'Name it.'
'Can you check the JD files for anyone named 'Richie' in the DeLuca family?'
'Sure.' Then he said, 'Elvis?'
'Uh-huh.'
'What he said in there about Charlie being nuts, you remember that.'
I gave him a smile.
I left Rollie downstairs and took the elevator up to the lobby where I used a pay phone to get the number for the New York City Florists Association. The Florists Association told me that there were four flower shops on 122nd Street, two in Morningside Heights, one in Harlem, and one in East Harlem. They had no listing for an Angelette Silver as a licensed florist, and they couldn't tell me in which shop she might work. I copied down the names, addresses, and phone numbers of the four shops, thanked them, and hung up.
I got change at the little cigar stand they have there in the lobby, then went back to the phones and called Victor's Floral Gifts and asked to speak to Angelette Silver. A businesslike woman who sounded to be in her forties said that she was sorry, but no one by that name worked there. I thanked her, hung up, and called the Gilded Lily. A man with a heavy, masculine voice told me that he didn't know anyone named Angelette, but that he was certain he could meet my every need without her help. I thanked him and hung up and called Rudy's Florist. Rudy didn't know anyone named Angelette, either, though he did know a guy named Angel. Would that do? I said that I thought not. The fourth shop was a place called Your Secret Garden. An older woman with a soft southern accent answered.
I said, 'May I speak with Angelette Silver, please?'
There was an uncertain pause. 'You mean Sarah?'
There were voices in the background, then something covered the mouthpiece, then a heavy male voice came on. 'You got the wrong number. Nobody by that name works here.' He hung up. Hard.
Hmm.
I picked up the Taurus from the parking garage, then took Canal over to the West Side Highway, then went north past the Village and the Lincoln Tunnel on my way up to 122nd. Maybe I was on to something. Walter Lee Balcom had put me on to Angelette Silver, who very likely was living under the name Sarah, and maybe Angelette Silver could connect me either to someone named Richie or someone who knew what Charlie DeLuca was up to. If I could just keep Charlie DeLuca from killing either Karen Lloyd or me until I knew who or what that was, all of this might work out. Stranger things have been known to happen.
On the Henry Hudson Parkway at 86th Street, halfway up the island and along the Hudson River, I spotted a metallic-brown Chevrolet following me four cars back and one lane over.
I swung south on Broadway, then east on 86th, then south again on Columbus, but he stayed with me, always four cars back, once gunning it through a red light to keep his position. Pretty good. I wondered if it was Ric.
An eight-wheel flower truck was parked on Columbus in the right-turn lane at the corner of 76th Street. Traffic was backed up and horns were blowing and people who wanted to turn right had to work their way slowly around the truck. I turned right with them and slowed it down even more, staying hidden behind the flower truck until the traffic had cleared ahead of me. I goosed the Taurus half a block down, then threw it into park in the middle of 76th Street and was out of the car and walking back up the sidewalk when the metallic-brown Chevrolet came around the corner. It wasn't Ric.
The guy behind the wheel played it well. Traffic was backing up again and more horns were blowing and the other cars were putting on their blinkers and trying to get around the Taurus, so he put on his blinker and got into line to get around the Taurus, too.
I walked out into the street behind him and went up around his car and put the Dan Wesson in through the driver's side window. 'Surprise.'
He was a medium-sized guy in his early forties with a precise manner and a nice tan and thick hair. He kept both hands on the steering wheel, left in the ten o'clock position and right in the two o'clock position, just like they teach in driving school. He was staring at the gun. 'Jesus Christ, put that away. Where the hell do you think we are, Beirut?'
Around us, drivers were blowing their horns and a fat guy with a three-day stubble called us assholes and told us to get out of the street and nobody seemed to mind too much that I was holding the Dan Wesson. Just another story in the naked city.
'Take out the wallet very slow. If you jerk, I'll shoot you.'
He did it, still with his eyes on the gun. He said, 'I don't know what in hell you've got going on here, but it's not worth pulling the trigger.'
'We'll see.' I really know how to throw a scare into them.
I took the wallet and opened it. Nothing said MAFIA. Nothing said HIRED KILLER. What I saw was a California driver's license in the name of one James L. Grady, address c/o James L. Grady Confidential Investigations, Los Angeles, California. I blinked at it a few times and then I blinked at James L. Grady.
James L. said, 'Will you stop pointing that goddamned gun at me now?'
I didn't stop pointing the gun at him. A pretty woman driving past in a white Mercedes gave us the finger. I said, 'Who hired you?'
'Peter Alan Nelsen.'
'Peter Alan Nelsen, the film director?'
James L. Grady gave me snide. 'Yeah. He said he hired you to find his ex-wife, but he figured you were stiffing him and he wanted to find out. I picked you up in Chelam with the ex and the kid, and I've been following you around ever since.'
'Ever since.'
'Peter came in last night. He's staying over at the Ritz-Carlton. He wants to see you.'
I stopped pointing the gun at him and he snatched back his wallet. A guy passing by in a red Nissan truck called me a shithead. So did James L. Grady.
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
Peter Alan Nelsen had the Presidential Suite on the top floor of the Ritz-Carlton, overlooking Central Park. I followed Grady's Chevy to the curb, where we let a couple of guys who looked like they'd just mustered out of the French army have our cars, then we went inside.
James L. used a house phone and said, 'This is Grady. I'm in the lobby with Cole.'
He listened for a minute, then hung up and gestured with his chin. 'Elevator's over there.'
He stayed a half step in front as we crossed the lobby, looking very spiffy in his coat and tie, like a successful exercise-equipment importer or a high-end insurance executive. He didn't look like a guy who could follow me for a week without my noticing. If he did, I probably would've noticed him.
In the elevator, he leaned against one wall with his arms crossed and I leaned against another, and neither of us looked at the other. Invisible lines. The elevator was quiet and still and somehow made closer by the faraway hum of the electric motors. It was a long way up to the top floor. I said, 'How come I didn't make you?'
He shrugged, still not looking at me. 'I'm good at it. Also, I didn't have to maintain continual contact. Once I knew where you were staying and where the woman lived and worked, it was easy.'
'You didn't have to worry about losing me because you could always pick me up again.'
'Uh-huh.'
I nodded. 'I put the plane ticket and the Ho Jo on plastic. There were the phone calls charged to my office number in L.A.'
'You weren't trying to hide. You didn't expect anyone to look.'
I stared at him for about twelve floors. 'Fed.'
Grady smiled. 'Secret Service. Fourteen years.' He finally turned and looked at me. 'I'm impressed you picked me up. I was back and I was loose. I don't get picked up even when I'm living in the other guy's shorts. You're good.'
