I talk to your wife?"

"Would you wait on that just a while longer?" he said, a plea in his voice.

I shrugged. "All right, Mike." It was his money, and I'd given him my best advice.

He seemed relieved, "Can I buy you breakfast?"

It was after ten; I hadn't eaten, but I wasn't hungry. "Some other time. If you're still my client, I've got work to do."

"I'm still your client, Mr. Frederickson. Can I drop you someplace?"

"The nearest car-rental agency. You might as well come along, since you're paying for it."

"Where are you going?"

"South Jersey. I want to talk to the cop who had Rafferty."

Foster blinked. "The police had Victor?"

"I don't want to take the time to explain now, Mike. I'd like to get on the road."

Foster nodded toward the big Olds with the buff decoration on the windshield. "Use my car. I'll take a cab home. Tomorrow's Sunday. Leave it in the street in front of your apartment house and I'll pick it up in the morning."

"What about your wife? Won't she wonder where the car is?"

"I'll tell her it broke down. Go ahead and take it."

I removed the ticket, got into the car, and pulled the seat up all the way. In the rearview mirror I saw Foster, hands jammed into his pockets, staring after me. I liked the man; he was groping blindly, sifting through the ashes of the past because he thought it could help his wife. I was convinced those ashes weren't cold, only banked; they could still burn.

I turned at the corner and Foster blinked out of sight.

The Olds was big, powerful, smooth-riding. Slipping out of Manhattan through the stone umbilical of the Lincoln Tunnel, I made good time in the light weekend traffic. Within an hour I had passed through the depressing yellow air of northern New Jersey and was immersed in the flat, deadly monotony of the New Jersey Turnpike.

I was off the Turnpike by two thirty. A gas-station attendant gave me some directions and I headed northwest.

Sunny Acres was a pleasant retirement community, spacious and clean, at least on the outside. I parked in a visitor's space and approached an elderly couple who were walking hand in hand. I introduced myself and asked about Patrick O'Connell. After a few giggles, they went into conference and eventually agreed that O'Connell could probably be found shooting pool in the recreation hall. They gave me directions, and we wished each other a nice afternoon.

Inside the recreation hall, I immediately spotted O'Connell as the lion among the lambs. He was silver-haired, with the aura of a good man slightly tarnished by the residue of cynicism and roughness that being a New York City cop leaves on you like a second layer of skin. His ruddy complexion blended with the garish colors of his short- sleeved Hawaiian shirt. Doughy flesh that had once been muscle now swung loosely under his arms, but there was still plenty of strength there. He limped slightly; the sides of his shoes had been slit to make room for his bunions.

O'Connell and a few of the other men in the room turned to stare at me, but they soon turned their attention back to the game in progress. O'Connell was the star; it was obvious that he was used to the role, and enjoyed it. He took ten minutes to beat a wily-looking old man at Rotation, interspersing a variety of trick bank shots with a running stream of banter delivered in an exaggerated Irish brogue. When he got tired of the game, he turned his cue over to another man and made his way to a small self-service bar in a corner of the hall.

He found a beer in a small refrigerator in the back, then came around and sat down on one of the stools with a contented sigh. I sat down beside him. His gray eyes flicked over my face, then returned to gaze at the foaming beer can in front of him. He was too much of a New Yorker to ask what a dwarf was doing in a retirement community, sitting beside him at the bar.

"My name's Frederickson," I said as I took out my P.B.A. courtesy card and laid it next to his elbow. "I'm a private investigator working out of New York. I'd like to talk to you about a case you were involved in."

O'Connell examined my card like a cop looking for evidence of forgery; finally he nodded his approval. "I've heard of you, Frederickson." The Irish brogue had acquired a heavy Brooklyn accent. "Don't you have a brother on the force?"

"Garth," I said. There was nothing the matter with O'Connell's mind. "May I ask you some questions, Mr. O'Connell?"

"You want a beer, Frederickson?"

"Yeah. Thanks."

"Get it yourself, if you don't mind. My goddamned feet are killing me. Bunions."

I helped myself to a beer and returned to the bar. The beer was warm.

"Don't think too much of private cops?" O'Connell said, staring at me hard. "Some of them have been known to interfere with the work of duly appointed police officers."

"You check with Bardeen," I said, invoking the name of Garth's precinct commander. "He'll tell you I always cooperate with the police." I cleared my throat, swallowed some warm beer. "I'd like to talk to you about a man named Victor Rafferty."