Richard Hawke - Cold Day in Hell

The tension that had been growing in the room evaporated. Ross was only kidding about the TV-show idea, of course, but even so, slipping back into his element seemed to relax him somewhat. The color came up in his face.

“Here’s the story,” Ross said pleasantly. “I would like to make it official. I’d like to hire you. You’ve already heard my angle. There’s plenty self-serving on my part, I’m the first to admit it. But so what? I feel guilty about my man Marshall being the springboard for some pathetic sicko out there killing people. I want Marshall found innocent, and I want these killings to stop. I want to clear my conscience and Marshall’s name all at once. Nice tidy package.”

“The police are doing everything they can.”

“Then why are you running around looking for Robin Burrell’s killer?”

“Remember, that’s your theory, Mr. Ross.”

“Fine. The point is, I’d like to hire you. Like I say, I’ve done my research. It turns out you’re not so bad at what you do.”

“It’s been an okay Act One,” I said.

“So it’s settled. You’ve seen my absurd office, I don’t like to quibble over money. Whatever’s your normal fee, I’ll double it. I’m sorry, Mr. Malone, but I’m in the business of buying people. I want to be your top-priority client. And I want to hear from you every day. Progress reports. I’m not trying to bully you. I just have a certain way of operating.”

A pigeon floated gracefully past the window behind Ross’s head, angling down for a sharp descent. I shoved myself to the edge of the annoying chair.

“I have a certain way of operating as well,” I said. “It starts with my not having the client tell me how to go about doing my job.”

“You have connections. I know about your father. You’ve got friends on the force. At one point you were even planning to become a cop yourself.”

I stood up. “Hats off to your researchers, Mr. Ross. It looks to me like you have all the snoops you need.”

“Wait. I’m sorry. I’m not handling this too well.” He pulled open a drawer and removed an envelope. “I make no demands. That’s just how I’m used to operating. I want this nightmare ended.” He tossed the envelope onto the desk. “That’s five thousand dollars. If nothing else, it’s for coming in to see me.”

I picked up the envelope. It was thick and crunchy. I slapped it against my palm. Five thousand dollars makes a sweet slap. “If word gets out, you’ll have every gumshoe in the city bugging Linda for an appointment.”

Ross smiled wanly. “I feel helpless, Mr. Malone. It’s not a mode I’m accustomed to, believe me. It’s just that I’d like to feel I’m doing something to undo what’s happened.”

“Dead’s dead, Mr. Ross.”

“I know that. You decide if you’d like to accept my offer. I hope you do. Either way, keep the money. Or give it to your favorite charity, I don’t really care what you do with it. I just want to help in some way. If you decide it won’t kill you to keep me posted, either on your progress or the progress of the police, wonderful. I’ll pay you for my own peace of mind. Maybe that sounds pathetic to you, but don’t forget, I operate in a superficial world. Maybe if I hired a good writer, I could script a more meaningful gesture.”

I slapped the envelope against my hand a second time. “How about I get back to you?”

He stood. “Sure. That would be fine. I appreciate your taking the time to talk to me.” He clasped his hands behind his back and gave me a professional smile. It felt like an anti-handshake.

Linda’s smile was also way below wattage as she fetched my coat from the closet. I’ve yet to know a secretary who didn’t know everything that was taking place in her boss’s office, if not his mind. I looked to see if her ear was red from pressing against the door.

“He’s in pain,” she said softly as she handed over my coat.

I had an almost irresistible urge to chuck her on the chin. I fought the urge with all my might, then made my way out to the elevator for the long ride back to Planet Earth.

THE DOORMAN REMEMBERED ME.

“Hey, you’re the guy they fished out of the river the other day. Somebody up there must like you, brother. That’d been me, I’d be dead.” He bounced his hands off his substantial gut. “Sink like a rock. You’re one lucky guy.”

A lucky guy wouldn’t have ended up stabbed and tossed into the icy East River from a substantial height, but hey, context is everything. I pulled out one of the sketches that Megan Lamb had photocopied for me and handed it to the doorman. He studied it as if it were a logarithm.

“Nasty character,” he opined.

“Have you seen him before?”

“Him? No. Not me.”

It had occurred to me that when I’d been in pursuit of my attacker, his zigzags had led him directly to the Waterside Plaza complex as if maybe he knew exactly where he was headed. And after managing to flip me over the wall, he had disappeared instantly. No one had reported seeing a person fleeing from the scene. I’d wondered. Through the glass doors and up the elevator? With a nod and a wave to the friendly doorman? Given the lousy sketch that had made the earlier rounds, it was conceivable that the doorman had seen it and made no connection whatsoever with the man himself.

I asked, “There’s no one living in any of these buildings who looks like this?”

“Here? This guy? I don’t think so.”

“How about the super? Or a maintenance man?”

The doorman pursed his lips and tilted the sketch. Why people do that, I’ll never understand. What? You tilt the thing and suddenly recognize it’s your uncle Billy?

“Sorry, brother.” He tried to give me back the sketch.

“Keep it.” I handed him my card. “The police will probably be by sometime and run you through this whole routine again.”

He looked at the card. “Private investigation, huh? Hey, I’ve never met a private investigator before. So are you like those detectives on TV? Get hit on by all the ladies? Beautiful widows coming out of your ears? I lose a few pounds, I’d like to try that out. You must deal with a lot of cheating husbands. You carry a piece?”

I tapped the sketch in his hand. “I’d like to locate this guy. You help me out, maybe I’ll try to dig up a beautiful widow for you.”

He smiled. Big and toothy. “Don’t get me dreaming, brother.”

I left him to his dreams. Crossing back over First Avenue, I worked the shops and bars. There were plenty of both to keep me busy. At first no one recognized the face in the sketch, though more than a few sneered at it when they looked at it. “What’d he do? Kill his own mother?” But at a Laundromat on Twenty-seventh, I got a hit. An elderly Asian woman about the size of an eight-year-old told me that she recognized the face.

“He come here. He smoke. I tell him no. Clean clothes, clean clothes! No smoke!”

I asked if she knew anything about him. A name. Where he lived. She didn’t. I’ve been taking my laundry to the same place in Little Italy for ten years, and if someone told them my name was John Jacob Astor, they wouldn’t have any reason to say it wasn’t, except to wonder why someone so stinking rich couldn’t send his laundry in with the butler. I asked the woman if I could post the sketch on her bulletin board, next to the flyers for dog walking, yoga lessons, teaching guitar and all the rest. She didn’t like that idea but agreed to take the sketch and show it to customers, and if they knew anything, they could give me a call. At least I think that was the arrangement. My pidgin English isn’t all that good.

I concentrated on all the business establishments within a five-block radius of the Laundromat. I got a maybe at a food market on Twenty-first.