Shadow of a Broken Man

'Aptown Florists.' It was the same young, cheery, woman's voice.

'I'd like to speak with Mr. Lippitt.'

There was dead silence at the other end. The idea of a phone blind hadn't occurred to me; I had a vision of a lot of flower cutters suddenly stopping work.

'I'm sorry, sir.' Her voice had aged; it was now professional, wary. 'We have no Mr. Lippitt working for us. Perhaps you'd like to speak to Mr. Raines.'

'I doubt it. Mr. Lippitt was the man who took my order.'

'What order was that, sir? I don't believe you gave me your order number.'

I could feel the woman listening very closely. 'The flowers were for Victor Rafferty,' I said slowly. 'I can't remember the order number. It was five years ago. The order may have been premature, and I'd like to discuss the whole matter with Mr. Lippitt.'

There was another silence. Then: 'Isn't it a little late to be discussing a floral order that went out five years ago?' 'No, missy, I don't think so. These flowers were for a funeral, but the man may still be alive.' I paused for effect. 'That's what I want you to tell Lippitt if he happens to drop by the shop.'

This time there wasn't any argument. The woman's voice was fast, sharp. 'May I have your name and a number where you may be reached, sir?'

I gave her the information and hung up just as Mike Foster pulled up to the curb in a late-model blue Oldsmobile.

I slid in beside him. He checked the rearview mirror, then pulled out into the traffic and drove uptown toward Harlem. His face was set in a scowl. The muscles under the brown skin of his face and arms worked, and his hands were clenched on the wheel.

His voice shook. 'I thought I'd made it clear that this was a matter between you and me.'

'It could save a lot of time-'

'I will not permit you to talk to my wife!' he said slamming his hand against the steering wheel. 'Elizabeth is worse; I'm afraid she's going to have some kind of breakdown. Damn it, you agreed that you wouldn't talk to her!' He sucked in his stomach. 'Now, if I didn't make it clear before-'

'Stop the car, Foster.'

'Huh?'

'Stop the car.'

Foster pulled the car back over to the curb. I opened the door and got out. When I looked back he seemed uncertain.

'I don't like being bawled out before the fact,' I said quietly. 'In fact, I don't like being bawled out at all.'

'Uh, look, Frederickson-'

'I took your money and you're entitled to what I found out, along with an opinion or two. First, Richard Patern did design the Nately. Museum, but he admits to getting the idea and inspiration from someone else. He says he doesn't know who, and I believe him. I don't believe the man who claims he saw Rafferty go into the furnace. By the way, did you know Rafferty was reported missing two days before he's supposed to have died?'

'No,' Foster said sheepishly. 'Elizabeth?'

'No. A very heavy government agency that doesn't mess with small fry. Also, the neurosurgeon who saved Rafferty's life was murdered a few days before Rafferty's supposed final accident. I think there's a connection.'

'You do?' Foster said weakly.

'And I'll tell you something else: I think there's a good possibility that Victor Rafferty is alive, but the smart money says to forget it. That's up to you. Goodbye.'

I slammed the car door shut and started hoofing it back down Eighth Avenue. There was a squeal of tires as Foster's car backed past me and screeched to a halt beside a fire hydrant. Foster got out and hurried up to me.

'Frederickson,' he said, breathing hard. 'Just hang on a minute. Please.'

I stopped. A cop appeared from the shadows of a storefront and began writing out a ticket. Foster ignored him.

'I… I don't know what to say,' Foster continued. 'You're telling me Rafferty may be alive?'

'In my opinion, it's a reasonable possibility.'

'Do … you think Elizabeth knows for sure?' His voice cracked.

'Maybe. We won't know until we talk to her, Mike. It all comes back to that.' We were standing in the middle of the sidewalk being jostled by people going in both directions, but Foster didn't seem inclined to move.

'Look, I'm sorry about the way I came on back in the car. I am really worried about Elizabeth. It's incredible what you've found out in such a short time.'

'There's much more. There has to be. Your wife could have all the answers. You know, Mike, sometimes it's better to face up to a problem.'

He looked pained. 'I just don't want to take that kind of a chance. If anything should happen to her-'

'Something has already happened to her, Mike. It was five years ago, and it's still eating at her. She's obviously a principal in this case. Sooner or later, I think the police are going to be back in on it.'

'Why do you say that?' he asked sharply.

'Because of the murder I mentioned; the man's name was Arthur Morton. If I continue this investigation, I think it's going to open the lid on a can of worms someone tried to close five years ago. The process may already have begun.'

'Why?' he said, alarmed. 'Have you been to the police?'

'No.' It was only a half-lie; I didn't consider talking to Garth going to the police.

'Then how do you know all this?'

'Mike, I don't think you really want a lecture on detective work. You've got a decision to make. If you want me to continue, you're wasting my time and your money by keeping me away from your wife; it's like walking around the world to get across the street.'

Foster looked shaken, and I felt sorry for him; I'd been beating him over the head with two razor-sharp horns of a dilemma. But it was Garth who might take it upon himself to reopen the case, and it could cost him his job. In light of that possibility, I didn't mind putting a little pressure on my client.

Foster was staring at his feet. I nudged him and pointed to his car, which was decorated with a buff-colored thirty-five-dollar ticket. 'You'd better get your car out of here before the tow truck shows up,' I said.

He looked at the car absently, as if it belonged to someone else. 'Can you keep on working a little while longer?' 'If that's what you want. It's your money, and I don't leave until Thursday. May I talk to your wife?'

'Would you wait on that just a while longer?' he said, a plea in his voice.

I shrugged. 'All right, Mike.' It was his money, and I'd given him my best advice.

He seemed relieved, 'Can I buy you breakfast?'

It was after ten; I hadn't eaten, but I wasn't hungry. 'Some other time. If you're still my client, I've got work to do.'

'I'm still your client, Mr. Frederickson. Can I drop you someplace?'

'The nearest car-rental agency. You might as well come along, since you're paying for it.'

'Where are you going?'

'South Jersey. I want to talk to the cop who had Rafferty.'

Foster blinked. 'The police had Victor?'

'I don't want to take the time to explain now, Mike. I'd like to get on the road.'

Foster nodded toward the big Olds with the buff decoration on the windshield. 'Use my car. I'll take a cab home. Tomorrow's Sunday. Leave it in the street in front of your apartment house and I'll pick it up in the morning.'

'What about your wife? Won't she wonder where the car is?'

'I'll tell her it broke down. Go ahead and take it.'

I removed the ticket, got into the car, and pulled the seat up all the way. In the rearview mirror I saw Foster,