Did anybody get any kind of a hit off the name Even Steven? I kept busy, but I wasn’t getting anywhere.
And why was I even bothering? I didn’t have a case, and my client was dead. He’d hanged himself. The only way someone else could have strung him up was by knocking him out first, and that hadn’t happened.
Unless—
Unless he had a visitor, a calm and credible fellow with a good cover story. Someone who might even pass for a cop, someone who might have turned up at Jack Ellery’s rooming house and convinced the fellow in charge to hand over whatever remained of Ellery’s belongings.
Someone who inspired confidence. Someone who could get behind Greg Stillman and get him in a choke hold, cutting off the flow of blood to the brain, inducing unconsciousness. Not choking him enough to strangle him, just enough to put him under, just enough to render him helpless while he staged the suicide. Stripped to his shorts, the belt around his neck, its end secured by the closet door.
And then what? Drop him and let him hang? Or wait until he began to come out of it, and then let him go, so you could watch him thrash around, kicking at the closed door, struggling for breath, for life.
The choke hold might leave marks, some form of physical evidence. But the belt would cover up all of that.
Even Steven.
The super at Jack’s rooming house was named Ferdie Pardo. Short for Ferdinand, I suppose. He wore a dark blue work shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He had a pack of Kools in his shirt pocket and a pencil behind his ear, and he looked like a man who didn’t expect the day to turn out well.
“There was a guy showed up maybe a week ago,” he said. “Asking the same question. What did I do with Ellery’s stuff?”
“And what did you tell him?”
“Same thing I’m telling you. Guy showed up and I gave it to him.”
“He sign for it?”
He shook his head. “There was nothing,” he said. “Just crap, you know? Imagine you live your whole life and when you’re gone you leave some old clothes and a couple of books.”
“That’s all?”
“Pair of shoes, a notebook, some papers. I didn’t think anybody was gonna come for it. I had it down in the basement, all packed up in this duffel bag, and I have to say the duffel bag was worth more than everything inside it put together. And it was a worn-out old duffel bag that wasn’t worth anything much to begin with.”
“So you didn’t think a signature was required.”
“Another week,” he said, “and I’d of put it out for the garbage pickup, and I wouldn’t make them sign for it, either. He was a cop, he had some reason to collect it, so I gave it to him.”
“You say he was a cop.”
He frowned. “He wasn’t a cop?”
“I’m the one asking.”
“Well, now I’m asking you.” Maybe so, but he didn’t wait for an answer. “I
“Did he show ID?”
“Like a badge?” He frowned. “I had any sense, I’d just say yes, absolutely, showed me a badge, showed me his ID, Patrolman Joe Blow, Detective Joe Blow, whatever.”
“But as luck would have it you’re an honest man.”
“Shit,” he said. “What I am, I’m a man who thinks of things a couple of seconds too late. What I think he did, and even so I can’t swear to it, is he took out his wallet and flashed it at me. Like, I’m a cop and I can’t be bothered wasting my time showing some asshole like you my ID. Like that.”
“But the impression you got was police.”
“Yeah. He looked like a cop.”
“Can you describe him?”
“Jesus,” he said. “I wish you’d ask me to describe the other one that showed up. Skinny fag with an earring. That’d be easier.
One more flattering obituary notice for Greg. I said, “Take a shot at describing the cop, why don’t you.”
“Oh, so he’s a cop after all? Okay, fuck it. About your height and weight.”
“How old?”
“I don’t know. What are you?”
“Forty-five.”
“Yeah, that sounds about right.”
“So he’s about forty-five.”
“Well, forty, fifty, somewhere in there. Split the difference and you got forty-five.”
“Maybe it was me,” I suggested.
“Huh?”
“My age, my height, my weight—”
