CHAPTER 21
P.I. School
The ability to persuade is central to the investigator’s
dealing with the subject . . . those who would persuade
must always be prepared to adjust and adapt.
Therein lies the challenge.
—Interviewing and Interrogation by Don Rabon
“OPEN YOUR EYES, honey.”
I was standing by an open window in a shabby, dark apartment. Three floor below, on the shadowy, rain-slicked street, giant Fords and Packards rolled by, the vintage vehicles sporting enough metal to qualify as miniature tanks. Rows of tall, brick apartment buildings lined the sidewalk as far as the eye could see and somebody nearby was playing a haunting big band classic on what sounded like a hissing record player.
“Glenn Miller,” Jack informed me. “ ‘Moonlight Serenade. ’ ”
Wherever I was, it wasn’t present day, Quindicott, Rhode Island. “Am I dreaming?” I whispered.
“Yeah, baby.”
The voice was no longer in my head but behind me. I turned to find Jack Shepard in the flesh. I took in the length of his tall, broad-shouldered form in the familiar double-breasted suit and fedora, that iron jaw with the scar in the shape of a dagger slashing across it. His hard granite-gray eyes softened when my confused green ones met them.
“Welcome to my world, Penelope.”
“What am I doing here?”
“It’s the Stendall case.” He lifted his chin toward the open window. “Look.”
I turned around to peer out the window again. Across the street was a neighborhood pub that I knew still existed in the East Village of Manhattan. A green wooden sign over its battered wooden double doors read MCSDORLEY’S Old ALE HOUSE. The letters were also etched into one of its big, brightly lit glass windows.
“They don’t serve dames in there, otherwise I’d get you a cold one.” His eyebrow arched and I knew he was teasing.
I smiled. “That’s okay, Jack. I’m not much of a drinker anyway, but I still don’t understand why—”
I was about to revolve from the open window to face him once more when his big, warm hands rested on my shoulders and turned me back. “Keep looking.”
Moments before the damp street had been devoid of pedestrians, but when I turned toward the window again, I saw one of McSorley’s battered double doors swing wide. A dark-haired young man emerged on a raucous gust of male laughter. He was wearing a kind of doorman’s uniform—black slacks with a green stripe down them. The uniform’s cap was tucked under his arm, but he’d removed the short green jacket, which he carried slung over his shoulder. The white T-shirt underneath defined a muscular chest, visible biceps, and broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist.
“That’s funny,” I murmured, “from this distance, he looks like Johnny Napp.”
“Don’t he though,” said Jack, “but this kid’s name’s Joey. Joey Lubrano.”
“The young elevator operator who threatened to shut your client’s mouth the same way he shut her sister’s—by murdering her?”
“That’s right.”
I shuddered as I watched Joey’s muscular form move across the dark street. A nearby street lamp cut through the warm, misty evening, shedding enough light for me to see his steps weren’t completely straight.
“He looks like he’s had a few,” I observed.
“I’m counting on it,” said Jack.
“But won’t that make him reckless? More dangerous?”
“Maybe. But it will also impair his judgment, loosen his tongue, and allow me to manipulate him. You should remember that in a pinch.”
“Jack, it looks like he’s coming straight for this building.”
“No surprise, doll. This is his apartment you’re standing in.”
“What?!”
“Relax, baby.”
“But, Jack, I don’t know even what happened in your case. I haven’t finished reading the file!”
“And that’s exactly why I brought you here. Just think of it as a little on-the-job training.”
I suddenly had trouble breathing. This might have been a dream, but it felt very real to me at the moment. I could smell the rancid odor of stale beer from McSorley’s across the street, hear the lightly falling rain outside, feel the suffocating warmth of this shabby two-room apartment.
“Are you crazy?” I told Jack. “I won’t know what to do or say. I think we should get out of here.”
“Take it easy, baby. Just stay behind me. Watch and learn.”
“Learn what?”
“For starters, how to conduct an interrogation. Namely, a little information can get you a long way if you use it right.”
A minute later I heard a key in the door and Joey Lubrano’s powerful form came stumbling into his small, unkempt apartment. He walked into the tiny living room, reached under the stained shade of a stand-up lamp, and turned it on. The pale glow of the low-watt bulb revealed Jack Shepard, relaxing in an armchair, smoking a cigarette. I stood in the shadows behind him, trying not to shake like a kitten at a dog fight.
Joey was young—in his early twenties was my guess—and just as Italian-handsome as Johnny Napp. Dimpled chin, Roman nose, deep brown eyes, and jet-black hair slickly combed. His physique looked even more impressive in the confines of the small apartment. His muscles packed into the white T-shirt and elevator operator uniform. Suffice it to say, I could see why a high-society gal like Mrs. Nolan may have looked twice at her elevator man.
“Hello, Joey.”
Joey Lubrano froze, his slightly glazed eyes focusing fast. “What the . . . ? What the hell are you doin’ here? And how did you get in?”
Jack took a long drag on his cigarette, stubbed it out on the ashtray beside him. “Your building super was impressed with my P.I. license. Of course, I palmed him half a C note when I flashed him my ticket. That may have helped.”
“Get lost.”
“Relax, Joey. I just want to talk.”
Lubrano stepped forward, his face flushing red, his hands balling at his sides. “Well, I don’t.”
“Jack,” I whispered. “Be careful. He looks pretty angry.”
Lubrano looked up, straight into my face. “Who the hell is she?”
“Tonight she’s my partner.”
I stared in shock that the man could see me at all. A part of me hoped that Jack had brought me back here as an invisible bystander. Apparently not. I looked down to find myself in a belted linen suit with a pencil-thin skirt—the same shade of gray as Jack’s double-breasted. I felt a small hat pinned to my upswept hair, saw white gloves on my hands—and could only assume that this is what Jack believed a female P.I. should be wearing, if there even was such a thing back in 1946.
“Your partner?” Lubrano snorted derisively. “She’s a dame.”
Jack’s lips tilted in a half-smile. “Ain’t she though.”
Lubrano’s gaze turned nasty, lewd. Slowly, he raked me from head to foot. “Tell you what, dick. Why don’t you take a hike and leave the broad. She and I can, uh . . . talk. And when I’m through giving her what she wants, I’ll lay odds she never goes back to you.”
Because I blinked just then, I failed to see exactly which of Jack’s army jujitsu moves he’d used to render Joey Lubrano helpless. I simply sensed a flurry of movement as Jack exploded from his chair, heard a surprised grunt from Lubrano, then opened my blinking eyes to gawk at the end result—Joey Lubrano’s profile kissing the floor, his arms bent back in what had to be a painful position.
“Don’t disrespect my partner, Lubrano. It makes me mad.”