possessed real information. But he kept his reply low-key. “That would give me something to go to the other charities with.”
“Not till you hear back from me, though,” Hess said. “I’ll need the approval of our board.”
“Absolutely,” Mickey said. “If you’d like, I could wait.”
It looked like a school because it still was a school, K through eight Sunrise School.
He got outside onto the asphalt yard just as the recess bell sounded. As the kids came flying out all around him, he let himself through a small gate in a fence, turned the corner of the building, and found himself in the small parking lot he’d noticed from across the street.
A tall, rangy, middle-aged black man was leaning back against the building, arms crossed over his chest, watching in a supervisory way as two other young men went over the limousine with sponges and hoses. On a hunch, Mickey sidled over to the area and caught the man’s attention. “Excuse me,” he said, “are you Al Carter?”
With a questioning expression, the man straightened away from the wall. He exuded authority. Except for a well-buzzed tonsure, he was bald, and the high, clear forehead spoke of intelligence and patience. His voice, when he spoke, was low-pitched, unhurried, educated. “I have that name,” he said. “And you have the advantage of me.”
Mickey extended his hand and introduced himself. “You don’t know me,” he went on, “but maybe you knew my grandfather, Jim Parr?”
At that name’s mention, the closed-up face relaxed somewhat. “I certainly did know your grandfather. Is he still among the quick?”
“I don’t know about that,” Mickey said. “He’s slowed down a little, but-”
Carter chuckled, shaking his head, cutting him off. “The quick, young man,” he said, “in contradistinction to the dead. The quick and the dead. I was asking if Jim were still alive.”
“As of this morning.”
“Well, that’s wonderful news. Tell him hello for me.”
“I will.” Mickey gestured toward the car. “So what are these guys doing?”
Carter cast a throwaway glance in their direction. “We call this washing the limousine. It’s one of their tasks.”
“Are they being punished for something?”
A little half-laugh. “Punished? To the contrary, they’re being rewarded. These two young men were handpicked by Mr. Como to do this job and if they continue to do it effectively, they’ll be promoted to more responsible and important jobs.” Now his expressive face did cloud over. “Or they would have been.” Suddenly the eyes focused and he raised a finger in Mickey’s direction. “You’re the young man who found him.”
“I am.”
“And you are Jim Parr’s grandson as well?”
“Right.”
“That’s an extraordinary coincidence.”
“Yes, it is,” Mickey said.
“So how is it,” Carter asked, “that you’ve stayed involved in matters surrounding Mr. Como’s death?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, you found his body. Your grandfather used to be his driver. Now”-he gestured to include their surroundings-“you’re here. The connection eludes me.”
“There’s no mystery to it. I work for a private investigator. We’re offering to coordinate a reward program.”
“Ah, a reward program. I don’t believe I’ve heard of that.”
“It’s in its early stages. Ms. Hess is hoping that the Sunset Youth Project here is going to put up twenty thousand dollars. With others of Mr. Como’s charities kicking in, it could get to quite a substantial sum.”
Carter’s eyebrows went up, his head canted to one side. “So,” he said, “the assumption being that there is information out there somewhere. Someone knows something he’s not talking about.”
“I don’t know about assumption,” Mickey said. “More like a hope. Maybe someone knows something but doesn’t recognize its importance. The hope is that the money might get that person motivated to think a little harder about what they’ve seen or might have heard. You, for example, Mr. Carter. You were the last person to see him alive, if I’m not mistaken. Right?”
“No. That would have been his killer.” Carter broke a sad smile. “A small, yet critical distinction, don’t you think? But the police have already spoken to me and I told them everything I knew, which, I’m afraid, wasn’t much. I left him off near his home on Tuesday night.”
“How near?”
“A couple of blocks.”
“And he never mentioned who he was supposed to be seeing?”
“Not by name, no. He said it was just an old acquaintance who was having problems. But old acquaintances of Mr. Como could fill the phone book, Mr. Dade. According to that criterion it could theoretically have even been your grandfather. And beyond that, it’s possible that he had his scheduled meeting with the old acquaintance he’d told me about and then, after that, met with his killer. Or, as I think Lorraine would like to believe, it was a random attack by some mugger.”
“But you don’t think that?”
“No,” Carter said. “No, I don’t think I do.”
“Do you have any specific reason for not thinking that?”
Carter shook his head. “I wish I did. I wish there was something I could point to, but it’s just a nebulous feeling.”
“Well”-Mickey, his wallet out, removed one of his business cards-“if it gets to be more than that, call this number. Or, of course, the police. The information doesn’t have to come through us to qualify for the reward, if that’s a concern.”
“It isn’t. I wouldn’t be doing it for the reward, Mr. Dade.”
“No, of course not. I didn’t mean to imply that you would. And remember that as we speak right now the reward sits at zero. But still,” Mickey added, “if something does occur to you, or something new develops, it might be nice to know the money’s sitting there waiting for somebody to claim it.”
Carter nodded, his face set in grim stone. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said.
9
First thing that Monday morning, Len Turner had talked to the mayor. The mayor had placed a phone call to the chief of police, who had personally called Devin Juhle and suggested-an order would have been inappropriate- that he extend “every courtesy” to the “concerned citizens who were assisting in the investigation” by offering this so-far nonexistent reward.
Devin Juhle told Hunt he’d be with his partner, Sarah Russo, at the Ferry Building’s MarketBar restaurant at eleven A.M. They’d be willing to review the progress in the Como investigation to bring Hunt up to speed, with the understanding that if Hunt was successful in helping to get a reward established and funded, then when he got anything, he’d reciprocate.
In the normal course of events, they all would have met at Lou the Greek’s, the city’s legendary bar and eatery across the street from the Hall of Justice. But Juhle’s choice of a lunch venue far removed from the normal haunt of cops and other courthouse denizens drove home to Hunt the fact that he was still very much on probation, or worse, here. Juhle and Russo might cooperate with him and see how things went, but neither of them was ready to be seen with him in public.
Sarah was married to Graham Russo, a junior partner in the one law firm that was with some regularity still throwing Hunt the occasional bone of work. She was also a ten-year homicide veteran, and the mother of two boys. A freckled and athletic tomboy with Beatle-length dark hair, she looked about fifteen years younger than her actual
