“No. But I’ll find out. If I’m wrong I’ll let you know.”
“And if you’re right?”
“I’d like you to continue your investigation.”
“Just like that? I’m supposed to believe you that Samuel Whoever’s not a threat, and the guy who is, who’s spraying bullets around, isn’t going to come for me? And that you’re the good guys and this whole investigation’s ‘legitimate’?”
Jeff Dunbar sighed. “Ms. Chin, it’s important those paintings be found. Not just to me. There are other … interested parties. I can’t tell you why, not right now. I can tell you, it’s not about money.”
“No?”
“No.”
“What is it about?”
He shook his head. “I’m sorry.”
I considered digging in, but the set of his mouth told me that would go nowhere. “All right,” I said. “Maybe I believe that: It’s not about money to
And speaking of the other PI, where had Jack gone?
“I don’t know,” Jeff Dunbar said. “But I’ll try to find out.”
“You can find out what those people want, but you can’t find the Chaus?”
He shook his head. “No. What I can try to find out is whether any of my interested parties are any of those people. Wing, or the shooter, or the other client.”
“Well,” I said after a long pause, “you do that. And here’s what I’ll do. I’ll keep looking. As long as no one shoots at me.” Not that that’s ever stopped me before, but that was another thing I felt no need to share. “But if I find the Chaus, I’ll need more than ‘it’s important’ before I give the information to someone whose name I don’t even know. Is that a deal?”
He nodded. “For now.”
He took a last swig of his beer, dropped a twenty on the table—from a money clip, not a wallet, which was just as well, because I might have swiped it to get at the driver’s license—and stood. “Why don’t you stay and finish your drink? Instead of following me.” He smiled. “I’ll be in touch.”
“Fine,” I said. “But one more thing.”
He paused, waited.
“What should I call you?”
He cocked his head. “Jeff Dunbar. I always liked the name Jeff.”
He turned and left.
I had, of course, been planning to count to ten, dash out after him, and tiptoe up the sidewalk to see where he went. But he’d stuck a pin in that idea.
So I stayed, drank up my cranberry juice, and let Jimmy Buffett work his way through “Margaritaville.” Jack wasn’t anywhere. Maybe that meant he’d stayed outside, and had at least seen which direction my client had fled in. I hefted my bag and gave up my chair, to the smiling gratitude of the young couple who’d been vulturing this spot ever since Jeff Dunbar left.
Outside, no Jack. The guy abandoned me? That call had better have been important. A cruising taxi slowed, but nuts to him. I headed for the subway.
On the way I called Bill. Voice mail yet again. His date must be going swimmingly. I left a message. Then I tried Jack.
“Lee.”
“Chin. You hate that bar that much?”
“You have to admit I was right about it.”
“So what?”
“Good point. No, I’m tailing your boy.”
“You’re doing what?”
“As soon as I saw you sit down I’d answered the main question, which was that I don’t know him. I wasn’t sure you were getting anywhere, though. I might be wrong, but it didn’t look like he was giving much away.”
“No, almost nothing.”
“So it occurred to me this might be a chance we didn’t want to miss. You strike me as tough enough to fight your way alone out of a candy-ass bar if you need to.”
“Thanks, I think.”
“No problem. So I got in a cab and told the driver to wait until I pointed out a guy and then follow him. Meter plus fifty bucks. If it turned out Dunbar told you everything, no harm done except I’m out a few bucks. Should I knock it off?”
“No,” I said. “No, I’m in awe. Are you still on him?”
“Yes. Going up the highway, near Lincoln Center.”
