Cold Open, A Sam North Mystery (6 page)

Chapter Fourteen

I stopped in the big Starbucks on the corner of Thirty-third and Fifth for a cup of coffee. The place was quiet, with tourists sitting at tables going over subway and street maps and figuring out what sight to see.

I waited to order my coffee and didn’t think much of the guy behind me, until he bumped into me. A minute later, I was at the little station by the door where you add your milk and sugar when he came up to me.

“So what are you finding out?” he asked.

I was adding a pack of raw sugar and stopped in midmotion and looked at him. He was on the short side and built like a beer keg, with a barrel chest and thick arms, and wearing white slacks and a short-sleeved, navy-blue shirt. The outfit was topped off with a straw fedora. His face was reddened like he had seen too much sun over the years and there were deep creases at the corners of his blue eyes. A goatee of silver hair matched the ring of hair under the fedora.

“You got a thing with personal space, huh?” I asked.

He gave a little snort like a laugh and shook his head.

“Yeah. Ever since I was a kid. Been an issue of mine. I like to get close to people. What can I say?” He looked at my coffee. “You going to drink that black? Must be awfully bitter,” he said.

“You get used to it.”

“I suppose,” he said.

I took a half step back and tried to find a little space. I had my coffee in one hand and the file with the e-mails from Drake in the other, and I found myself wishing I had a free hand.

“What’s in the file?” he asked.

“None of your business,” I said.

He smiled and it highlighted the creases around his eyes.

“So rude. Civility really is a lost art these days,” he said. “I merely take an interest in you, and bang, you react with such hostility.”

“Maybe you should take an interest in someone else,” I said.

“Again, the hostility,” he said.

“You going to tell me who the hell you are?”

“I’m an interested party,” he said.

“Interested in what?”

“Interested in whatever it is you’re finding out in your little investigation.”

A woman moved in behind me to grab a packet of sweetener and forced me to edge closer to him. He stared at me, and I had an uneasy feeling that he was enjoying this.

“You’ve been asking a lot of questions about your late colleague,” he said.

The woman moved on and I took a step back.

“I’m a nosy guy.”

He smiled and nodded. “And that’s fine, unless it bothers people.”

“Who’s it bothering?”

I got the smile and nod again, like he was trying to be patient.

“Here’s a piece of unsolicited advice,” he said. “You need to be very careful with this. You’re asking people questions about something you don’t know anything about.”

“Hopefully, the more I ask, the more I’ll learn. That’s generally how it works.”

“I was hoping you’d be more flexible,” he said.

“Got to give a little, to get a little,” I said.

“So, we’re back to that?”

“We are,” I said. “You want to know what I’m finding out, I want to know why you need to know.”

“A stalemate,” he said.

“Just like Congress,” I said.

“Sometimes even they reach a compromise,” he said.

“Or sometimes one side just walks away,” I said.

I turned and walked out, and was on the sidewalk of Fifth Avenue when I heard him again.

“It’s extremely rude to walk away from someone like that.”

I turned around, and he was in my face. “I wasn’t done talking to you,” he said.

We were standing in the middle of the sidewalk.

“Listen,” I said, “I don’t know who you are or what you’re after, but—”

“I’m not after anything,” he said.

“Good, then leave me alone.”

“I will when you stop bothering people,” he said.

“It’s what I do for a living,” I said.

“Maybe you need to go back to being the morning-feature guy, you know? Stop with the investigative stuff.”

“Thanks for the career advice,” I said.

I turned to leave, and as I did I felt his hand on my arm, right at the bicep.

“You’re in way over your head with this thing, my friend,” he said.

“I’ll take my chances,” I said.

He tightened his grip on my arm.

“This will be the first, and only time, I’m this gentle,” he said.

Chapter Fifteen

“What was that supposed to be about?” I asked.

“I think it was about man’s struggle for recognition,” Liz said. “You know, the battle to make your way in the world and persevere in the face of the sometimes daunting odds the world presents. And really about developing and listening to your inner voice.”

We were walking up the steps out of the basement of what at one time was a Polish community center down on Avenue A in the East Village. Today a sign identified the building as the “New Filmmakers Institute.” A smaller sign was below that one. “Dedicated to the Development and Enrichment of the Next Generation of Film Artists.”

The girlfriend of one of Liz’s banker colleagues was a film artist and had just premiered her independent film,
Taxi Man
. Sitting through it felt more like punishment than anything else.

“I thought it was about a guy trying to hail a cab,” I said as we reached the front doors and stepped outside.

“It may have been,” she said.

“I know it was,” I said. “All fifty-seven minutes of it.”

“But I think there was something deeper there,” Liz said. “Didn’t you see the looks he got from people passing by?” she said.

“Maybe he should have shaved and cleaned himself up.”

“I think you missed the broader point,” she said.

“I probably did. What about her uncle who put up the twenty-three Gs to make it?” I asked. “You think he got the broader point?”

We walked over to First Avenue and crossed Ninth Street. It was after ten and the sidewalks were as crowded as Midtown at noon.

“After movie-drink?” I asked.

“You don’t think you’re getting off that easy, do you?” she asked.

“You mean we have to talk more about
Taxi Man
?”

“I was thinking of another film. The one where the guy goes into the coffee shop and gets threatened,” she said.

“I’d rather discuss
Taxi Man
. I now see how his inability to get a cab was part of a larger societal issue.”

“Nice try.”

“What if I said I identify with the guy in
Taxi Man
?”

“Nope. We need to talk,” she said.

“You first.”

“This is new for me,” Liz said. “Dating someone who’s in danger.”

“This is a little on the new side for me too. Been years since I had a story that pissed off someone enough to come after me.”

“And you don’t have any idea who this guy was?”

“None. And he didn’t give any clues.”

“But he knows what you’ve been doing?”

“Seemed to, or at least that was the impression he wanted to give.”

“So he’s been following you?”

“Maybe. Maybe not,” I said. “He could have heard from someone that I was asking questions about Jack’s death.”

“And someone would only care if …”

“If there was something they didn’t want me to find out.”

We reached the corner of Fourteenth at First Avenue and waited for traffic to clear. I wrapped my arm around Liz’s waist and pulled her close.

“We knew this was a possibility if Robbie Steele was right,” I said.

“I just wasn’t ready for it to be a reality.”

“If someone wants me to stop, than maybe Robbie’s hunch is right. Maybe Jack’s note is a fake.”

We crossed Fourteenth and walked up First.

“Even though the police, and Robbie, verified it as his handwriting,” she said.

“Sometimes you just have to ignore the obvious signs and plow ahead.”

Liz went quiet as we walked, which worried me.

“When this thing started,” I said, “I thought Robbie Steele was crazy.”

“But you agreed to help her.”

“I did. She seemed so damned sure something had happened. Then, she tells me she’s pregnant and that Jack always wanted to be a dad—so why would he jump in the river?”

“But the pregnancy hasn’t been verified. You’re not even certain of that,” she said.

“She’d have to be pretty warped to make that up, don’t you think?”

“Maybe,” she said.

“Let’s assume she’s telling the truth,” I said. “I go out and start asking questions, and look what happens. Some guy threatens me. That right there tells me there’s something going on.”

She pulled away and stiffened and she seemed to want some space, like she had to work it all out.

We turned onto Eighteenth Street and walked west. The block was quiet and empty. Lights were on inside apartments and it all seemed like what passes for a run-of-the-mill evening.

“Want me to pick?” I asked.

Liz turned and looked at me. “Pick?”

“Between my fabulous girlfriend and the story?”

“No.”

“Good,” I said.

“At least not yet.”

“You going to make me sweat this out?”

“Having someone you care about threatened is serious.”

“It is.”

“You start snooping around, look what happens,” she said. “We both know the deeper you get in, the more dangerous it’s going to be.”

We took a right on Third and walked north in silence for a bit. Things felt pretty icy at the moment.

“Okay,” I said. “If forced to pick, I’d go with …”

“This better be the right answer,” Liz said.

“The fabulous new girlfriend.”

Liz looked over and in the glow of the streetlights I saw her smile.

“A wise choice,” she said.

I pulled her to me and wrapped her in a hug.

“I’m going to call someone I know to work with me on this. You know, so I’m not roaming around asking questions by myself.”

“You mean like, some muscle?” she asked.

“Yeah, I know a guy who knows a guy who’s going to help me out,” I said.

“Will you be referring to me as a broad when you talk to the muscle?”

“Whatever you like,” I said, leaning over to kiss her.

Chapter Sixteen

I stood waiting in what felt like the lobby of an upscale hotel. Lots of light, gleaming wood and a few huge circular tables, upon which sat big oversize pots containing flowers and plants that appeared to be very well tended.

And as far as waiting goes, this was not a bad place to have to pass a few minutes. Young women walked by in short-shorts or workout leggings with tight-fitting tank tops, their hair in ponytails, on their way either to or from a workout.

As far as gyms go, this was a scene. And most likely that was what the owners of The Club in the Time Warner Center on Columbus Circle had in mind when they conceived it.

A guy wearing sleek back sweats and a matching sleeveless workout shirt showing off his biceps made his way across the lobby toward me. He was smiling and glad-handing everyone, from the young things ready for a workout to the guy pushing a cart of drinks into the juice bar area.

“Absolutely disgusting,” I said, as he reached me.

“How the hell did you get past the front desk?” Freddie Sanchez asked.

“Charm and good looks.”

“Unlikely.”

We shook hands and did the bro-hug thing, but then Freddie did the bro-hug thing with everybody, whether he knew you for a dozen years or half an hour.

I shook my head and looked him over. “A street-savvy shooter now training the beautiful people. What happened to you?” I asked.

“Was going to ask you the same thing. You look like crap. But you still got the nice suits.”

“It’s important to look good,” I said.

“Feel good, being a big-shot reporter again after that Steele story?”

“Nice to get a win every once in a while.”

“I know the dude you bought it off, Wade. Crazier than my ex-wife.”

I scanned the area looking for somewhere private. “Got a place we can talk in here?”

Freddie nodded toward the juice bar, which was the size of a restaurant, and we went and took a small table in the rear corner. It was tucked to the side of the counter and out of earshot of the handful of others scattered around the room.

He went to a large glass refrigerator and took out two containers of juice and brought them over.

“Orange guava,” he said, handing one to me. “Keeps you alert.”

“I need all the help I can get.”

“I remember,” he said.

I tried my guava drink and swore I felt more alert.

“Been like what, a year?” he asked. “Why’d you come find me?”

“Got an offer for you,” I said.

“Uh-oh.”

“You’re going to love it.”

“Like I said, uh-oh.”

I waved an arm around the sleek tables of the juice bar. “It will take you away from all this … this slickness … and …”

Across the juice bar in the lobby area a woman walked by in an outfit that someone had apparently painted onto her.

“And all these beautiful people,” I said.

“Which could only mean I’m working with you,” he said.

“There’s an insult in there somewhere.”

“Still sharp as ever,” he said.

“Plus, it gets you back to your roots,” I said.

“We going to Puerto Rico?” he asked.

“No, I mean as a cameraman.”

“I’d rather go to Puerto Rico,” Freddie said.

“There’s some more you need to know.”

“Now I’m worried,” he said.

I leaned in and took a quick around at the neighboring tables, then filled him in on the call from Robbie Steele and my visits to Dr. Webber and the Show Doctor.

“You come uptown to fill me in on this?”

“It gets better,” I said.

“I hope so, because so far all we got is you running around because Yoga Babe made eyes at you.”

“That’s what I was afraid of, at first. Until …”

“Until what?”

“Until some guy takes an interest in what I’m doing.”

I told him about the guy in Starbucks.

“So you think you’re onto something?” he asked.

“Yes, I think I’m onto something. I don’t know what it is. It could be big, or it might not be. But I got a feeling.”

“Yeah, I remember what that was like. Always meant I was driving somewhere and shooting someone who preferred not to be on camera.”

“So you in?”

Freddie looked past me to the open lobby area of the club. “Hmm, let’s see, the boring, middle-aged white guy, or the lovelies at The Club. Who do I want to spend my time with?”

“I’m not middle-aged,” I said.

“Fifty is middle-aged.”

“I’m mid-forties. You can say ‘on the cusp of middle age,’” I said.

“Whatever.”

“This may be a chance for some excitement,” I said.

“Lack of excitement ain’t exactly a problem these days.” Freddie knocked off the last of the orange guava mix. “How you doing this and keeping a regular reporting gig?” he asked.

“Actually, that’s been a bit of an issue. Daniels gave me some time to chase it and see what I come up with.”

“When you got to report back?”

“Soon.”

“You think you got enough to keep going?” he asked.

“You betcha, big guy.”

“Unless of course somebody shoots you or something.”

“That would certainly present a change in plans. But that’s exactly why I need you.”

“That’s what I was afraid of.”

“I’m just a simple reporter. Someone’s got to look out for me,” I said.

“Oh boy,” he said.