Shadow of a Broken Man

'I can't,' I said, suddenly feeling foolish. 'That's one of the conditions of my employment. Her present husband's the one who's interested, and he doesn't want me to talk to her. He says he's worried about his wife's mental state, and I believe him.'

'She must have a lot of answers.'

The phone rang. Garth picked up the receiver and began speaking with the person on the other end. I took the copy of the newspaper photo out of my pocket and studied it. It was as inscrutable as before, but I was convinced Rafferty had been somewhere nearby when the picture was taken. If true, it meant he'd probably had something to do with the two men on the ground.

'Rafferty was picked up,' Garth whispered, his hand over the receiver.

'Where?'

'It's in the report.'

Garth continued his telephone conversation and I resumed my reading. What followed in the report was even more intriguing. Rafferty had been picked up by ambulance in a restaurant on the morning of Saturday, August 16. He'd been taken to Roosevelt Hospital-where he'd escaped from the custody of an officer named Patrick O'Connell. There was no report from O'Connell, and no indication of how Rafferty had escaped from what was described as a maximum-security ward. There was also no mention of why Rafferty had been taken to the hospital, or why a Missing Persons had been filed in the first place.

There was a name: Lippitt. Below the name was a telephone number. I copied it down.

'Interesting, isn't it?' Garth said drily as he hung up.

'Why isn't there a report from this O'Connell?'

'It could have been pulled,' Garth said, looking directly at me. 'Or he could have been ordered not to write one up.'

'Why do you say that?'

'The file is flagged; top priority, very sensitive.'

'You recognize the area code on this telephone number?'

'Washington, D.C.,' Garth said quietly. 'There was a directive to call that number the moment anything turned up on Victor Rafferty.' Garth rose and walked to the window. He stared out at the blaring traffic, the pedestrians, the hookers, the pimps, the thugs and murderers, all caught up and swirling in the polluted bloodstream of New York City. 'I don't like it, Mongo,' he said at last. 'The whole thing stinks. Why don't you get your ass to Acapulco?'

'My ass will be toasting in Acapulco soon enough. First it would be interesting to hear what this Lippitt has to say.'

Garth turned back from the window. 'I don't like your being involved with it, Mongo.'

'You know,' I said, watching him, 'the Morton investigation just doesn't make it. It was closed out three days after Rafferty's supposed death, which makes it just about the shortest unsolved murder investigation on record. You think it got choked off?'

Garth nodded absently. 'Could be. Morton was pretty famous in his own right. You'd think they'd have spent a lot more time than they did looking into his murder.'

'A police cover-up, Garth?'

'Christ, I hate to think so, but it could be. Ordered at the highest level. If the police were ordered to cut off the investigation, they probably weren't even told why.'

'Hey,' I said quietly, 'maybe we should try to find out.'

Garth slowly shook his head. 'There's a lot of juice and muscle in that file.'

'Power's never bothered you before. A man's been murdered, and his killer was never caught; another man who's supposed to be dead may be alive. Those seem like pretty important considerations to me.'

Garth's eyes went cold. 'I wouldn't have showed you this stuff if I didn't feel the same way. But I'm official, and you're not. I just don't think it would be a good idea to call that number; you could end up with more trouble than you're bargaining for.'

Or Garth might, although he didn't say so. Rafferty, dead or alive, was a broken man who cast a large shadow. 'I don't want to start using information that can be traced back to you.'

The silence was prolonged. Finally he said: 'Shit. Go get 'em, Mongo. Use your discretion as to what information you think you can use.'

The tension that had been building inside me suddenly evaporated. My brother had signed on, and it gave me a good feeling. No more games. 'What about this O'Connell?' I asked. 'Can I talk to him?'

'That's up to O'Connell. He's retired.' Garth took a neatly folded paper out of his pocket and handed it to me. 'Here,' he said. 'I got that out of the P.B.A. directory.'

The address was a retirement community in southern New Jersey called Sunny Acres. I stuck the paper in my pocket and rose.

'What about that steak, Mongo? It would go good with eggs this time of morning.'

'Don't cash that rain check yet, brother,' I said, heading for the door. 'I'm still on a tight schedule. You wouldn't want me to miss that Aeromexico flight.' I hoped it sounded lighter than I felt. I realized now that I'd been a fool to take Foster's money in the first place; I'd hoped to skip a stone across a dark lake and have simple answers come rippling back to me. Instead, I found myself sinking steadily deeper into a quagmire of lies, fear, and murder.

I was already making a list of enemies I could turn the case over to when I left.

Outside, I dug Foster's business card out of my pocket as I crossed the street to a phone booth. His answering service informed me he was home that day. It was becoming obvious that I was going to save a lot of time-and Foster's money-if he'd let me talk to his wife.

I dialed his home number and a woman, presumably Elizabeth Foster, answered. The tone of the single 'Hello' was tense and hollow. Unless the Fosters had been fighting all morning, it was the trembling voice of a woman teetering on the edge of emotional breakdown.

'Mrs. Foster?' I said gently; I felt as if I were talking to a patient.

'Yes? Who is this?'

'My name is Robert Frederickson, Mrs. Foster. I've done some business with your husband. May I speak with him, please?'

'Just a moment, Mr. Frederickson.'

After a short pause, Foster's tightly controlled voice came on the line. 'What do you want, Frederickson?'

'Can you talk?'

'I'd rather not.' The tone was hard, clipped. 'Why the hell are you calling-?'

'I think it's important, Foster.' I was getting a little testy myself.

'Hold on a minute.'

It was almost five minutes before he came back on the line. 'All right,' he said. 'Elizabeth's out in the garden. You talk and I'll listen.'

'I think it may be time I talked to your wife.'

'No.' There was a strange note in his voice; the hard edge was blunted. 'In fact, I've been thinking the whole thing over and I think I may have been making a mountain out of a molehill.'

'This molehill is bigger than you think it is.'

I heard him catch his breath. 'You've got something?'

'Yes.' I didn't want to lay it all out yet, but I didn't want to fold my tents either. 'Can you meet me?'

'Where?'

'I'm at Eighth Avenue and Fifty-fourth.'

'I'll be there in a few minutes.' He hung up.

I called the number in Washington without giving myself time to think about it. The phone was picked up on the first ring.

'Aptown Florists,' a woman answered.

That didn't sound quite right. I hung up and dialed the number again, double-checking each digit.