Secret Dead Men (15 page)

We swapped, and I found myself back inside the Brain Hotel lobby. I walked over to Paul. "Start talking, tough guy."

Paul glared at me. "Don't you do that again!" He rubbed his eyes. "Man, that hurts like a mother!"

"We haven't got all day, Paul."

"I know, I know. Look--I knew that woman. She's somebody important from Vegas. She's tight with The Man."

Again with this "Man." "Who is she?"

"I can't name names, but I know she's a player. That's the only reason her boyfriend walked away with his heart still in his chest."

There's beautiful tremor in the brain that comes with complete, stark understanding. Like the first time you grasp algebra, or perhaps learn the theory behind a musical scale. I had the pieces floating around in my mind, but it took until this moment for them to congeal into something solid.

"What's her name?" I asked, even though I already knew the answer.

"Her name is Leah Farrell."

Leah. And Ray. Ray Loogan.

"All right Paul, I'm going to be straight with you. A while ago I mentioned that I was involved in a side project--a murder investigation. I didn't bring it up much because I didn't want it distracting you."

"You'd better start talking, chief," Paul said.

"Okay, okay." How to put this? "You know the face we're wearing?"

"The face of the murder victim, right? You told me that. But how does he know Leah Farrell?"

I laid it all out for Paul exactly as Brad Larsen had, including the bits and pieces of evidence I'd glommed for the past eight months. "More importantly, if Leah and Ray know our client, she must be tied to The Association as well."

"Or this 'Roger Adams' guy."

"Good point." I paused to plan our next move. "Look--let me take it from here. I've got a lot of strange shit to sort out."

"Be my guest," Paul said. "I'm only in this for the babysitting."

* * * *

I resumed control of my body to find my tongue in Susannah Winston's mouth. Quickly, I broke the embrace. Her eyes were still closed.

"Godsorry," I stammered.

Susannah's eyes fluttered open, dreamily. "Why are you sorry?"

"I'm not ... I'm not being professional," I said. Damn that Doug. I'd told him to
walk over
to the brunette, not
deep-throat
the brunette. I made a mental note to chew him out later.

She started to fix my shirt collar, but I gently nudged her hands away. "Ms. Winston..." That's it. Keep it professional.

"Susannah," she reminded me. "It's Susannah, Paul. Man, you save my life, and then you call me by my last name?"

"Sorry. Susannah. My mind is in a different place." Damn. I didn't sound one bit like Paul. That sounded like me. No-frills, basic, just-the-facts me. I could tell that
she
could tell, based on the expression on her face.

Time for a subject change. "Never mind. We should get out of here."

The cops showed up. They noticed the cabbie with the missing head. But they didn't notice Susannah and me, walking arm-in-arm, down Market Street, as if strolling the shops. Susannah had thought to grab the shopping bags out of the cab--a sure sign of a criminally devious mind. There was more to her story than a chance encounter with an ex-hit man lover.

This was going to be tricky.

Seventeen

Christmas Mistress

Paul agreed to conduct the meeting so that I would be free to observe and take notes inside the Brain Hotel lobby. He chose a bar not too far from Gard's Center City office (and as it turned out, our Spruce Street apartment). McGlinchey's seemed to be the kind of place where patrons minded their own business. And from the looks of the dust and funk on the walls, everybody had been left alone since the last centennial.

Paul took a green vinyl booth on the left side, which gave him the perfect vantage point to catch Gard when he came in. He ordered a draft of Schafer and tumbler of tonic water and ice to diffuse the beer, which came to a grand total of 85 cents. I liked the place already. I had to return here when I was in control of my body again.

Richard seemed completely freaked out. I was sure he'd walked by this place a million times and never gave it a second look. Now that he did, he was sorry. He slid into Paul's booth and ordered a gin gimlet from a waitress who wore a tube top and didn't appear to shave her armpits. Gard shuddered.

"I don't have much time," he said. "What's going on? Where's Susannah?"

"Over at Nan Duskin, shopping," Paul replied. "I made it clear to the owner that Ms. Winston was not to leave until she had spent an appropriate amount of money. I needed to speak with you alone. We had an incident this morning."

At this point, the waitress slapped Richard's gimlet on the table and asked him for ninety-five cents. Some of the drink dribbled over the sides of the glass, and pooled on the table. Richard put the five back in his wallet, and started fishing for a single. After an uncomfortable length of time, he gave up and forked over the five. "Here. Keep the rest."

Then, to Paul: "What kind of incident?"

"Ms. Winston's ex-boyfriend took a few shots at us while we were in a cab. Our driver got his brains blown out. On the bright side, we didn't have to pay the fare."

Poor Richard went white. "My God. He is real."

"Real and connected to an unsavory crowd. Turns out, Ms. Winston was not exaggerating--'Roger' does indeed work for a criminal. But his name is not Roger, it's Ray--Ray Loogan, and the criminal operates out of Nevada. I'm familiar with them, having worked in the Las Vegas area for some time."

"My God," Richard repeated, then proceeded to drain half his gimlet.

"That's not all. He was with an associate of this criminal--a woman named Leah Farrell. Which means if she's with Ray, chances are this criminal from Las Vegas is very interested in your Susannah."

"Can't I ever pick 'em without complications? If they don't have bruiser ex-husbands, they're tied to the mob. Jesus H. Christ--I'm too old for this bullshit."

Paul said, "Maybe you should consider fidelity."

"What?"

"Nothing. But I need to know more before I can bail your pinstriped ass out of this."

Richard considered this for a moment. Even from my vantage point in the Brain Hotel lobby, I could practically see his wheels spinning.
Can I wrangle out of this now and ignore her, or will she come after me? Is paying for more protection worth a thrice-a-week screw? Should
I
have her killed?

"I'll tell you everything I know."

"Great. Another gimlet, Mr. Gard?"

* * * *

Predictably, Richard had met her in a bar: the Crab Club, on 2nd Street in Old City, the newly-minted historical section of the city. The Federal Government had poured a ton of money and concrete into the area--formerly a slum--to be able to host President Ford for the Bicentennial in the actual historical environs without having to chase away winos and junkies every two minutes.

They met December 23, 1975. Richard had been at his firm's office party, which spilled over into the bar at Harrigan's Saloon, near Market Street, then the Crab Club. He was intoxicated, but by no means devoid of his lawyerly charms. Susannah had introduced herself when he bumped into her to order another French martini. Richard soon abandoned his buddies, called his wife in Lower Merion to tell her he was taking a room in town, and took Susannah to "drop her off at her apartment." As it turned out, there was no need for Richard to rent a room. Upon sobering up the next morning, Richard found himself in a tricky Yuletide situation. As fate would have it, Susannah Winston was a far cry from the acne-scarred, flabby-thighed bimbo from the steno pool he usually landed. No, she was an amazingly young, amazingly beautiful woman who was alone for holidays, orphaned, and in dire need of companionship. She also gave the most "mind-numbing" blow job Richard had ever received.

Now, this was a fact I could have lived without knowing. But as Richard told this part of the story, I caught Paul conjuring scenarios and images, involving him and our client. They flittered by the lobby screen almost too fast to catch. Almost.

Richard spun this wild tale of a lost case file and the urgent need to replicate the documents on Christmas Eve, no, honey I don't work for Ebeneezer Scrooge, but I do try cases in front of him, and if I don't have this case file together by noon tomorrow ... blah blah blah. And on Christmas Eve, instead of being home with Elaine and his twin boys, he ended up drinking milk and eating slightly-burnt cookies Susannah had baked. He even darted out to a shop on the square to buy her an impromptu Christmas present of emerald earrings--using the firm's petty cash account, of course. Susannah returned the favor by numbing his mind yet again.

Again, more images from Paul: Red and green felt, pine needles, Santa Claus, lips. I was going to have to watch this situation carefully. Perhaps take more drastic measures.

Richard realized how simple it would be to care and feed a mistress. Fact: Susannah Winston was independently wealthy--no clumsy requests for cash for a manicure, or a new bra. Fact: She had her own apartment on Rittenhouse Square, not five blocks from the firm. Fact, she didn't give a damn that he had a family. Fact, she could give the most mind-numbing...

"I get the picture," Paul said.

"Right." Richard's face was blushed, and he was working on his fourth gimlet. He didn't seem to remember he'd been pressed for time. In fact, he didn't even seem to realize he was talking out loud.

Susannah had supplied the same autobiographical details she had Paul: rich family in Boston, generous trust fund from inventor father, bad taste in men. She also told him she came to Philadelphia to see the Bicentennial. She figured it would be the chance for a rebirth, right along with the 200th celebration of the nation's birth.

And then, the note from Roger Adams had arrived. The rest was recent history: a teary confession of past wrongdoings, a desperate plea for help, and no way for a man with even the thinnest fibers of self-respect to wriggle out of the obligation. Richard had to help his mistress. He called the biggest agency in the country, the Brown Agency, for that help. Best of all, he could expense it.

Gard looked around for his briefcase. Ah yes, there it was. Right next to him in the booth. Absentmindedly, he rubbed the condensation from his glass, then turned to gather up his things.

"Before you go, there's one more thing. Mr. Wojciechowski had a call from his accountant yesterday. It seems there was a problem with my retainer check."

Good boy, that Paul. I knew I could count on him to talk cash. It was the one part of the investigatory business I loathed.

"What kind of problem?"

"The kind where it fails to clear."

"What?"

"Now I'm sure it's a mix-up, and I'm not the kind to suspend services for lack of payment. We're both adults, beyond that petty nonsense. I would like a new check that can be cashed by noon tomorrow."

Richard frowned. "Ah, those bank assholes. Always screwing things up ... yes, yes, of course, Paul. I don't know what to say. I can give you a check right now. I'd walk with you to the Girard Bank, but it's out of the way and I really have to--"

"Tomorrow will be fine." And with that, Richard excused himself and left.

* * * *

"Now we know two things," I told Paul from the Brain Hotel lobby mike.

He looked down at his reflection in the pint glass, which made it seem like he was staring right at me from the lobby screen.
What's that?

"One, the man who hired us is an aging jerk who enjoys blow jobs way too much."

C'mon,
Paul said.
How much is too much?

"Two, our client's story has evolved over the months. She's gotten ambitious."

Yeah, I was thinking the same thing,
Paul said.
One minute, she's knocking around Philly for kicks, the next she's planning a grand rebirth. It doesn't fit.

"Third..."

I thought you said we knew two things.

"Now I'm theorizing."

Oh. Please continue, then.

"Third, she's somehow connected with Ray Loogan, who killed our fellow Brain Hotel resident, Brad Larsen."

Paul paused to mull it over.
Kind of makes you wonder how you got called in on this case, doesn't it?

"To a point. Our 'Stan Wojciechowski' is a backup vendor at the Brown Agency, and Brown is the best there is. They're the Pinkertons of the '70s. It's no wonder Gard called them, and they decided his rinky-dink babysitting gig was something for a freelancer, not one of their own boys. Very well could be a coincidence."

Sure. And my mother was Betsy Ross. She used to sew me diapers made of rejected American flags.

He was right. There was something I was missing. "What are you saying?" I asked. "The Association set this up? Why? What's the motive?"

The Association?
Paul shook his head.
Oh, yeah. That's what you call it. No, I don't think it's something The Man would pull ... I mean, it's too damned indirect. He's usually blunt, to the point. Unless....
He snapped his fingers.
Wait a minute ... unless he's somehow on to your investigation, and connected it to the name Stan Wojciechowski.

"I see where you're going, I said, "but it's impossible. Wojciechowski is a name I use for my freelance business. I purposefully kept it that way so the money stays clean. Or, I should say, Association-free."

Stan has never done a little digging for your investigation?

"Not a single shovelful."

Well, we've got to resolve this one way or the other. I don't think approaching our client point-blank is the way to do it, though.

"I agree. Better keep this particular part of the investigation in-house for now. I'm thinking of grilling Brad Larsen."

Sounds perfectly groovy to me.

A tap on Paul's shoulder interrupted the conversation. The view on the screen snapped up to the greasy, tired face of our waitress.
Can I get you and your imaginary friend anything else?
she asked.