He had the attache case with him when he went back to his office and stopped at Janet's desk.
"You remember the name of the place this came from?"
"I wrote it down, in case you wanted me to check on the card."
"I found the card," Mitchell said. "It was in here all the time."
Janet said, "Oh?" and waited.
"What I'd like you to do, go there sometime today and get me another case, just like it."
"You want another case," Janet said, "just like that one."
"I was fooling with the lock and I sprung it."
"Maybe it can be fixed."
"I'd just as soon have another case, a new one, if it's okay with you."
"Certainly it's okay."
"Thank you."
"Mr. O'Boyle called again. I told him I gave you the message the first time."
"Get him for me, will you?"
"Yes sir, Mr. Mitchell."
He looked at her. "Janet, I have a reason for wanting another case. Will you accept that, take my word for it?" He went into his office.
"I've got another one for you to look up," Mitchell said into the phone. "Robert Sly. I'll give you his address, his driver's license number if it'll help."
"Is he a friend of Leo Frank?" O'Boyle's voice asked.
Mitchell hesitated. "Why?"
"You haven't seen the paper this morning?"
"I spent the night here. Something I had to do."
"Get a paper," O'Boyle said. "Page three, a picture of the model studio with the window blown out."
"He have an accident? What happened?"
"He was shot four times. You give me the name of a guy to check on and three days later he's dead. Now do you want to tell me what's going on?"
"Was it a robbery, what?"
"He had forty-three dollars on him, a comb, a can of hair spray and a bottle of Beach Boy aftershave lotion. No, it wasn't a robbery and you're not answering my question. Mitch, what's going on?"
"Wait a minute, Jim. What about Alan Raimy?"
"What about him?"
"What'd you learn?"
"The only one I've found out about so far is Leo Frank. You remember Joe Paonessa, the assistant prosecutor you were so nice to? I checked with him. He called me yesterday afternoon to tell me what they had on Leo."
"What?"
"Mitch-" O'Boyle sounded impatient, let his breath out, probably shaking his head.
Mitchell said, "Come on, tell me."
"Leo Frank was arrested once," O'Boyle said, "for indecent exposure, three times for pandering, one conviction, served ninety days. What I want you to understand," O'Boyle said then, "the prosecutor's office checks him out as a favor, and the next day the man's dead. Now what do I tell Joe Paonessa when he calls?"
"Wait and see if he does."
"Mitch, the man was murdered."
Mitchell said, "I don't know what to tell you, Jim. I mean right now I don't have anything to tell you. Maybe in a couple of days."
"I'm going to come over and talk to you," O'Boyle said.
"I won't be here."
"Mitch, I give the prosecutor's office two names. One of them is found murdered. Now what are they going to do? They're going to call me and say how do you know this guy, what was his problem? And they're going to look for the other name, Alan Raimy. Now I know Leo and Alan are involved in the blackmail, obviously. Joe Paonessa doesn't know that, naturally I didn't mention your name. But he could think about it and put it together and you could look up to see the police at your door. Before we get to that, I want you to tell me the whole thing. All right?"
"I don't see you have to tell them anything," Mitchell said. "Tell him they're clients of yours. They come in, you want to check them out first. Jim, guys who commit crimes go to lawyers, don't they? Or guys who've committed a crime and see they might get caught? Tell Joe what's-his-name they came to you, but haven't told you the whole story yet. They owe on a gambling debt, something like that, and have been threatened. Jim, you're the lawyer, you can think of something."
"I want to talk to you today, Mitch."
"All right. But later on, okay? I've got things to do and I'm running out of time."
"Mitch, promise me-you won't do anything until you've talked to me."
"We'll see," Mitchell said. "But I may not have a choice."
Alan pulled the bedroom phone out of the jack and took it with him when he went downstairs. He got the Free Press off the front steps and read about Leo while the water was boiling. That Bobby. Goddamn gunslinger had to blow the place up. Style but wild. Man loved to pull the trigger. Yeah, Alan said, and smiled.
It was working, he told himself, pouring the coffee. Everything was working. He went down a checklist in his mind.
Leo out of the way.
Guy's wife upstairs, under control.
Panel truck in the garage. Stolen but as good as clean, because Richard the dealer sure wasn't going to any police.
Guy busy at his plant, not knowing what shit was going on.
That was the luckiest jackpot great-timing break of all, the guy not coming home last night. Jesus, so he didn't have to sneak Slim out and hide her in some motel and leave a phony note saying she was out for the evening or visiting her mother or some goddamn thing-which the guy might buy or might not. That had been the riskiest part of the whole idea and it turned out to be nothing to worry about.
He placed the coffeepot and cups, the paper and the telephone on a tray and carried it upstairs to the bedroom. She was lying in the big king-size bed with the sheet covering her and seemed to be still asleep. But her eyes opened as he set the tray on the night table. She watched him put the gun in his pocket and plug in the phone.
"Where did you sleep?" she asked him.
"Hey, Slim, come on. That wasn't a dream you were having. That was for real."
"Did you give me another injection during the night?"
Alan grinned at her.
"I mean the heroin, or whatever it is."
"Just the one, before we went to bed. Some other time I'm going to keep you awake for the show."
"May I get dressed now?"
"You're fine the way you are. Sit up, we'll have some coffee. First though-" He sat on the edge of the bed, picked up the phone and dialed a number.
"Mr. Mitchell, please. Mr. Raimy calling." Alan looked over at Barbara and winked.
"What happened to your friend?" Mitchell said, as soon as he heard Alan's voice.
"Who's that?"
"Leo."
"Never heard of him. Listen," Alan said. "I've been thinking about you and getting very bad vibes, like you're trying to pull some kind of shit on me. You ever get that feeling?"
"If you're nervous, see a doctor," Mitchell said. "If you want to get this done, then let's do it."
"You got the fifty-two?"
"I can have it today."
"Okay. We'll do it tonight."
"Where?"
"Get the money, go back to your office and stay there. I'll call you."
"I assume," Mitchell said, "you want it in the briefcase you sent."
"You assume correct. Now, one other thing."
"What's that?"
"No police. Okay?"
"No police."
"Not that I don't trust you but, man, I don't like taking a chance. You understand? So I'm going to have somebody with me."
"Who, Bobby?"
"Hey, you've been busy. No, somebody else. Hang on a second."
Mitchell waited.
Barbara said, "Mitch?"
His chair came upright as he straightened and the arms banged against the desk. "Barbara! Where are you?… Barbara!"
There was a silence before Alan came on the line again.
"You see it now, sport? If I find out you got the police in this-man, if I even feel it-no wife. I'm taking a chance. You may not even give a shit about her and I'm left holding Slim, but I don't see any other way to do it. You give me the fifty-two, I give you your wife. Shake hands and go home."
"Where are you?" Mitchell said.
"What difference does it make? I'll call you later."
"Let me talk to my wife again."
"Don't worry, I'll take good care of her."
The line went dead.