“I’m really awfully fond of Noreen,” he said self-consciously. “We’ve gone out quite a lot the last few months, and...”
“And?”
Rojek let his bony shoulders bounce a couple of times. “And we get along wonderfully,” he said as though he meant it. “Wonderfully.”
“So let’s go back to Michael. Do you think he killed Linville?”
He shook his head. “I really don’t know. It’s hard for me to believe, but...” He turned his palms up.
I was done fooling around. “Mr. Rojek,” I said, “precisely what do you know about the relationship between Barton Linville and Noreen James?”
He stubbed out another cigarette and frowned at the ashtray. “I know they went out a couple of times or so,” he said, spacing the words. “But that was Noreen’s business.”
“Did it bother you?”
More shoulder bouncing. “Oh, I guess so, but after all, I have no particular claim on her. She’s free to do whatever she wants.”
“That’s noble, Mr. Rojek. Did you have any long-range plans involving Noreen James?”
“You mean like marriage?”
“Whatever.”
“Well... yes, dammit. I mean, I’d thought about it.”
“Did she know that?”
“You’re getting awfully personal,” he said stiffly.
“The police are likely to get a lot more personal if they talk to you,” I said. “Let’s quit dancing around the subject. When did you find out what had happened to Noreen?”
This time Rojek looked at the floor rather than the coffee table, rubbing his hands together between his long legs. “Michael told me in so many words when we were having lunch,” he muttered.
“And your reaction?”
“I don’t know. Stunned, I suppose. Not that something like that couldn’t happen to anybody, you know, but...” He looked up at me, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. “Is Noreen okay?”
“She’s fine, probably better than you are at this moment. So you knew what had happened to her while Linville was still alive?”
That one took a while to sink in, and he didn’t field it particularly well when he did answer. “I guess I did, yeah, I suppose. But so what? What does that mean?”
“Just an observation. When was the last time you talked to Miss James?”
Rojek screwed up his face. “Like I told you, I’ve tried to call her the last few days.”
“What about before that, before Linville was killed?”
Maybe the guy was twitchy all the time, but I doubted it as I watched him brush his hair out of his eyes and scratch his cheek and then his chin, and then make another pass at his hair. “I don’t feel, well, comfortable, discussing this, you know? I mean, talking about Noreen this way.”
“Suit yourself. Chances are, though, that you’ll eventually have to talk to somebody, as in the New York police.”
“Why?”
“Because Michael James did not murder Sparky Linville. Believe it.”
Rojek locked his elbows onto his knees and looked at the dirty carpet below, head in hands. “All right,” he said without conviction, looking at me and inhaling twice, as if the room lacked oxygen, “I haven’t been with Noreen a whole lot for a couple weeks. She... hasn’t really wanted to talk to me — or see me, for that matter.”
“Care to speculate on the reason?”
“I think it goes back to when she and Linville... You know. Michael told me it happened... what, God, about a month ago? That would have been about the time Noreen started... avoiding me.”
I watched Rojek without saying anything, which made him even more self-conscious. Finally he jerked to his feet and jammed his hands into his pants pockets. “God, so what happens now?” he said plaintively, giving me his back and looking out the window onto the Brooklyn street.
“What happens is you tell me where you were late last Wednesday night and in Thursday’s early hours.”
He spun around, hands still in his pockets, and leaned toward me, squinting. “That’s a tacky thing to say, really cheap.”
“I guess that makes me both tacky and cheap then,” I told him, standing so that we were more or less on the same level. Like Wolfe, I don’t like to have to crane my neck to maintain eye contact. “Look, Mr. Rojek, I admit that you don’t have to tell me a damn thing; I’m only a private investigator. But I do know a number of members of the New York Police Department fairly well. Now, that’s in no way meant to be a threat, but—”
“But that’s exactly what it is,” Rojek muttered, letting himself drop back into the chair and pulling out another cigarette, which he didn’t light. “We both know I don’t have to tell you a thing, but I will,” he said, his voice suddenly gone icy. “On Wednesday nights, I always play softball, in a park near here. That’s what I did this week too. Lots of people can vouch for me.”
“You play your games on a lighted field?” I asked, also sitting again.
“Not us. It’s just an after-work league, nothing fancy.”
“So you were done before nine?”
He shrugged. “About quarter of, I suppose. I wasn’t bothering to check my watch.”
“Which means the night was still young.”
“That’s right,” he snapped, looking at his cigarette. “And then about six of us went to a local bar, like we always do after a game. Want the name of the place?”
“Maybe later. How long were you there?”
“An hour, maybe a little more. I had a grand total of two beers, like I usually do.”
“And then?”
“And then, Mr. Goodwin, I came back here, read for a while, and went to bed — alone. So I have no alibi at all. Anything else you want to know?”
“Nice place you’ve got,” I observed, looking around. “Live here by yourself?”
“That’s right.”
“You must do well.”
“Yes, I do pretty well,” Rojek said, standing again and pressing his lips together. He tossed the unlit cigarette into the ashtray. “And also, although God knows it’s no business of yours, I have generous parents. Now, if you don’t mind—”
“Hey, say no more,” I told him, smiling and holding up a hand. “I know when I’ve overstayed my welcome, and I have a suspicion that’s what I may have done here. But you’d better be prepared for more knocks on your door in the near future, from the police or — who knows? — maybe even from me again.”
I didn’t get an answer, nor did I expect one. Mr. Personality went to the door without a word and held it open for me. I walked out, giving him one last smile and getting a sneer in return. He wasn’t happy, but then, in this business, it’s hard to leave ’em laughing.
Sixteen
Back out on the street I looked around, wondering how easy it would be to find a taxi in Brooklyn at a little past noon on a Sunday. I walked three blocks to the nearest busy thoroughfare, Flatbush Avenue, and my luck held as a yellow swerved to the curb. Less than fifteen minutes later I found myself on King Street in the Village, just west of Sixth Avenue. The block had good-size trees and was similar to Rojek’s neighborhood except all of the buildings here were brick and some were still undergoing gentrification. At least two were gutted and had scaffolding clinging to their facades.
Todd Halliburton lived in a four-story number that looked to have already gone through the upgrading process. As in the case of Rojek, he apparently lived alone on the top floor, at least according to the mailbox. I leaned on the call button, got no response, and hit it again with the same result. Two out of three still isn’t bad, I thought as I went down the steps to the sidewalk, noodling over whether to stake the place out or find some food.