nice hotel.”
“I told you before, Jack. I’m a married woman.”
“In your dreams, baby.”
The back door stood open and Jack sauntered in as if he owned the place. Some men stood around a desk, smoking and talking. They all wore the same Swifty Delivery overalls that we were wearing.
Jack partially averted his face, tipped his hat, and grunted at one of the men who glanced his way. The man returned Jack’s gesture with a short nod. I kept my head down and followed Jack like a loyal puppy, happy to stay cowed because these men looked like pretty rough trade—tattoos and scars, faces lined with the track marks of hard living.
Jack led me through a door and into a deserted stairwell. He bent down to tie his shoe, pulled me close, whispered hot and low against my ear. “I’ve cased the place and paid off a pigeon. The records are on the third floor. Let’s go.”
We minded our business and the few people we passed—more rough-looking men—minded theirs. Unfortunately, the records room was locked. Jack pulled a small kit out of his deep overalls pocket, opened it to reveal a set of thin silver instruments.
Jack looked tense. I thought a joke might help.
“What’s this,” I whispered, “you have a sudden urge to practice dentistry?”
Jack scowled. “Go to the end of the hall and light up a cig. Act like you’re on a break. See someone coming, cough loudly.”
“But I don’t smoke. So I don’t have any cigarettes.”
“Cripes.” Jack fished for a pack of cigarettes and lit me up.
I coughed. He grimaced.
“Uh-oh,” I said, coughing again, “the signal might not work.”
“Don’t smoke it then, just look like you’re smoking it.”
“Oh, right.”
Feeling like one of Jack’s “rubes,” I did as he asked. No one came, thank heavens. Jack picked the records room door, and I quickly stamped out the foul, unfiltered cancer stick.
We closed the door behind us and relocked it. The room was dark but Jack didn’t turn on the lights. He went to the single small window and cursed. “No shade, no curtains, nothing.”
“What’s the matter?”
“We turn on the lights, someone might notice from outside.”
“But how are we going to read the files otherwise? We don’t have flashlights.”
“We’ll have to chance it.”
Jack flipped a switch and two bare bulbs came to life, bathing the room in cheap yellowish glow. A gray row of battered metal file cabinets lined one wall. A wooden desk and chair sat against the other.
“Let’s get to it,” he whispered, quickly scanning the labeling system on the drawers. It wasn’t alphabetical— but rather, set up by calendar. Each cabinet was a year, each drawer a few months of the year.
“What are we looking for?”
“Any files you can find under the names Dorothy Kerns, Vincent Tattershawe, Ogden Heating and Cooling, or even…Mindy…Mindy Corbett.”
Jack had a little trouble saying her name. I knew why.
We searched for ten minutes and found nothing. Then, finally, I hit pay dirt. “Tattershawe. I’ve got one.”
“Pull it.”
We took it to the desk and examined the contents. There were carbons of forms he’d made outlining deals. “No Dorothy Kerns,” muttered Jack. “No Ogden Heating and Cooling. But what’s this?”
Jack’s finger stopped on a name: Grant Barneby. A short typewritten note scrawled next to it read,
Jack rubbed his lantern jaw, rough with the beginnings of a five o’clock shadow. Without a word, he went to a cabinet at random and pulled out a stack of files. He riflled through them. Every few pages or so, he’d find a client with the words:
“Well, I’ll be damned.”
“What is it?”
“Mindy said her investment firm was setting up legit clients, but suckers, too. They were being brought in by silent partners. She said Tattershawe didn’t like it much. I think Vincent Tattershawe realized how dangerous these scum are and skipped town to get out of the business without losing his life—and it’s looking like he used Dorothy Kerns’s inheritance to fund his getaway. Dorothy, being a sucker for romance, still thinks Tattershawe’s her knight in shining armor, so she insisted a PI be hired to track him down. She had no idea he was tangled up in some dark deals. I think that’s why her brother stepped in to hire me. He needed to be in control of any investigation. He has too much to lose if Dorothy or the police find Vincent before he does.”
“But I thought he was trying to recover his sister’s money?”
“I don’t think Baxter Kerns cares a fig about his sister’s money. He probably never expected her to fall for a guy working at the very firm he’s using to scam cliff-dwellers and war widows. Now he’s just trying to protect his nut.”
“Wait, back up. You’re saying you think Baxter Kerns is involved with this corrupt investment company? Why?”
“The Madeleine. It’s one of those private clubs on Forty-fourth. Baxter’s a member. Had me meet him there. And that’s obviously where he’s pulling in some of his suckers, probably highly recommending Carter & Thompson as ‘smart bets’ for investing—you know how it goes. Seems to me the only reason he wants me to find Tattershawe is to give him lead poisoning before he can spill to his sister or anybody else.”
“But, Jack, a lot of men belong to that club. Why do you think Baxter is one of the silent partners?”
“My gut, baby. This stack of coincidences is just too high to be random. Think it through. If Baxter were as innocent as a spring lamb, and he suspected Tattershawe of taking a powder with his sister’s money, then why didn’t he go to police with his tale? Why wasn’t he looking for an all-out investigation of Carter & Thompson? Why did he hire me to find Tattershawe but reveal his whereabouts to no one but Baxter himself? I’ll tell you why —because Baxter Kerns is dirty too.”
“But there still might be other explanations. To accuse him, you’ll need proof—”
Just then, we heard voices in the hall.
“Hey, what is that?” (A smooth male voice.)
“What’s what?” (A much gruffer male voice.)
“There’s a light under the records room door.”
Jack didn’t say a thing; in about two seconds, he stacked up the files on the desk, picked them up, and grabbed my arm. Before I could utter a word, he pulled me into the far corner and shoved me down.
We were tucked between the outside wall and the file cabinets—well hidden unless anyone walked all the way to the end of the room; then they’d see us crouched here, for sure. Jack maneuvered me behind him and pulled his weapon. He didn’t have to tell me not to make a sound.
The knob rattled as the men unlocked then opened the door.
Smooth voice said, “Who left these lights on?”
“Dunno.” (Gruff was a real genius.)
“Well, we’re going to find out.”
“Whatsa matter, you worried ’bout the electric bill?”
“I’m worried about a fire, you idiot. This place is a fleapit and the last thing we need is an electrical fire.” We heard the men come into the room. A file drawer opened and shut, then another, then a third.
“Turn the lights off and let’s go,” said the smooth voice. “I’ve got a meeting with Baxter Kerns across town in less than an hour.”
Before the door shut, Jack carefully peeked around the file cabinet—to get a good look at the men talking, I assumed. When they shut and relocked the door, I heard him exhale a long, furious breath. His left hand was balled into an angry fist, and his right was clutching the gun so tightly, his knuckles had turned white.
“For what they did to Mindy,” he bit out low, “this whole operation is going down. And if I get my hands on Baxter Kerns, even his sister’s not going to recognize him when I’m through.”
