Dead Canaries Don't Sing (28 page)

“I don’t know where it is,” she insisted. “There’s so much stuff in here. I wish that one of these days he’d just—”

“Is that it?” A small white business card protruded from a pile of coupons.

“Could be.”

I picked it up and studied it, never letting on that my heart was pounding furiously.

Andrew Karp,
it read.
Vice President of Acquisitions, Pomonok Properties
.

Seeing the name sent a chill through me. Pomonok Properties, one of George Babcock’s oldest clients— until Tommee Frack stole it away. The firm’s president, Joseph DeFeo, had been quoted in Tommee’s
Newsday
obituary, singing his praises.

“Is that what you wanted?” Violet looked exasperated.

“Yes. Thank you. Would you mind if I kept this?”

“Take it. Get it out of here. Far as I’m concerned, it’s one less piece of paper. Besides, I don’t want Ollie getting it into his head that he should call that man. These days, I never know what he’s going to do, the old goat.”

We both looked up at the sound of footsteps shuffling across the linoleum. I hoped he hadn’t heard her.

He didn’t seem to. He held a stack of photographs out to me.

“Here they are. This is Gwennie, when she was growing up. Her high school graduation, her sweet sixteen, they’re all here.”

“Finish your coffee,” Violet told him. I noticed that this time, she spoke much more gently. “Jessie doesn’t have time for that right now. She has to go look at Stormy Weather.”

“What’s this about the weather? It’s not going to storm. Look outside. The sun is shining!”

The look Violet cast me was somewhere between desperate and heartbroken.

Chapter 14

“A bird is known by his feathers.”

—Yiddish Proverb

It was time to learn more about Pomonok Properties. The company’s name was coming up too many times, and in too many different contexts, for me to ignore.

But first, I had more practical matters to attend to. I put aside all thoughts of Tommee Frack as I stopped in at the Athertons’ barn to determine whether Stormy Weather was well enough to be taken off medication. As I looked him over, Skip stood near the wall of the barn with his hands jammed into the pockets of his loose, ill-fitting jeans, giving me space but clearly interested in what was going on. His weatherworn face was pulled into a serious expression, but I was pretty sure I saw admiration in his eyes.

“There you go, boy,” I said soothingly, stroking the stallion’s nose after I’d finished the examination. His temperature was normal, the swelling in his throat had gone down . . . he was good to go. “You’re doing just fine. We can take you off the antibiotics. I bet you feel a heck of a lot better, right?”

He nuzzled me in response. The feeling of his warm, hot breath on my neck made me laugh.

Skip shook his head. Grinning, he said, “You sure are a softy.”

“About some things, anyway.” I patted Stormy Weather’s neck affectionately. “You’re
definitely
back to your old self, aren’t you? Wait—what’s this?” I reached into my pocket. “An apple? And look, it has your name on it!”

I held out the apple, the biggest Delicious I’d been able to find, within the stallion’s reach. He nuzzled me again before nibbling at it. The unexpected gesture made me wonder if, somehow, he understood that I’d had something to do with healing his excruciating sore throat.

“Feels good to be able to swallow again, doesn’t it?” I murmured.

“He doesn’t understand a word you’re saying, you know,” Skip teased.

“I don’t know about that,” I countered. “I think he understands plenty.”

“Maybe you’re right. Sure looks like he knows who his friends are.”

After Skip and I spent a few minutes discussing Stormy Weather’s recuperation, I went straight home, basking in a true sense of accomplishment. But I quickly shifted my focus. With my gray feline computer buddy on my lap, I logged on to the
Long Island
Business Beat
website, then held my breath as I typed in the words “Pomonok Properties” under “Search.”

“Whoa!” I cried, astounded at how often it was mentioned.

Cat merely blinked. I scratched her neck and ears distractedly, clicking on to one article after another. All of them recounted success stories. Pomonok Properties to Build Long Island’s Largest Office Complex. Pomonok Properties Breathes New Life into Failing Strip Mall. Zoning Change Results in New Industrial Park for Pomonok Properties.

When I came across a piece entitled “Joseph DeFeo of Pomonok Properties Named Man of the Year,” I smiled knowingly. Sure enough; in addition to giving Pomonok Properties super publicity, the article applauded the Chamber of Commerce for bestowing this great honor, the Somerset Gardens Catering Facility for sponsoring the event, and the Police Officers Choir for providing the entertainment. They all came out looking like heroes.

Still, I was frustrated. All I was getting from
Long
Island Business Beat
was glowing reports. Greedily I read about the valuable contribution the firm made to Long Island’s economy, the sorely needed improvements it made to the dilapidated malls it renovated, the public service it provided by building luxury condominiums for young professionals in need of gourmet kitchens and recessed lighting.

The whole thing reminded me of everything I had read and heard about Tommee Frack.

None of this was news, I realized. It was
all
public relations.

At least I have a name that gives me a place to start, I thought. Joseph DeFeo. Man of the Year. He knew both Tommee and George Babcock, and his company was certainly a force on Long Island.

I wondered if he had a dog registered with the State of New York. But I quickly decided that instead of going the sneaky route, I’d head right into the belly of the beast. It was time to take my wool blazer out of the closet again.

Pomonok Properties’ headquarters was an eight-story office complex in Island Terrace, right off the Long Island Expressway. The building was covered in mirrors, giving it an impenetrable look.

That image didn’t help much in the confidence department as I rode the elevator to the top floor. When I stepped off, I found myself surrounded by huge windows. Beyond was a panorama of Long Island—or at least its businesses. Office buildings and shopping centers stretched out as far as I could see, a crazy quilt of commerce. And Pomonok Properties stood at its very heart.

I pushed through the pair of glass doors that opened into a reception area. There I was confronted by an entire wall of glossy color photographs of apartment complexes, commercial buildings, and shopping centers. All were spiffed up to look their enticing best. The garden apartments had freshly painted shutters, the lawns were lush green and freshly mowed. None of the office buildings had a single car in the lot, making them look more like architectural models than actual workplaces. Even the shopping centers looked like illustrations in a children’s book, rows of carefully maintained shops that sold only attractive things like flowers and ice cream and fresh produce in bright Crayola colors.

On the opposite wall, in the same three-dimensional letters that decorated the Tommy Frack & Associates office, was what I took to be Pomonok Properties’ slogan:
Building a Better, Brighter Long Island
!

I stepped right up to the receptionist. “Excuse me. I was wondering if I might speak with Mr. DeFeo.”

“He’s in a meeting. Do you have an appointment?”

“I’m afraid not. But I only need five minutes,” I added hastily.

She was unimpressed. I tried another tack. “George Babcock suggested I drop by,” I improvised.

A spark of interest flared in her dull eyes. “Can I ask what this is about?”

“I really need to speak with Mr. DeFeo directly.”

She kept her eyes on me as she picked up the phone. “Jane? There’s a woman here to talk with Joey. No, no appointment. But she said George Babcock sent her.”

Holding the phone away from her ear, she said to me, “I didn’t get your name.”

“Jessica Popper.”

“You’re not a lawyer, are you?”

I had to stop myself from laughing. “No.”

She spoke into the phone again. “She said she only needs a few minutes with him. Sure, I’ll hold.”

Another minute passed before she said, “Thanks, Jane. I’ll tell her to wait.”

I stood in the reception area, admiring the architectural wonders that constituted Pomonok Properties and a better, brighter Long Island. Finally, a gaunt woman whose navy blue suit had the crisp look of a military uniform emerged from behind a door.

“You can come with me.” She turned, walking off without waiting to see if I followed commands well. Then, abruptly, she stopped and faced me. “George Babcock sent you?”

I nodded.

“Really.” I couldn’t tell if she sounded impressed or incredulous.

She led me into a huge corner office with windows that covered two sides. The other walls were decorated with photographs. These were much more artful than the pictures in the reception area. One showed a strip mall in the snow, kind of a modern-day Currier and Ives. Another showed an office building at night, its windows glowing like stars.

But there were other photographs, as well. I found these much more interesting. Appearing in all of them was the same man, with thick black eyebrows and an exceptionally large stomach. I assumed he was DeFeo. As for the other people in the photographs, I recognized most of them from Tommee’s funeral.

What really caught my attention, however, were the two photos that featured Tommee Frack. In one, he stood with Joe DeFeo on his left and the zoning board member I’d seen at the funeral on his right. The second showed Tommee, Joey, the highway commissioner, and Gene Guilford, the former Norfolk County executive.

Tommee, posing with Joey and a bunch of other “players.” Yet hadn’t George Babcock said that Tommee Frack & Associates had become Pomonok Properties’ public relations firm only quite recently?

I sat in one of the available chairs, choosing a seat that put the photographs behind me. Almost immediately, the man with the stomach and the eyebrows strode in. Up close, I saw that it wasn’t only his eyebrows that gave him that distinctive Neanderthal look. His five o’clock shadow was so heavy it would no doubt need a lawn mower to remove—and it was barely three o’clock. But it was his eyes that were the most disconcerting. They were such a deep shade of brown they appeared almost black. Yet the darkness I saw in them had nothing to do with their color.

“I don’t usually meet with someone without an appointment,” Joe DeFeo declared in a gruff voice.

“Thanks for seeing me,” I replied politely. I leaned forward in my seat. “I just need a minute or two—”

“I never got your name.”

“Dr. Jessica Popper.”

He barely seemed to be listening as he lowered his massive form into a swivel chair that screeched in protest. He sat in silence for what felt like a very long time, squinting at me across the massive desk that dominated the spacious room and drumming on the desk nervously. A trio of rings adorned his stubby fingers: a thick platinum wedding band, a chunky gold college ring with a massive red stone, and a monstrous diamond pinky ring that dwarfed them both. “Did I understand this right? Babcock sent you to see me?”

“He didn’t
send
me, exactly. He just mentioned that you two had worked together for a long time— that he’d handled public relations for your company—and I thought you’d be a good reference. I’m very interested in hiring a firm, and—”

“Babcock suggested you talk to me?” Joe DeFeo didn’t look as if he believed me.

“Well, yes.” First rule of sleuthing: When in doubt, lie. “George told me you were one of his first clients.”

“What else did he say?”

So far, he was the one asking all the questions. Things weren’t proceeding quite the way I’d planned.

“That you’d worked together for a very long time and that he’d done a lot for your firm. As I started to tell you, I’m a veterinarian, and I’m about to hire a public relations firm. I met with George the other day, and I’m still trying to decide if he’s the person to go with. So I thought that speaking with some of his other clients might help me get a better feel for what he really does. For his clients, I mean.”

DeFeo’s eyebrows twitched infinitesimally. “Are you aware that Babcock isn’t handling my PR anymore? Did he tell you that?”

“Yes, he did mention you’d had a . . . parting of the ways. Which made me even more anxious to talk to you. You see, hiring a public relations firm is a big step for me. I’m not a big company. I’m just one person—”

“Did he tell you who we went with instead?”

I thought desperately, wondering how much to divulge. I decided to play it safe. “He didn’t have to. I’d read that Pomonok Properties was a client of Tommee Frack & Associates.”

He studied me thoughtfully. I studied him back, wearing the most innocent expression I could muster. “Maybe you can tell me something about the difference between Tommee Frack and George Babcock. Since you had experience with both, I mean.”

His eyes shifted away from mine. “Well, of course I hardly knew Tommee. I—that is, Pomonok Properties had just signed on with him when that terrible thing happened.”

I was glad the photographs of Joe and Tommee were behind me. Otherwise, my natural instinct would surely have been to glance over at them. Maybe Joe DeFeo’s company hadn’t officially been Tommee Frack’s client for long. But from the looks of things, the two of them had been buddies for quite some time.

There was no reason for him to know I’d picked up on that.

“Look, I really don’t have time for this,” he said curtly. “The only reason I agreed to see you was because I was curious about what Babcock was up to. All I can tell you is that when it comes to public relations, The Babcock Group is fine. George does a perfectly good job. I changed firms because I thought maybe Tommee could do an even better job. I felt it was time to try something different—from a business perspective, I mean. Of course, that’s all water under the bridge now.”