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Cold As Ice

A Kellerman Mystery

By

Al Lamanda

Copyright 2016 by Al Lamanda

Other Kellerman Mystery Novels

Checkmate

Lollypops

Hard Time

Chapter One

Johnny Sanchez, the Alpha Male and Godfather of the Manhattan neighborhood known as Hell’s Kitchen sat in a hardback chair and quietly sipped coffee from a deli container.

He’s sixty-three-years-old, lean and fit and wore a pencil thin mustache that always reminded me of Clark Gable. He wore only suits custom made and the finest shirts and ties. His shoes were always imported Italian in the thousand dollar a pair range.

We were inside a warehouse he owned on Eleventh Avenue. The warehouse was full of furniture, boxes of DVD players, computers and flat screen TV sets. Two imported cars were parked against the back wall. A staircase led to a second floor office.

I’ve never asked Johnny about the warehouse or its contents. It’s none of my business. All I know it that he has at least two additional warehouses on the West Side of the city.

Why is his business, not mine.

I stood behind Johnny and put my deli container of coffee beside a hard-wired phone on a table that served as a small desk. I opened my suit jacked and reached inside for my cigarettes and lit one with a paper match.

There was no point to asking Johnny how long we would have to wait for the cops to show up. He didn’t know and he wouldn’t tell me if he did. He was a patient man, perhaps the most patient man I’ve ever known.

And the most dangerous. I think those two characteristics, as far as Johnny is concerned are one and the same.

I picked up my coffee, sipped and smoked and waited.

The phone on the table rang. Johnny turned and picked it up. He listened for a moment, said, “Come ahead” and then hung up.

He looked over his shoulder and nodded to me. I put the cigarette out in an ashtray on the table and walked to the sliding metal door and pushed the ‘up’ button on the wall.

The door rose and a black Lincoln drove in and I hit the button marked ‘down’ and walked past the Lincoln and stood beside Johnny.

The front doors on the Lincoln opened and two city detectives got out. I didn’t know who they were and had no desire to.

“The merchandise is in the trunk,” one of the detectives said.

The two detectives went around to the trunk. It popped open and they removed two men from inside and tossed them to the cement floor.

“Okay, Johnny,” one of the detectives said. “We owe you one.”

“My pleasure, Lieutenant,” Johnny said.

Both detectives returned to the Lincoln. I walked back to the button, opened the door and the Lincoln backed out and drove away. It had started to drizzle and the dark streets took on that reflective glow the way they always do when it rains.

I closed the door and looked at the two men on the floor. They were bound and gagged and had hoods over their heads.

I looked at Johnny. He nodded and I pulled out my pocket knife and cut their hands and legs free.

I stood behind them as they removed the hoods from their heads.

“Where are we?” one of them asked.

“Please don’t ask questions,” Johnny said.

“Who the fuck are you?” the other man said.

“I told you no questions,” Johnny said.

“Hey, fuck you pop,” the first man said.

I cleared my throat.

He turned and looked at me. “This goon don’t frighten me,” he said.

“Look at me,” Johnny said. “Both of you.”

They looked at Johnny.

“Your days of raping women are over,” Johnny said.

“We were found not guilty,” one of them said.

“The arresting officer forgot in his anxiousness to read you your rights,” Johnny said. “Getting off on a technicality is not the same as being innocent.”

“Fuck you, we’re leaving,” one of them said.

I stepped forward and punched him in the kidney and he fell to his knees.

“No, you’re not,” Johnny said. “You see, some in the police department still believe in justice. Due to a technicality in the law, you two miserable low-life’s are walking the streets free while many of your victims are suffering in hospitals and mental institutions. So I am doing them a favor.”

Johnny paused to pick up a pair of garden shears beside the phone. He held it in his hand and snipped the shears a few times. “Martha Stewart makes the best stuff, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Hey, what is this,” the man still standing said. “We got rights you know.”

“So did your victims,” Johnny said.

Johnny looked at me. I stepped forward and punched the second man in the kidney and he fell beside the first one. A hard kidney punch is devastating and difficult to recover from. That’s why it’s outlawed in boxing.

Johnny stood up with the garden shears. “Put them out,” he told me.

The first man tried to stand and I put him down a right hook to the jaw. The second man was still on his knees and I kicked him in the face.

“Open their zippers,” Johnny said.

“There’s going to be a lot of blood,” I said.

“As long as it isn’t ours,” Johnny said and went to work with the shears.

*****

I didn’t ask about the private ambulance that just showed up afterward to take the two men to a hospital. Johnny wouldn’t have told me anyway.

He drove us from the warehouse to the Bar and Grill on Ninth Avenue, an establishment he owns and uses as his headquarters.

Johnny drove a spotless white Cadillac in which I was never allowed to smoke and parked it in the municipal lot adjacent to the Bar and Grill. He didn’t pay for parking as he owned the lot.

“Come in for a moment,” Johnny said. “Some business I want to discuss.”

Cindy was waiting tables, Saul, a sometimes substitute was behind the bar, the regular cook was in the kitchen, and the crowd was decent for a Wednesday night.

On the way to the office, Johnny stopped at the bar for a moment. “Saul, if you steal more than a hundred dollars tonight, I will have Kellerman beat you to a pulp.”

“No problem,” Saul said.

I’ve never asked Johnny why he allows Saul to steal from him on a regular basis. They go back fifty years or more and it’s none of my business.

Johnny used a key to unlock his office door and we entered. Before the door even closed, Cindy handed me a large mug of coffee. I nodded and closed the door. Johnny went to the file cabinet beside his desk for the prized bottle of Black Maple Bourbon he always kept there and filled a water glass and took the chair behind his desk.

I took a chair opposite the desk and waited.

Johnny polished off half the glass of bourbon in one quick swallow. He looked at me and said, “Your woman has been home for two months and you haven’t said two words about it.”

“There’s nothing to say,” I said.

Johnny sighed, finished the glass of bourbon and quickly refilled it. “Your lawyer friend Cal Hawkins came to see me,” he said.

“About Maria?” I said.

Johnny shook his head. “He wants to see you about another matter. Tomorrow night at seven-thirty.”

I nodded.

“If you got a phone people wouldn’t need to come to me to find you,” Johnny said.

“True,” I said. “But think of all the interesting people you wouldn’t get to meet.”

“What about Davis?” Johnny asked.

“I’m going to see him in the morning,” I said. “Right now I’m going home and get some sleep.”

“Thanks for your help tonight,” Johnny said.

“No problem,” I said.

Chapter Two

From my fourth floor bedroom window I had a clear line of sight to the Bar and Grill across the street. I own the building I live in. I picked it up a decade ago for ninety-seven-thousand-dollars at a city auction when the prior owner went bankrupt. I have no desire to be a landlord; I just needed a place to live and didn’t want to pay rent. The building has sixteen apartments and one in the basement for a superintendent. Mrs. Parker, an eighty-year-old widow who lives on my floor is the building manager. I appointed her so the day I moved in. We made a deal. Tenants live rent free, but she collects a monthly fee from them to pay for building expenses and taxes. I don’t know what the fee is and don’t care. Everybody seems happy with the arrangement.

I smoked a cigarette as I looked out the window. The rain was a fine mist now and the colors of the city reflected in puddles. Red and green from stoplights, neon from closed storefronts, the occasional yellow from a passing cab.

I finished the cigarette and went to the bed where my cats were sleeping entwined around each other. Neither moved when I got under the covers. They were lazy creatures, but did their job of keeping mice away.

I thought about Maria for a while, hoping to get sleepy.

Maria Lopez, a drop dead gorgeous Puerto Rican, also was a Jersey cop for a dozen years. Her department was corrupt and indicted in a money laundering scheme and although she was clean, she received eighteen months for knowing and failing to report.

She served the full eighteen and was released two months ago. I picked her up at the prison she was sentenced to in West Virginia and we flew to New York in first class. She said not two words the entire flight.

At the airport, I rented a car and drove her to her small house in the suburbs. While she was incarcerated, I paid off the mortgagee and maintained the place for her. Except for the lack of flowers in the garden, things were pretty much the same.

I expected her to invite me in, but she didn’t.

“Look, Kellerman, I’m grateful to you beyond belief for what you’ve done for me, but right now I need some time to be alone and think,” she had said.

“I understand,” I said, even though I didn’t.

And still don’t. I know prison, even a cushy women’s facility where they play tennis everyday and watch cable TV at night can be hard and require some adjustment upon release, but I wasn’t prepared to be cut off like a string hanging off a shirt.

I called her once a week and our conversations were always polite but cold. She wasn’t ready to see me yet.

I fell asleep wondering and woke up with the cats pulling on my hair. I put on some coffee, fed the cats and changed their water, then took a shower. I smoked a cigarette at the window while I drank two cups of coffee, then changed into sweatpants and a grey tee-shirt.

The August sun was hot, even for seven-thirty in the morning while I jogged around pedestrians hurrying to work. My destination was the Y on 63^rd Street near Central Park, about three quarters of a mile from my building.

I tossed weights around in the weight room for an hour, and then ran one hundred laps on the indoor track.

I was back in the apartment by nine forty-five and took a second shower. The cats were at the kitchen window, bird watching. Heavy iron gates on the windows prevent the cats from doing something stupid.

I wore a lightweight tan suit with a grey tee-shirt and black loafers when I left the apartment. My car was parked in Johnny’s lot across the street. I tipped the guard at the gatehouse ten dollars for handing me the keys.

A few months ago, my thirty-year-old Olds finally up and died on me. I looked around and found a twenty-year-old Lincoln Continental with less than a hundred thousand miles on the engine and paid six grand for it. It was a comfortable ride with eight cylinders under the hood, but it wasn’t the Olds.

I spent and hour fighting with traffic to reach the GW Bridge and then took the highway north for another to the state corrections facility for men where Davis was serving eighteen months on various charges.

I parked in the visitor’s lot and went through the routine of gaining entrance, including a frisking and wand pat down before being escorted to the visitor’s room.

Twelve chairs on each side of a thick glass. Each side had a phone. I took a vacant chair and waited. After a few minutes, a guard brought Davis to his chair.

We’ve been friends for twenty-five years. We met in the Marine Corps and served two tours in Iraq and Afghanistan. Afterward, we hooked up again in New York and formed an unbreakable bond of friendship. Or so I thought.

Davis, tall, black, a superior athlete also happens to be gay, something that never really mattered between us. Until he met and fell madly in love with a Broadway choreographer named Albert Kent.

Albert was heavy into drugs and before either of us knew it, Davis was a junkie. Things spiraled downward after that and Albert overdosed but Davis blames me for it and tried to kill me and Johnny one night at the Bar and Grill.

Johnny shot him.

Davis received two years, eligible for parole in eighteen.

I picked up the phone as did Davis.

“You don’t look so good,” I said. “Soft around the middle.”

“It this bullshit orange uniform they make us wear,” Davis said. “We all look like a fucking orange crop in here.”

“I can have Cal Hawkins take your case for review,” I said.

“Seeing as how I only going to kill you when I get out, why you want an early release for me?” Davis said.

“Because I still believe we’re friends,” I said. “Because I think deep down you know I’m right and that Albert was wrong for you.”

“You believe wrong,” Davis said.

“He made you a junkie,” I said.

“I loved Albert and you had no right to kill him,” Davis said. “And you gonna pay. Oh how you gonna fucking pay.”

I hung up the phone.

Davis tapped on the glass.

I picked up the phone.

“Your woman out yet?” he asked.

“Two months now.”

“Tell her hi for me.”

“I would if she would see me.”

“It like that, huh,” Davis said.

“Like what?”

“In prison, she was turned,” Davis said. “She come over to my side.”

Grinning, Davis hung up.

*****

I grabbed lunch at a highway rest stop and then spent the afternoon at Roth’s Gym on the West Side. At least eighty now, back in the day Roth was a contender for the lightweight title. He lost a split decision for the championship in 1960 and hung them up after the champion refused a rematch.

I jumped rope for thirty minutes, then worked the speed bag for thirty and ended with thirty minutes on a heavy bag.

Roth tracked me down in the locker room.

“Some lawyer was asking for you,” he said. “He said he’d try the Pub.”

“He found me,” I said.

“Why don’t you get a phone like the rest of the world?” Roth asked.

“If the rest of the world got smallpox, I should get it too?” I said.

“I don’t even know what that means,” Roth muttered and walked away.

*****

I arrived at The Bar and Grill around six and had a massive plate of roast beef with mashed potatoes and gravy. I washed it all down with iced water with lemon wedges. I read the sports pages while I ate.

My beloved Yankees were holding their own and were in second place in the eastern division. The Mets were in first place in their division, but I didn’t really care.

Afterward, Cindy brought me coffee. Johnny emerged from his office and joined me in the booth. Cindy brought him bourbon over ice and when I fired up a cigarette, Johnny didn’t blink at the violation of city law. Johnny has his own set of laws. If you want to smoke, smoke. If you don’t like it, don’t come in.

“Did you see Davis today?” Johnny asked.

“I did.”

“And?”

“He says he’s going to kill me when he gets out.”

“That again,” Johnny said. “Hell, I’m the one that shot him.”

“Yeah but he still blames me for Albert’s death,” I said.

Johnny shrugged and sipped his drink.

“Something else he said,” I said. “He said that the reason Maria doesn’t want to see me that she was turned in prison.”

“Went in straight and came out gay?”

I nodded.

“It’s possible.”

“I know,” I said.

“Maybe you should find out?”

I looked past Johnny at Cal Hawkins as he entered the bar. He was pushing sixty, round in shape and wearing an expensive suit and toting a briefcase.

Johnny led the way to his office. He let Hawkins have the desk while I took a chair. Johnny stood at his file cabinet for easy access to his bourbon.

“This is a paying job, Kellerman,” Hawkins said as he opened the briefcase.

Cindy knocked, opened the door and ushered in two mugs of coffee. She set the tray on the desk and left without saying a word.

“How much and what’s the job?” I asked as I reached for a mug.

“Fifty thousand up front, fifty upon completion and expenses,” Hawkins said.

“I don’t do charity work,” I said.

Hawkins glared at me. “You owe me for keeping Maria from a fifteen year stretch,” he said. “Besides, the client’s father used to be a member of the Bar and a man I once knew. I’d consider it a favor.”

“Have a file?” I asked.

Hawkins produced a file from the briefcase and set it on the desk. “Read it. We’ll have lunch tomorrow on me. It’s not like you have anything better to do right now, right?”

“I’ll read it tonight,” I said. “Provided you look into an early release plea bargain for Davis.”

“The man wants to kill you,” Hawkins said.

“Just do it, okay.”

“I’ll make some calls.”

“Thank you.”

After Hawkins left, Johnny took his seat behind the desk.

“He has a point, the man wants to kill you,” Johnny said.

I stood and picked up the file. “See you tomorrow,” I said.

*****

Ellen Ashley Olsen was the client and she had quite the history. Born thirty-four years ago on Staten Island, her mother was a school teacher, he father an estate lawyer. She was a normal kid in an upper middle class neighborhood until after graduating high school, she met Brian Cosby.

Cosby was four years older, a handsome kid by all accounts and a heavy drug user. He was well known to the cops as a pusher, having several arrests on his sheet and try as they might, her parents weren’t able to keep Ellen away from him.

They ran away together when Ellen was just nineteen.

Cosby also came from money, but his parents cut him off when he refused to get clean. That’s when, as the junkies used to refer to it, they traveled the circuit. Constantly on the move from state to state, scoring drugs, committing robberies to pay for their freight, staying one step ahead of the cops.

Sometimes, when broke enough, Ellen would walk the streets and Cosby would roll the Johns.

Ten years ago, Ellen became pregnant. The father could be Cosby or a John. It didn’t really matter. Since they never married, Cosby devised that as an unwed mother, Ellen might qualify for welfare. They returned to Staten Island and she applied for and received benefits. They also tried to hit up her parents for money and to a degree, it worked.

Cosby continued to sell and pimp Ellen almost to the time she gave birth to an addicted baby boy.

Needless to say, child services were immediately notified by the hospital and the child, upon rehabilitation was placed into his grandparent’s care with one stipulation. Ellen would have no contact with her son.

Ellen was arrested and tried for child endangerment and a Staten Island judge gave her the maximum of seven years.

A warrant for Cosby’s arrest failed to produce him and to this day he’s still at large.

Six months after the baby came to live with Ellen’s parents, while her father was at work, someone broke into their home, killed her mother and stole the baby. Hawkins used the word stole rather than kidnapped because ransom demands were never forthcoming.

Everybody suspected Cosby, but nobody could find or prove his involvement. After a while, years in fact, police and the FBI put the case on the back burner. Time passed and everybody moved on.

After his wife died, Ellen’s father never really returned to work and he sold his practice. Money wasn’t a factor, he had plenty, but his spirits were broken and he rarely left the house except to visit Ellen on occasion at the prison in upstate New York.

Three years ago, after serving every day of her seven year stretch, Ellen was released. She was healthy, having kicked the drug habit under prison doctor care and took many college courses using the library computers. Her father picked her up and took her in and she got a job at a small accounting firm as an office manager.

Ellen pressed the police and FBI about her baby, but their lack of progress all but closed the case.

Life went on and three months ago, Ellen’s father passed away after suffering a heart attack.

Simply put, Ellen wants to know what happened to her son.

I was on my bed with the cats sleeping at my feet. I reached over to the nightstand for my cigarettes.

I lit one and blew smoke.

“Good luck with that,” I said as I closed the file.

Chapter Three

In the morning, I walked across the hall and knocked on Mrs. Parker’s apartment door. After a few seconds, the lock turned and the door opened as far as the chain would allow it.

“I need your phone,” I said.

She nodded, left for a moment and returned with a cordless phone.

“I’m about to make breakfast,” she said. “Would you care to join me?”

“Give me ten minutes,” I said.

She closed the door and I sat on the hallway steps.

I tried Hawkins at home and he hadn’t left for his office yet.

“Do I look like Saint Jude to you?” I said when he answered the phone.

“Who?”

“The Patron Saint of Lost Causes.”

“I take it you read the file?”

“I read it,” I said. “My answer is no, it’s not doable.”

“Take the case, take the money and I’ll do Davis pro bono,” Hawkins said. “Besides, everything isn’t in the file.”

“Like what?”

“Like be at my office at eleven and find out,” Hawkins said and hung up.

“Shit,” I said.

I stood and knocked on Mrs. Parker’s door. She opened it and I entered her apartment.

“Kitchen,” she said.

Mrs. Parker made French toast with sides of bacon and sausage and toast, orange juice and coffee.

We chatted about the building as we ate. What needed paint and repair, a new tenant, the superintendent wanted to buy a dozen new garbage cans, tenant complaints and the upcoming taxes.

We met like this once a month.

I usually told her to just handle it.

“If you don’t mind me saying so, you seem distracted today,” Mrs. Parker said when business was concluded.

“It’s nothing,” I said. “I have to go. I have to make a meeting.”

Mrs. Parker never asked my business. She just accepted things as they were.

*****

I wore a light grey suit with a matching tee-shirt and black loafers to Hawkins’s Park Avenue South office.

The lavish building stood forty floors high. Hawkins’s office was on twenty and faced the street.

His secretary ushered me to his back office. “Would you café for coffee?” she asked before she closed the door behind her.

“I would.”

“Sit,” Hawkins said.

I sat.

“The police and FBI couldn’t find the …” I said.

There was a knock on the door. It opened and the secretary walked in and handed me a mug of coffee.

“Hold any calls,” Hawkins said.

She nodded and closed the door.

“I know all about the police and FBI,” Hawkins said. “Ralph Olsen and his wife Judith were friends of mine. Ralph had an office on eighteen in this very building. No one should have the heartache those two endured.”

“The kid is gone, Cal, and he’s not coming back,” I said.

“I told Ellen we would be by her house around one-thirty,” Hawkins said. “We’ll talk more on the way.”

*****

“I will file a motion to have his sentence reduced to one year,” Hawkins said. “Davis will be out in nine.”

I nodded.

“Seeing as how he wants to kill you, I don’t understand why you want him released at all,” Hawkins said.

“He’s my friend.”

“Was,” Hawkins said. “Was your friend.”

“I don’t throw away my friends like a worn shirt just because they’re having some problems,” I said.

“Okay,” Hawkins said.

He drove to the ferry and we sailed across to Staten Island with neither of us leaving his car.

On the other side, he drove for about thirty minutes to an upper-middle-class neighborhood near the shore.

He parked in the driveway in front of an open garage where a blue Ford Bronco took up one of three spaces.

I put the home in the seven hundred thousand dollar range.

The woman who answered the door was nothing like what I expected. Ellen Ashley Olson was all of five-feet-one inches tall, with long blond hair and piercing blue eyes.

She seemed, for someone with her past to be very healthy.

“Mr. Hawkins,” she said when she opened the door.

“This is Kellerman, the man I told you about,” Hawkins said.

“Hello,” Ellen said. “Please come in.”

*****

Ellen poured coffee from a glass carafe. She wore a teal tank top with blue jeans and as she filled three cups, I checked her arms for track marks. She sat and smiled at me.

“Between my toes and the back of my knees,” she said to me. “That’s what you’re looking for, isn’t it? Track marks.”

“I was noticing how healthy and toned you look,” I said.

“For a junkie you mean?” Ellen said.

“I didn’t say that,” I said.

“But you were thinking it?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve been clean for nine years,” Ellen said. “The best thing that ever happened to me was going to prison. I got a degree in accounting and manage a small firm here on the Island. The last three years with my dad were the best years I’ve ever had with him. I eat right and exercise regularly. My last checkup with my doctor gave me a clean bill of health. The worst thing in my life was losing my son and mother’s murder. The second worst thing in my life was meeting Brian Cosby who caused the first.”

I nodded. “Mind if I smoke?”

“Go ahead,” Ellen said as she stood and opened a cabinet for an ash tray.

“I have to be honest with you,” I said. “I feel you don’t deserve to be reunited with your son if he is alive that is.”

“I have every reason to believe he is alive,” Ellen said. “The FBI never reported to me that they believe otherwise. They believe it was Brian that murdered my mother and kidnapped my son. You see Mr. Kellerman, this is a big demand for black market babies and Brian probably sold the baby for the money. At least that’s what the FBI believed at the time.”

“I’m well aware of the black market for babies,” I said as I lit a cigarette. “And my feeling hasn’t changed. The baby is better off not knowing who his mother is. He’s ten now and probably a happy, well-adjusted kid. Why screw with that?”

Ellen looked at Hawkins. “You didn’t tell him?”

“Tell me what?” I asked.

“I don’t want to be reunited with my son,” Ellen said. “I agree with you that he is better off where he is. You see, my father left me this house and two hundred and fifty thousand in cash. He also left four hundred thousand to my son in trust if and when he can be found. His will is quite specific. I helped him write it. My son is to be given the money without knowing where it came from. He is as you said, probably happy, but who couldn’t use that kind of money to jumpstart your life. If you can locate him, you give him the trust fund that he can’t use until he is eighteen and ready for college.”

I blew smoke and looked at Hawkins. He shrugged at me.

“What makes you think I can do what the FBI couldn’t?” I asked Ellen.

“I’ve known Mr. Hawkins all my life,” Ellen said. “He says you can get things done while others can’t. I believe him.”

I sat back for a moment and thought. I really didn’t have much else to do these days except sit around and moon over Maria and try to salvage my friendship with Davis.

“Give me twenty-four hours to think it over,” I said. “Have ready any photos you might have of Brian and a list of names of past friends, hangouts and places he might be hiding in if he’s even still alive.”

Ellen nodded. “If you return at ten, that’s only eighteen hours to think it over,” she said.

I looked at her.

She smiled.

“Then make it two o’clock and have lunch ready,” I said. “I think better while I eat.”

“What kind of food do you like?” Ellen asked.

“Whatever is bad for me,” I said.

*****

“You conniving little prick,” I said to Hawkins as the ferry took us back to Manhattan.

“Like you have anything better to do at the moment,” Hawkins said. “Besides, if you’re successful you just might change the boy’s life for the better and pick up a hundred grand to boot.”

“And you get what?”

“The satisfaction of helping an old friend and nothing more, you miserable bastard,” Hawkins said.

“No,” I said. “What you get to do is pro bono work for Davis. If you backtrack on that I’ll throw you out your office fucking window.”

“So we have an accord?” Hawkins said.

“Yeah, we have an accord,” I said.

Chapter Four

I played chess with Johnny until nine in the evening. We played a marathon game of eighty-nine moves before we called the game a draw.

During the game I drank and entire pot of coffee and Johnny consumed a fifth of bourbon. His capacity for alcohol is second to none. If he’s ever drunk, it never shows.

Game over, Johnny finally asked, “Your lawyer friend, are you going to agree?”

The game lasted four plus house and he waited until we were finished to ask his question. He could outwait any man I knew.

“Haven’t decided yet.”

“It seems like an easy six figures to me.”

“Nothing is ever easy,” I said. “And I’m far from broke.”

“But you’ll do it,” Johnny said. “We both know that.”

*****

After I left Johnny, I retrieved the Lincoln from the lot and drove south to the tunnel and crossed over to Jersey. I drove around for a bit until I mentally committed to staking out Maria’s house.

I found a deli and picked up two large containers of coffee and then drove to the quiet, tree-lined street where Maria’s house was the last one on the block. It was after eleven by the time I parked across the street a hundred feet away in front of an empty lot. Most of the houses were dark, a few with floodlights above the door.

Two lights were on in Maria’s house, the kitchen and living room. The garage door was closed so I couldn’t see if her car was parked inside.

I removed the lid from a container, lit a smoke, sipped and waited. By the time the first container was empty and three cigarettes were smoked, I was convinced Maria wasn’t home. Nothing moved in the kitchen, no shadow crossed the light in either room; no other lights went on or off.

I started on the second container and smoked a few more cigarettes. I decided to call it a night after the second container was empty. I left the car and walked into the empty lot to piss out all the coffee.

I was just zipping up when car lights turned the corner and I spotted Maria’s car. It quickly braked and pulled into her driveway. She remote accessed the garage door, it flipped up and she pulled in and the door closed.

I returned to the Lincoln and sat in the dark. I lit another cigarette and found my hands were a bit clammy.

I watched the house. With the shades down in the kitchen, I couldn’t positively identify the figure I saw walk past the window as Maria, but it certainly looked like her.

The refrigerator door opened.

Then, at the same time a second figure appeared in the bedroom window behind the drawn curtains.

It was the outline of a woman. She removed her top and tossed it aside.

In the kitchen, the light went out and a few moments later, Maria entered the bedroom and the two figures embraced.

I started the engine, put the Lincoln in gear and speed away from the curb.

*****

In my apartment, I stood under a hot shower for thirty minutes. When I finally emerged, I tossed on a robe, grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and went to bed.

The cats, asleep in the center, looked at me with indication when I turned down the sheets.

I smoked a few cigarettes and sipped water and thought about Maria.

Davis, the son of a bitch, apparently was right in his analysis.

She had, obviously entered into a relationship with a woman. I thought about my options and concluded there were none.

Although I paid off the mortgage on her house so she wouldn’t lose it and paid off her car so she could keep it, she owed me nothing because she didn’t ask me to do it.

I never asked her to marry me nor gave her a ring, so the lack of commitment on my part was my own fault.

I switched gears and thought about Ellen Ashley Olson. The odds of actually finding her son after a decade were nonexistent at best.

As Hawkins said, it was a quick hundred grand and something to do.

Chapter Five

I grabbed a light breakfast at the coffee shop on West 57^th and skimmed the sports pages while I ate.

Then I walked over to the Y and did an hour in the weight room followed by a hundred laps on the track. I was back in my apartment, showered and dressed by ten in the morning.

On the way to the library, I picked up a large coffee and brought it in with me. It wasn’t the main branch, far from it, but the computer room had eight computers and the librarians always let me use one for as long as I needed in exchange for a thousand dollar yearly donation.

After a librarian signed me into a terminal, I went to work.

A Google search of archived police reports on the murder of Clair Ellen Fallen brought up a lot. She was forty-nine-years-old at the time of her murder. She was on summer break from teaching school when, sometime after ten in the morning an intruder entered the home while she was in the shower.

Her naked body was found in the bedroom where the baby slept in a crib. The crib was empty when police arrived on the scene. Clair died hard. Her face was battered and bruised, blood was found under her fingernails and he knuckles were scraped and cut. She fought to her last breath to protect the baby before the intruder strangled her to death.

A neighbor walking their dog across the street noticed a man wearing a grey hooded sweatshirt with a wrapped bundle in his arms enter a dark car parked in front of the Fallen home and called 911.

James Fallon was in his Park Avenue South office at the time with a client. Ellen, his daughter, was serving her sentence in upstate New York and neither was a suspect in the brutal murder.

The police handled it as a murder.

The FBI dealt with it as a kidnapping.

Neither had any success in solving the murder or locating and returning the child even though all involved knew or suspected the murderer and kidnapper to be Brian Cosby.

I switched over to Ellen’s father and by all accounts, he was a highly regarded estate attorney with many clients in the millionaire and celebrity bracket. He had a clean arrest and driving record right up to the day he died.

Clair was a middle school teacher with twenty-five years experience. The photo of her in the newspaper was black and white and grainy, but it was clear she was a handsome woman with blonde hair and bright eyes.

A search of Brian Cosby brought up his arrest record going back to his first at age fifteen to his last at age twenty-two. Everything from shoplifting, robbing drugstores, snatching purses, rolling drunks and possession of illegal substances. He seemingly fell off the earth after Clair’s murder and the kidnapping of the baby.

I had no doubt that he killed Clair, stole the baby and sold it on the black market.

Junkies will do anything for a fix, including selling their own flesh and blood.

Ellen Ashley Fallen had a rap sheet of minor offenses. Mostly shoplifting and purse snatching and prostitution. Oddly enough she was never picked up for drugs.

I left the library and walked to the lot to retrieve the Lincoln.

*****

“Come in,” Ellen said after I rang the bell and she answered the door.

She wore a teal colored tank top with tan shorts and white jogging shoes. Her hair was worn in a ponytail and he face was void of any traceable makeup.

“I picked up steaks,” Ellen said. “You look like a steak kind of guy. The grill is in the backyard. We can talk while you cook.”

I followed her to the kitchen where sliding glass doors led to the backyard. It was about a thousand square feet of neatly mowed lawn, several flowerbeds and bricked patio area with a stainless steel grill.

There was a pot of coffee, cups, a pitcher of lemonade and glasses and a platter with two steaks on it on the patio table.

“I like this look better,” Ellen said.

“What look?”

“Jeans, pullover shirt, running shoes,” Ellen said. “The suit you wore yesterday appeared too formal. Start the grill and let it heat up first.”

I went to the grill and activated all three burners.

When I returned to the table, Ellen had filled two cups with coffee.

“Go ahead and smoke if you’re inclined,” she said.

I sat opposite her, lit a cigarette and sampled the coffee.

Ellen reached onto the vacant seat next to her and produced a yellow legal pad.

“I did as you asked,” she said. “I made a list of all his friends as I knew them from before I went to prison. The few photos I do have are at least eight to ten years old.”

I looked at the envelope on top of the legal pad.

Ellen opened the envelope and removed a handful of photos. Three were black and white wallet size photos taken at what looked like a state fair.

“Those are at least ten years old,” she said. “The others I’m not sure. Things are kind of a blur back then.”

Brian Cosby was a good looking, all American boy type. Sandy hair, nice smile, white even teeth, twinkling brown eyes, the kind you’d let mow your lawn, carry in your groceries and date your daughter.

“One thing,” I said. “Keep in mind every question I ask has a purpose. Anything and everything can possibly mean and lead to something else. I ask, you answer. Those are the rules. Agreed?”

Ellen nodded.

“Let’s start with how and when you first met Brian.”

“Senior year of high school,” Ellen said. “I was the wallflower of my class. I had braces from the age of sixteen when I developed an overbite. I was shy and felt awkward around boys. One afternoon during lunch period, I …”

“What high school?” I asked.

“Regional,” Ellen said. “My parents had the money to send me to private school, but I insisted I go to Regional like everyone else in the neighborhood.”

“So one afternoon what?” I asked.

“I was sitting on a bench on the school grounds,” Ellen said. “It was April, I think. A small crowd of kids were buying pot from Brian and he must have spotted me because afterward, he came and joined me on the bench. He was so good looking with this charming smile; I couldn’t believe he wanted to talk to me. Before the next class, he asked me on a date. I said yes. Keep in mind the number of dates I had the entire four years in high school I could count on one hand. The grill should be hot enough now.”

I picked up the plate with the steaks, carried it to the grill and used tongs to place them on the fire.

“So how did the date go?” I said as I returned to the table.

“We saw a movie, had burgers afterward and he introduced me to pot in his car,” Ellen said. “Don’t let the talking heads fool you with their rhetoric about the harmless pleasure of pot, that’s bullshit. I know. I drove that car down that road.”

“And after that?”

“More dates, more pot,” Ellen said. “A gradual upgrade to coke and then the final push to heroin. First chasing the dragon and then mainlining. Do you know what chasing the dragon is?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t do drugs?”

“No.”

“Ever?”

“No.”

“What’s that you’re smoking?”

“I’ll give you that one,” I said. “Go on.”

“Better flip the steaks.”

I flipped the steaks and returned to the table.

Ellen picked up my pack of cigarettes. “I used to love to smoke,” she said. “I can’t anymore. Know why?”

“Nicotine is a mental addiction and can be classified as a gateway substance to a recovering addict,” I said.

“You’re very smart.”

“Continue,” I said.

“I was hooked almost immediately,” Ellen said. “At first, I hid it well, so I thought. Mom caught on before dad. That was right after graduation when I refused to go to college. Dad went to NYU and Columbia. I skipped out with Brian and we went on the road. That really opened my eyes.”

“How so?”

“Brian had contacts everywhere,” Ellen said. “From Jersey to Kansas City to Maine and Florida. We’d drive stoned and God only knew how we got where we were going. Brian would mail our junk to a friend so if we were stopped there was no drugs in the car except for the small amount we needed to keep straight. When we reached our destination, Brian would fetch our junk and he’d sell pot to kids to buy more junk. It was an endless cycle. We’d sell drugs to get the money to buy more drugs and use what we needed to get straight so we could sell more drugs to buy more drugs. By traveling a lot we stayed under the radar of the cops.”

“This went on for how long?”

“About six years,” Ellen said. “Toward the end it was pretty bad. We shoplifted from stores, mugged old ladies and I took to the streets. I still had some youthful looks and could get fifty for a quick lay or blowjob. Better check the steaks.”

I checked the steaks. They were done and I put them on a clean plate and took them to the table. Ellen had returned to the kitchen and reappeared with a bowl of mashed potatoes and baked beans.

“I usually have just a salad for lunch, so this is a treat for me,” Ellen said.

I sliced into my steak and forked a piece into my mouth. It was medium and tender.

“After that came the baby?” I said.

Ellen nodded. “It’s a miracle pregnant is all I got,” she said. “No HIV, no AIDS, no STD’s, just pregnant. I have a nice chocolate cake for dessert by the way.”

“Do you know for certain the baby is Cosby’s?”

“No. It probably is, but I was turning a lot of tricks back then.”

“The scheme was?”

“Simple and idiotic,” Ellen said. “Although we thought we were so very clever at the time. Staten Island was still my home address. Brian figured as an unwed mother I could get welfare while putting the so-called arm on my parents. Neither of us in our clouded state of mind figured Social Services were as competent as they were. My son was born a junkie, I was arrested for child endangerment and Brian skipped town.”

“Is there any doubt in your mind it was Cosby that murdered your mother and kidnapped the baby?”

“None. It’s exactly the kind of thing he would do,” Ellen said. “He’s hurt others. I don’t know if he killed anyone before, but I know he’s beaten and knifed others.”

“What about his parents?”

“Both disowned him before I met him,” Ellen said. “All I know is they retired and moved to Florida.”

“Did your father leave you anything else besides the house and cash?” I asked.

“Fifty thousand in gold. Fifty thousand in stock. A small cottage on a lake in New Hampshire. I haven’t been there since I was seventeen.”

“Has Cosby ever tried to contact you?”

“No. He very well could be dead for all I know.”

“The list of names,” I said.

“It’s everyone I could think of,” Ellen said. “If I remember any others I’ll let you know.”

“I have a license from the state as a private investigator, but it’s mostly just an excuse to carry a gun inside the city,” I said. “I work under the table and by that I mean I follow nobody’s rules but my own. If you want an above board investigator who dots the I’s and crosses the T’s, I’m not your man. Do we understand each other?”

“Mr. Hawkins said you were the toughest son of a bitch around and a man who can get things done,” Ellen said. “We understand each other.”

“Good. Did you bake the cake yourself?”

*****

“So what now?” Ellen asked as she walked me to my car.

“Do you work tomorrow?”

“Eight to four-thirty,” Ellen said.

“Can you meet me in the city around seven-thirty?”

“I can. Why?”

“Bring fifty thousand in the form of a cashier’s check and twenty thousand in cash for expenses,” I said. “I don’t do receipts so consider the twenty thousand lost.”

Ellen nodded. “Where?”

“Are you familiar with Manhattan?”

“Yes.”

“The Bar and Grill on Ninth Avenue between Fifty-second and third.”

“I’ll be there,” Ellen said.

I took the folder with me and drove back to the ferry. I smoked a cigarette in the car as the ferry crossed over to lower Manhattan. I was back in my apartment by six o’clock.

The cats were happy to see me and greeted me at the door, but that was mostly because their food bowl was empty.

I loaded up the bowl, changed the water in their dish and put on some coffee.

I sat at the table with a cup and opened the file. I scanned the list of names and counted twenty-seven. Some had states of residence, most had nothing. I looked at the photos of Brian Cosby. He had the conniving little smile of a con man.

I closed the file and went down the hall and knocked on Mrs. Parker’s door.

“Mrs. Parker, I’d like to borrow your phone,” I said.

The door opened and she handed me the phone.

“Thank you,” I said.

I sat on the steps and dialed Maria’s number. It rang four times and the answering machine picked up. I waited for the message to play through and then I said, “Maria, it’s Kellerman. I wanted to …”

“I’m here,” Maria said. “I screen calls these days.”

“How are you?”

“Good. You?”

“I want to see you,” I said.

“Not a good idea right now.”

“How come?”

“It’s just not,” Maria said. “I’m starting a new job and I have a lot of things to work out in my mind. I can never be a cop again, you know. I’m still coming to grips with that.”

“We can still talk,” I said. “Maybe I can even help?”

There was a noise in the background and Maria said, “I’ll call you soon,” and hung up.

*****

I was parked across the street from Maria’s house far enough away so that in the dark I couldn’t be seen.

I had two containers of coffee and a lemon danish. I nibbled on the danish and sipped as I watched the house. She was home. Lights were on in every room and I could see her moving around from room to room.

The second container was empty and I was going to call it a night when a sports car turned the corner and pulled into Maria’s driveway. A slinky brunette got out and walked to the door. She was carrying an overnight bag.

She used a key to let herself in.

I started the engine and headed for home.

Chapter Six

I skipped the Y and went right to Roth’s Gym after a light breakfast at the coffee shop on West 57^th.

After thirty minutes of skipping rope, I switched to the speed bag for another thirty and ended with one hour on the heavy bag. Drenched in sweat I took a chair next to Roth who was watching two heavyweights spar in the ring.

They were sloppy four rounders at best, hugging and leaning on each other, occasionally tossing a punch.

“These guys have the endurance of a newborn,” I said.

“Boxing is in a sorry state of affairs,” Roth said. He stood up and shook his fist. “Hey, are you goons gonna fight or fuck? If you wanna fuck, go get a room and get out of my ring.”

I left Roth screaming and shaking his fist and walked home.

*****

I dropped a check for a thousand dollars with the library branch manager before finding a free computer terminal. A sign read Thirty Minute Per Terminal, but everybody knew I would ignore it.

I had Ellen’s folder and opened it and went right to work on the list of names. Many were common first and last names, so I used arrest records to weed and narrow it down.

After about and hour, I left for coffee and a cigarette. Things were untouched when I returned.

By two in the afternoon, I crossed off fifteen of the twenty-eight names. There was no sense checking people that were dead. Finding twelve would be chore enough.

On the way home I picked up some Italian. My cats have developed a taste for pasta and sauce and I treated them to a bowl with a cut up meatball.

Afterward the three of us took a nap on the bed.

I slept until five. When I got up, the cats carried on without me. I shaved using the fairly new electric shaver I bought when I grew tired of buying blades at five bucks a pop.

After I shower, I dressed in a dark blue warm-up suit with jogging shoes.

*****

I killed some time over a game of chess with Johnny. We played until seven-fifteen and ended the game in a draw.

“When was the last time I actually won a game?” I asked.

“You know whenever you do win. It’s because I always let you, don’t you?” Johnny said.

“I suspected.”

At seven twenty-five, the door opened and Ellen walked in. She wore stylish jeans with a designer top and boots. Her hair was down and a bit longer than I expected. She carried and oversize handbag that hung off her right shoulder.

“The client?” Johnny said.

Ellen spotted me and as she walked to the table, I stood.

“This is my associate John Sanchez,” I said. “We’ll be using his office.”

Johnny stood and led the way into his office.

“Would you care for a drink, a glass of wine?” Johnny asked.

“I can’t do alcohol,” Ellen said.

“Of course,” Johnny said. “A soft drink perhaps?”

“Coke with ice,” Ellen said.

Johnny picked up his phone and asked for Coke with ice and coffee for me.

A minute later, Cindy arrived with a tray.

“Thank you,” Ellen said as she took the Coke.

I sat behind the desk while Johnny went to the file cabinet, but didn’t open it.

Ellen took a chair opposite the desk.

“I whittled down the list you gave me to twelve,” I said. “Fifteen names are dead.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” Ellen said. “Junkies have a short life span.”

“I’m going to start with the twelve and see where that goes,” I said. “If I need you I know how to get in touch with you except for your cell number. Write that down. If you need to get in touch with me, call here and Johnny will get a hold of me.”

“Don’t you have a phone?” Ellen asked.

“No.”

“Not even a cell?”

“Especially a cell.”

Ellen sipped from her glass. “Part of your own rules?”

“Yes. Do you have the first payment and expense money?”

Ellen nodded.

“Give the check to Johnny and the expense money to me.”

Ellen opened her oversize bag, reached in and produced two envelopes. One was thin, the other about an inch thick. She handed Johnny the thin envelope and set the thick one on the desk.

Johnny turned to the closet next to the file cabinet, opened the door and put the check into his open safe.

“I’m now working for you,” I said. “But remember my rules. I run the show and you answer to me Anytime you want to call it quits just say the word. Are you pressed for time?”

“No.”

“I’d like to talk a while,” I said. “Would it bother you to sit at a booth in the bar?”

“No.”

Johnny stayed in the office while Ellen and I went to the booth where Johnny and I played chess. The board was still in place.

“Who won?” Ellen asked.

“Draw.”

“Do you play a lot?”

“Only with Johnny.”

“I was on my high school chess team,” Ellen said.

“Set up the board,” I said. “We can talk and play at the same time. I’ll get you a fresh Coke.”

I went to the bar where Cindy had taken over for Johnny earlier and asked for a tall Coke with ice and a mug of coffee for me and took them back to the table.

Ellen had white because that side of the board faced her when we first sat down.

“Make your move and we’ll talk as we play,” I said.

Ellen nodded, looked at the board and moved her knight’s pawn one space.

“Can you remember if Cosby has a favorite color?” I said as I moved my bishop’s pawn one space.

“I don’t know that it was his favorite, but he wore dark blue a lot,” Ellen said.

She brought out a knight.

“Any particular kind of car he liked over others?”

“Not really. Older cars that wouldn’t attract attention. Dark colors and mostly four doors,” Ellen said. “He could steal an older car in nothing flat. Newer cars with all the stuff they put in them now are almost impossible to steal clean.”

“Clean?” I said as I moved out a bishop.

“If you have to break a window to gain access it’s not exactly drivable around town,” Ellen said. “And newer cars are almost impossible to hotwire, or at least they were ten years ago when they first started putting in all the sensors and computer chips.”

Ellen moved the pawn in front of a bishop.

“Was he violent?” I asked. “You said yesterday he hurt some people, but was he violent?”

“I don’t … that doesn’t make sense,” Ellen said. “Isn’t hurting people violent?”

“Not necessarily,” I said. “Violence can be used as a tool to an end without the person using that tool being violent by nature.”

Ellen looked at me. “Are you talking about yourself?”

“I am,” I said. “So was Cosby nonviolent by nature and used violence when it was necessary, or was it is nature to be violent.”

I moved my bishop across the board.

“Brian was a charmer and a schemer,” Ellen said. “He got by on his looks, smile and wit. But when he needed a fix, he could get ugly. You could say that about all junkies, including myself.”

“He ever hit you?” I asked.

“Not that I recall,” Ellen said.

Ellen moved her second knight out.

“Was he into sports or have any hobbies?” I asked.

“Junkies have one sport, outrunning the cops and one hobby, getting high,” Ellen said.

“I get that, but did he every talk sports or movies, things like that?”

“No sports I can remember,” Ellen said. “He did like that movie about junkies, Drugstore Cowboy. I think he got a lot of ideas from that movie. Ever see it?”

“No.”

I slid my bishop across the board and captured Ellen’s first knight.

She studied the board.

“Before you went to prison, did you see Cosby at all?” I asked.

“The last time I saw him was at the hospital the night I gave birth,” Ellen said. “He drove me there from the shitty one bedroom apartment we were staying in, left me at emergency and took off. I was arrested almost immediately after the baby was born. The doctors knew before I even went into delivery the baby would come out hooked and they notified the police and my parents. I’m grateful that the doctors knew what to do and my baby lived. I’m also grateful that the police and social services sent me to prison or I probably wouldn’t be sitting here playing chess with you right now.”

“It’s your move,” I said.

Ellen blocked my bishop with a pawn.

“The police go to the apartment?” I asked.

“They were too late,” Ellen said. “He packed his stuff and was gone by the time they arrived. I was in labor for nine hours. A junkie can get seriously lost in nine hours.”

“And he stayed lost for six months until he kidnapped the baby and murdered your mother?” I said.

“As far as I know,” Ellen said. “Like I said, the police and FBI never found him. He might very well be dead for quite a while.”

I moved my knight into attack position.

Ellen studied the board. “You play very well.”

“If you had to pick one place where Cosby would go to and disappear, where would that be?” I asked.

Ellen sat back and thought for a moment. “I have no idea,” she said. “Brian is a junkie and by definition that makes him a sneaky, lying bastard. When I think back on it, I don’t think he was ever truthful with me once.”

“Your move,” I said.

Ellen brought out her pawn to counter my bishop.

“Tomorrow I start on the remaining twelve names,” I said.

Ellen nodded. “I don’t think I can beat you. My game is very rusty.”

“I’m done for now anyway,” I said.

Ellen glanced at the delicate watch on her left wrist. “I have just enough time to make the meeting at Saint Paul’s,” she said.

“AA?”

She nodded.

“Mind if I tag along?”

“I don’t mind. Is this research?”

“In a sense.”

We left the bar and I nodded to Cindy on the way out.

“We’ll take my car,” I said.

*****

“My name is Annemarie and I’m an alcoholic,” the woman at the podium said.

We were in the basement meeting room of Saint Paul’s. There were forty chairs assembled around the podium. Thirty were filled, not counting the chairs Ellen and I occupied. We each had a container of coffee from the table against the wall. I skipped the donuts, but Ellen happily grabbed a Boston cream.

We listened to Annemarie’s sad tale of her downward spiral into the dark and lonely world of alcoholism. She received a warm round of applause when finished.

Almost everybody was smoking and I gratefully joined in.

Several more speakers told us their tales. One, a man, was a recovering heroin addict. He said there is nothing that compares to the pleasure of a heroin high except for sobriety.

After the meeting, we walked the deserted streets to my car parked two blocks from the church. Lower Manhattan at night is an empty, desolate place. Ellen took my right arm.

“That’s quite the bicep you have Mr. Kellerman,” she said.

“Drop the mister.”

“I could see right off you spend a lot of time in a gym.”

“I do,” I said as I unlocked the car and opened the door for Ellen. Once she was in, I went around to the driver’s side.

“You have very good manners for a thug,” Ellen said as I started the engine.

“Who said I’m a thug?” I said as I pulled away from the curb.

“Mr. Hawkins,” Ellen said. “He said you were a complete thug, very dangerous, but highly efficient and very smart.”

“I’ll take it as a compliment,” I said. “What does it feel like being on heroin?”

“Feel like?”

“Yes.”

“I once saw the actor John Travolta do an interview on TV where he described doing research for the movie he played a junkie,” Ellen said. “He said a recovering heroin junkie told him to get drunk on Tequila and float on your back in a warm pool. Being on heroin is a thousand times better than that.”

“And is it?”

“Oh yeah,” Ellen said.

“Worth dying over?”

“When you’re on it, worth killing over.”

“Thanks for the info,” I said. “It helps with the mindset.”

“You’re trying to understand how a man can kill a woman and steal a baby to buy money for drugs?” Ellen said.

“It helps to understand the man I’ll be hunting,” I said.

“I guess hunting is a good word to describe it,” Ellen said.

We arrived at the lot. I parked at my usual spot and walked Ellen to her car.

“I’ll be in touch soon,” I said.

Ellen opened the door and slid into the seat. “I enjoyed talking to you Mr. Kellerman. I mean Kellerman. Good night.”

“Good night.”

After Ellen drove away, I crossed the street and went up to my apartment. I heard music coming from Mrs. Parker’s apartment.

I knocked on her door.

The door opened with the chain in place.

“Mr. Kellerman, is everything alright?” Mrs. Parker asked.

“Fine. Do you still have that box that allows you to watch movies?”

“It’s called Netflix, Mr. Kellerman, and yes I still have it.”

“I’d like to watch a movie tomorrow if that’s possible?”

“What time?”

“Afternoon. I’ll order out lunch. What would you like?

“Chinese from the place around the corner. Make it around one-thirty,” Mrs. Parker said. “I have to watch my soaps first.”

“Okay.”

I went to my apartment where the cats greeted me at the door. I fed and watered them and after a petting session on the bed, I turned in early.

I made a mental to do list and then drifted off to sleep.

A noise woke me a few hours later. The cats heard it too and bounced off the bed and ran to the door. I slid open the drawer in the night stand and removed the .357 Magnum revolver and silencer I keep there for emergency use. I attached the silencer and as quietly as possible, I went to the living room.

I stood to the right of the door and waited.

So did the cats. They sat in front of the door and looked at it.

Silent minutes passed and then I heard the faint click of a key sliding into the lock. It slid to the point it was fully inserted, but the key didn’t turn.

I waited.

The cats waited.

The key slid out of the lock. Footsteps echoed softly on the tiled hallway floor.

I lowered the .357.

The cats looked at me.

I hit the light switch on the wall, went to the sofa, set the .357 on the coffee table, grabbed my smokes and lit one. The cats jumped on the sofa and began a mutual grooming session.

The only person on earth who had a key to my apartment door is Maria. I had given her one and one for the lobby years ago. The cats recognized her scent as well.

I looked at the clock on the wall. Just past three in the morning.

I went to the window and looked down at the dark street. A car was parked across the street by a hydrant. A woman wearing a dark trench coat and a hat emerged from my building and crossed the street. She went to the passenger door of the parked car and opened the door.

As she got in, I could see the person behind the wheel was a woman, but the interior lights went out and I couldn’t see faces.

Maria and her lover?

What did they want at three in the morning that couldn’t wait?