If I Should Die Before I Die (29 page)

“What does that mean: ‘not just one'?”

“The McCloy murders,” I said. “His great friend, Carter. I think he was involved in them up to his eyeballs!”

I'd gone further than I'd intended to. I didn't think it mattered. I thought she knew it too, enough of it, whether she'd admitted it to herself or not.

Silence. Then, softly:

“Why are you telling me this, Philip?”

“Because I want your help this time. I want to know where he is.”

“I don't know that.”

“Then I want you to find out.”

“How?”

“It should be easy. All you have to do is call Roy Barger. You're still his client, aren't you? In fact, his principal client in the Magister situation? If you insist on it, I'm sure he'll tell you.”

“You're right. Yes, you're right. I'll call him now.”

“And then you'll call me back?” I said.

“Yes, Philip. I promise I will.”

I didn't believe her then. I didn't entirely believe her later, at the office, when she called to tell me Barger didn't know where Halloran was. According to Barger, she said, Vincent had always called Roy, not vice versa, and only once had he left a number. Roy hadn't kept it. He thought it might have been a 516 number. 516 was Long Island, wasn't it? Yes, Margie, 516 was Long Island.

In addition, the previous day it had been Vincent who picked Roy up at Roy's office, then left after they'd had the meeting downtown. It had been Roy's impression that Vincent had driven in from outside the city, but that's all it was: an impression.

And that, per Margie, was all Barger had been able to tell her. He'd had no idea how she could reach Vincent.

Maybe so, maybe not.

My focus was on Barger. It didn't even occur to me that he wasn't the only person she'd have called. In any case, the Counselor had walked into my office while I was still talking to Margie and stood in the doorway, listening. When I hung up, I told him what she'd said.

“Try it,” he said.

“Try what?”

“The 516 number. Call 516 Information. Doesn't his mother have a house somewhere on Long Island?”

I remembered it then, from the pictures in Sally Magister's loft: a large and rambling Victorian-style affair on a bluff, kids sitting on the broad front steps, and water in the background.

I called the 516 Information while the Counselor stood there. Sure enough, they had a listing under S. Magister.

I punched out the number.

Five, maybe six rings. Then it picked up, and a male, probably black, voice said:

“Magister residence.”

“Who's this speaking, please?” I said.

“This is John, the caretaker. Who's this?”

I told him I was working on a research project for the Census Bureau. I said we were trying to determine how many people were actually living in the homes in his community.

“Actually living?” he said. “Well, there's only me in this one.”

“You mean you're the only one who lives in the house?”

“Well, not all the time. It fills up in summer. Sometimes holidays.”

“But right now you're the only one?”

“That's right.”

“So I should put down a one?”

“If that's what's best.”

“And your name's John Magister?”

This drew a chuckle from him.

“Heck no,” he said. “I'm John Jackson.”

“But I don't get it. If you're Jackson, who's Magister?”

“They
own
the place, mister. They're the summer people.”

“And how many are there?”

“Well …” He hesitated. Maybe he was getting suspicious.

“Isn't there a Vincent?” I asked him.

“Yeah, there's a Vincent. He doesn't come around anymore. But he's not a Magister either. His … hey, who did you say you was?”

“I think I'll just put down a one,” I told him. “Thank you very much, Mr. Jackson.”

And I hung up.

“He says Halloran doesn't come around anymore,” I told the Counselor.

“Then keep trying,” he said.

“Trying what?”

“Maybe he's not the only one with a house on Long Island.” He turned to leave. “I'll be upstairs,” he said. “Let me know when you've talked to Derr.”

I got to spend a lot of time with Information while I waited for Bobby to call in. After 516 I went through 203, which is southern Connecticut, and 914 (Westchester) and 609 (the south Jersey coast) for good measure. And drew blanks. Yes, there were Powells, Starks, Villiers, even one Fording. But none we were looking for.

Where do the rich go in November, the week before Thanksgiving? When it's too soon for skiing or the Caribbean?

On a hunch, I called Intaglio at his office.

“This is an old friend of yours,” I said to him when he answered. “You don't have to say anything incriminating. I'm going to read you a list of names, with regard to certain written statements I know your friends have. If I'm right, just say: ‘I can't talk to you now.' If I'm wrong, say: ‘I'll call you back later.' Got it?”

“What is this sh—?” Intaglio started to say.

“Here goes,” I interrupted. “Wilson ‘Booger' Powell. C. Sprague Fording. Arthur A. ‘Shrimp' Stark. Michael A. Villiers. That's it. Over to you.”

He didn't say anything for long enough that I thought he might have hung up. Or was thinking. Or waiting for somebody to get out of earshot.

“Hello?” I said.

“I can't talk to you now,” he answered. “I'll call you back later.”

And though I said: “Wait a minute!” the phone went dead in my ear.

I took him to mean that I was part right and part wrong. Maybe my list was too long? It didn't matter, I thought.

It mattered even less, though, when Bobby Derr called in.

“I can't find a single one of them, Philly,” he said. “I even went over to Powell's old man's office. Zero.”

What I'd set Bobby to doing was to find one of the others on the alibi lists: Powell, Fording, Stark, Villiers. All the party boys. I'd figured we'd find at least one and start there, shaking a tree as we went.

In a funny way, that fit too—that he'd come up empty-handed—but I didn't see it right then.

“What do you mean, zero? You mean they're
all
out of town? That can't be, can it?”

“Beats me,” he said. “Remember: Fording and Stark are the only ones who have jobs. The rest could be anywhere. I checked the addresses we've got. Like I said, I even went to Powell's old man's office. Nothing. Nobody's seen them around.”

“Well, what did Powell's father say?”

“I didn't get as far as him. I only got his secretary.”

“And?”

“She laughed at me. She said she didn't think Mr. Powell had seen his son in a decade. I told you, Philly, it may be your nickel, or Camelot's, but we're wasting our time.”

“What's Powell's mother's name?” I said.

“Mrs. Powell,” he answered, laughing.

“Are you sure?”

“Sure I'm …”

But then he hesitated. With good reason. Vince Halloran's mother wasn't Mrs. Halloran, and Carter McCloy's wasn't Mrs. McCloy either.

“Weren't Powell's parents divorced?” I asked him.

“I think so.”

“Well? What name does she go under now?”

“I don't know. If anybody has that, you do, Philly. We did a rundown on McCloy's buddies, remember? Maybe it was in there, but you've got the file.”

“Hold on a second,” I said. “Let me look.”

“It's your nickel, babe,” he answered.

I rummaged through the file drawer of my desk and came up with the report he was talking about. And found the name. It wasn't Powell.

“Bryce,” I said into the phone. “Mrs. Harmon P. Bryce. No address or phone number, just the name. Have you checked her out?”

He hadn't. He started to protest, but I cut him off.

I found the listing right in the Manhattan phone book. I jotted down the number on a pad and was about to pass it on to Bobby when I noticed the address.
Noticed
it? Jesus Christ, it was like it was printed in bold type.

Central Park West.

“Jesus Christ Almighty!” I shouted into the phone. Bobby tried to say something, but I went right on. “It's the same address! That's how they did it! Powell drives right in, his mother lives in the same building!”

“Who did what?” Bobby was saying. “What are you talking about?”

“The Lee murder. Suzi Lee. She lived in the same building as Powell's mother! That's how they got in. They drove in. What did the garage man say? He said he didn't see anybody he didn't know, right? Or course not! But he knew Powell. And he saw Powell. Powell drove in and Powell drove out, I'll bet the house on it!”

“Hold …”

“Never mind, Bobby. Find him. Find that garage attendant.”

“How the hell am I supposed to do that? It's eleven in the morning. He's the night man.”

“I don't give a damn. Find him where he lives. Try Powell on him. I'll bet he saw him. Then call me here.”

Bobby started to say something about my nickel again, but I hung up on him.

And sat, with the adrenaline running.

And decided I couldn't wait for Bobby.

I tried the number in the phone book, Mrs. Harmon P. Bryce, and got the maid. No, Mrs. Bryce wasn't in, the maid said. Mr. Powell? No, of course he wasn't there. Yes, she knew Mr. Powell, but Mr. Powell didn't live there. Now who was this calling, please?

I said I was an old friend of the family's, but then I blew it without even knowing it.

I asked for Mr. Bryce.

Mr. Bryce, I learned, had been dead for four years.

And that was all I got out of the maid.

I had nothing to do till Bobby called in again, but I couldn't stand the waiting. I went back to the area code game I'd been playing before, and what do you know, the Information operator for 516 asked me to spell the name. I did. A moment later, the melodic computerized voice came on with: “The number you are looking for is …”

I wrote it down. I stared at it for a minute. Then I took the stairs, three at a time, to the Counselor's office, the slip of paper clutched in my hand.

Ms. Shapiro was with him when I burst in. I knew the scene well. Whenever the Counselor was trying to get away—as he was that Tuesday, for I knew he and his wife were due to leave, midday, for the house in the Hamptons—he drove Ms. Shapiro half nuts. Normally he'd be throwing papers at her, instructions too, and in the end, somehow, the mess on his desk would have been transferred to hers. But this time she was just standing there, steno pad and pen in hand, while the Counselor looked like he was having trouble concentrating.

I told him what I had.

“I think we've got it,” I said excitedly. “I can feel it in my bones.”

“Well, go ahead,” he said, motioning. “Use the other phone.” Then, to Ms. Shapiro: “Myrna, it'll have to wait.”

“But you'll be late leaving,” she protested.

“Then I'll be late,” he retorted, and she went out, shutting the door behind her.

The so-called other phone was one of the Counselor's Wife's touches. When she'd redecorated his office, she'd put an easy chair, table and swing-over reading lamp in the far corner, next to the windows which gave out over the back of the house. The Counselor, as far as I knew, had never used it, but every once in a while the second phone came in handy, particularly when we didn't want people to know they were on the speakerphone.

I sat down in the chair and punched in the Bryce number.

Halfway through the fifth ring, it picked up and a sleepy girl's voice said: “Hullo?”

I went through my Census Bureau routine again. It didn't work so well this time. She bought it all right, but since she didn't live there, she couldn't answer the questions.

A young voice, I thought. A little blurry-sounding.

“Is Mrs. Bryce there?” I asked.

“Who? Oh, I guess that must be Booger's mom.” A soft giggle. “No, she's not.”

“Well, what about a Mr. Wilson Powell? Is he there?”

“You mean Booger? Yeah, he's around somewhere. You want to talk to him?”

“Yes, that would be very helpful. If you don't mind.”

“Well, hold on. I'll have to go look for him.”

She went off. I covered the mouthpiece with my hand and explained to the Counselor:

“It's some girl. Maybe Powell has a kid sister. She's gone to look for him.”

Come to think of it, she was gone a long time. She never did come back on. But we didn't have to wait anywhere near that long.

I guess Vincent the Angel's ego just couldn't stand it. He must have picked up on another phone and heard my spiel, but now his young ego simply couldn't stand having me there and not revealing himself.

I heard the start of a laugh. Then, suddenly, his voice broke in:

“It's you, isn't it? Revere? I thought I recognized your voice. What a coincidence, that's beautiful! I've been waiting for you, amigo. What took you so long?”

I covered the mouthpiece again. “Halloran,” I mouthed at the Counselor. He covered his lips with a finger and gently picked up at his desk.

“Hello, Vince,” I said.

“My friends call me Hal.”

“Hello, Hal,” I said.

“Better,” he said. “But you're sure some lame kind of investigator. What took you so long?”

“I guess I had other things to do,” I said calmly.

“Other things? What other things?” He actually sounded indignant. Then he laughed again. “Oh yeah, I almost forgot. I heard somewhere you've been chasing after Margie. How're you making out?”

“You know she's worried about you,” I said.

“Worried about me? Why is everybody so worried about me?
I'm
not worried about me. Let me tell you something, amigo. The whore's not worried about me, she's worried about the company. Do you know what I told her? I told her to sell it and let's party.”