“You knew somebody snuffed him?”
“It’s him, then.”
“That’s the name we got, yeah.” Cliff took a snapshot from the breast pocket of his coat and handed it over.
The old man lay on a filthy floor that might have been concrete. The back of his shirt was soaked with his blood, and a pool had formed beneath his chest. Only the side of his face was visible, but it was Free.
“Twice in the back,” Cliff said. “Big slugs. We’ve got a line to the ballistics lab, but they haven’t made them yet. Probably forty-fives or three-fifty-sevens. He went right down. Probably never knew what hit him.”
“He stayed up long enough for the guy to shoot twice.”
“There’s that, yeah.”
“Where?”
“Hold on. Jim, I’ll brief you, but I want to ask you a couple of questions first. I don’t want you to go into your act again, but God damn it, you’re working for me. How’d you know who it was?”
“Just a guess.”
“All right, how’d you guess?”
“You said I knew him. I know a lot of characters around town, but you know most of them yourself, and you’ve got guys on the payroll who know them too, so it wasn’t one of those. That left people I knew way back and people I know now in my private life. Somebody who knew the guy way back isn’t worth three hundred a day—the odds against his having anything worthwhile are terrific. That left my private life. Most of the people I know like that are women, but you indicated this was a man, you said
Cliff snorted. “And he was the only one? Horseshit.”
“No, he wasn’t the only one, just the one that seemed like the best bet. I didn’t think anybody with big money would be interested in any of the others, so—”
The door to a bedroom opened, and a delicate-looking blond stepped out. As well as Stubb could judge, she was five-two or five-three in her heels. She carried a purse nearly as big as a hatbox, and she had been outfitted by somebody who got a thousand dollars for a cute little blouse to wear shopping.
“I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Rebic,” she said. “But I really think it’s time you introduced me.”
“You’re the boss, Ms. Whitten. Jim, this is—”
She did not give him time to finish. “My name is Standbridge Whitten, Mr. Stubb. Since my friends obviously can’t call me Standbridge, they call me Kip. I can’t imagine why, but I rather like it.”
She extended her hand, and Stubb rose and took it.
“I’m Mr. Rebic’s client. Isn’t that what you call it? Client?”
“Sure,” Stubb said. “Lucky Mr. Rebic.”
“Earlier, you asked to be … briefed? I was eavesdropping quite shamelessly; Mr. Rebic put me up to it. He refused to brief you because I had told him I wished to speak personally with each of the men who would help me find my uncle’s—”
“Ben was your uncle?”
“Yes. I’ll explain in a moment. You see, I feel that even if a man—or a woman—is a professional, he can feel, he is
“Call me Jim, Ms. Whitten.”
“Only if you’ll promise to call me Kip. My father, the late General Samuel Whitten, always said the most loyal soldiers were the career soldiers, those who were practically mercenaries. His men called him ‘Buck’ Whitten, though not to his face to be sure. He liked to believe it was because he had never lost his rapport with the rank and file. Do you consider yourself a mercenary, Mr. Stubb?”
“I consider myself a day laborer, Kip. Did Ben have money?”
Cliff raised a hand. “Wait a minute, Jim. A briefing’s okay, but you ought to answer a few questions yourself. Was it your impression he did?”
Stubb shook his head. “Not a cent.”
The blond girl’s fingers touched his. “Are you quite sure, Jim?”
“His house was falling apart, and he loved that house. A couple of times I tried to raid his refrigerator, but there wasn’t a damn thing to eat. Every once in a while one of us would feel sorry for him and buy him something.”
“You lived with my uncle?”
“For a few days,” Stubb said. “Yeah.”
“Did he ever speak to you of having—I don’t know, it could be anything. Something valuable. Something hidden.” She pressed his hand.
“He was your uncle, and you don’t know what he had?”
Cliff said, “Watch your mouth, Jim.”
