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 Pauclass="underline" 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 Pauclass="underline" 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.
No, Paul said. We're fine.
Then, to me: You know, we've gotta start having these little conferences inside the hotel from now on.
Eighteen
Case Solved
Hours later I was sitting at Brad's table in his Brain Hotel room. I purposefully chose his room-spare as it was-to make him comfortable. If he was going to freak out and start foaming at the mouth and hurling profanities, better he do it in here.
“I have something important to show you,” I said. “Something you've been waiting a long time to see."