22.

When I left the bar I waited until Sorrentino was out of sight, then drove straight to police headquarters. Jim Simmons had gone home for the night, but Bill Calhoun was there, and I walked over and sat down opposite him at his desk.

“You know, Eli,” he said, “you really ought to learn to use a computer one of these days.”

“I’m a detective, not a typist,” I said.

“Well, I’m a police officer, not a typist—but I know how to work a computer.”

“Good!” I said. “Then you’re just the man I want.”

He signed deeply. “Okay, okay, what do you need this time?”

“The guy you hunted up for me . . .” I began.

“Delahunt?”

“Yeah.”

“What about him?” asked Calhoun.

“I got to thinking,” I said. “He’s got a bunch of real estate offices.”

“Had a bunch,” Calhoun corrected me. “Most of them are closed now.”

“I know. But they’re all in Cincinnati, right?”

“Right,” he said, looking at me curiously.

“His house—hell, the whole Grandin Road area—can’t be more than five or six miles from the river, right?”

He frowned. “Yeah, I’d say six miles, tops.”

“And half the Reds and Bengals live just across the Ohio River in Kentucky because it’s convenient for them to get to the stadiums, so there’s got to be some expensive real estate there,” I continued.

“Yeah, I suppose there is.”

“So does he have any offices there?”

“There?” repeated Calhoun. “You mean in Kentucky?”

I nodded. “Right.”

“So what if he does?”

“So what I’m looking for may not be in Ohio,” I answered.

“You know, you could just look in a Northern Kentucky yellow pages,” he said.

“If that was all I needed, I’d look,” I said. “Now, are you going to help a tax-paying citizen or not?”

“When did you ever make enough to pay taxes?” he shot back, but he began typing and studying his screen.

“Yeah, he’s got an office in Covington, on Third Street. Looks like a big one.”

“How can you tell it’s a big one?” I asked.

He smiled. “Three phone numbers.”

“Any other offices across the river?”

He typed again. “No. He had one two years ago, but he closed it about twenty months ago.”

“Okay,” I said. “Now I need you to do something that won’t show up in your system.”

He stared at me, frowning. “Eli, everything I do from this office shows up somewhere in the system sooner or later.”

“Damn!” I muttered.

“What was it?” he asked. “Maybe there’s a work-around.”

“I need to know if he’s got a bank account, either personal or business, in Kentucky.”

“I can check on the bank account, but I can’t keep it secret.”

“How about a safety deposit box?”

He shook his head. “I can call the bank, identify myself, and ask, but there’s no way I can do it with my computer, and they’ll probably tell him about the call five minutes later.”

“Oh, well,” I said unhappily. “If push comes to shove, I’ll get my friend from Chicago to find out.”

“The guy who showed up the night we brought in the first Bolivian? I heard he was connected to you somehow. Can he really do that?”

“He can’t,” I replied. “But his people can.”

“I believe it.” Calhoun leaned back. “Anything else I can do for our favorite public-minded citizen?”

“Anything else your machine can tell me about Delahunt?”

“Probably not, but I’ll look,” said Calhoun, starting to type again. “Why are you so interested in him?”

“The truth?” I said. “He may have killed Malcolm Pepperidge.”

He turned to me. “That’s a hell of an accusation. Have you told Jim?”

“Jim doesn’t care about ‘may haves.’ He wants proof. I’m trying to get it.”

“Have you got any yet?”

“Not a shred,” I said. “That’s what you’re helping me to find.”

“From what I hear, Pepperidge wasn’t interested in real estate.”

“Pepperidge wasn’t even Pepperidge,” I said.

“Yeah, I heard that too.”

“So can you give me anything else on Delahunt?”

“Go outside and have a cigarette—don’t deny it; everyone knows you smoke—and give me five or ten minutes to work without having to talk to you.”

I walked out to the parking area, lit up a cigarette, took a deep drag, closed my eyes, and leaned against a brick wall, trying to relax, then took another puff. I smoked it halfway down, tossed it on the ground and stepped on it, lit another, and repeated the process. When I felt I’d frozen my ass off for ten minutes, I went back to Calhoun’s desk.

“Well?” I asked.

“Not much,” he said.

“What?”

“Just one thing,” he said. “That diminishing real estate empire of his was incorporated in Kentucky.”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “Better tax structure. It does seem to be the one office that was never late on its rent.”

“How many employees?”

“In Kentucky?” He shrugged. “No way to tell.”

“Okay,” I said. “Thanks, Bill.”

“I don’t know quite what I’ve found,” said Calhoun, “but I hope it helps.”

“You and me both,” I said, heading out of the building. I got into the car, started it up, and headed for home.

Marlowe was snoring so loud I could hear him through the door as I inserted my key and entered the apartment.

He gave me a hurt, angry look that said, You went out for dinner and then you went out drinking, and you didn’t bring me any food or any booze. Before I could mollify him he was asleep again.

I set the alarm for eight o’clock, then decided I wasn’t as sleepy as I’d thought. I walked to the living room, fought Marlowe for a little space on the couch, and turned on Turner Classic Movies just in time to see Orson Welles say “Rosebud!” I decided I’d rather watch some sports and got a sixty-year-old kinescope of a welterweight match between Kid Gavilán and Chuck Davey, a college student who had no business being in the ring with the likes of the Kid except that he was white, personable, and lacked a sense of self-preservation.

When that was over they began showing a kinescope of Rocky Marciano dismantling Ezzard Charles. I fell asleep in the third round and woke up when Marlowe began barking an inch from my right ear, just in case I didn’t hear the alarm ringing.

I dragged myself to the bathroom, shaved, brushed my teeth, considered changing shirts and decided against it, then wandered into the kitchen. I opened a can of hash for Marlowe, grabbed a stale donut and a cup of coffee for myself, then decided I’d better walk him since he hadn’t been out for a dozen hours or so. He was in full agreement, finished before we got halfway to Mrs. Garabaldi’s, and we made it back into the apartment before my landlady-turned-literary-critic could assail me with more observations about the mail.

I got in the car and drove to the Ohio River, then crossed over it on the Clay Wade Bailey Bridge, which is just half a mile past the I-71/I-75 bridge and a hell of a lot less crowded. When you’re halfway across either bridge you’re suddenly in Kentucky, but the river towns of Covington and Newport are really just extensions of Cincinnati’s downtown, with some excellent advantages. Kentucky’s where I always went to buy my liquor and cigarettes, and gas was usually a few cents cheaper too.

I got off the bridge, turned onto Third Street, and made my way to Delahunt’s office. It was a self-contained building that could have used a little cleaning and updating, but that made it fit in with the rest of the neighborhood. I parked on the street about a block from the office, put a quarter in the meter—Jim Simmons couldn’t fix my tickets on this side of the river—walked past a long row of parked cars, came to the office, and entered.

A middle-aged receptionist greeted me without getting up from her desk.

“Good morning, sir, and welcome to Delahunt Realty. How may we help you?”

“I’d like to see Mr. Delahunt,” I said.

“I’m afraid he’s not here,” she replied. “Perhaps our Mr. Benson can help you?”

Before I could stop her she’d pushed a button on her desk, and a moment later Mr. Benson, a blond six-footer, appeared in the doorway behind her.

“May I help you, Mr. . . . ?” he said pleasantly.

“I don’t want to cause any bother,” I said. “I was here the other day.” I turned to the receptionist. “You were at lunch, or at least out of the office.”

“And who did you see, sir?” asked Benson.

“Mr. Delahunt,” I said, and they exchanged looks. “I’m afraid I left my pen in his office. It’s not worth much, but it was my father’s and it has a sentimental value to me. I wonder if I might look for it? I’ll just be a minute.”

“All right, whoever the hell you are!” snapped Benson. “What the hell do you want?”

“I just told you,” I said.

“Abner Delahunt hasn’t been here in over a week, so you weren’t talking to him the other day. If you’re another creditor, either get the hell out, or we can call the cops and let them sort it out.”

“All right, all right,” I said. “You saw through me. But you tell that bastard I’ll be seeing him in court!”

I turned and left before they could say anything else.

Well, I thought as I walked down the street to my car, maybe he had a gun hidden in his office and maybe he didn’t. Probably Sorrentino and I would have to do a little reconnoitering at two or three in the morning, and if we saw it, leave it where it was and have Simmons tell the Covington cops to look for it.

As I was walking back to the car a jewelry store on the other side of the street caught my eye. Well, actually what caught it was the very tasteful display in the window. I knew just enough about jewelry stores to know that when you had the goods, you didn’t need garish displays. So I crossed the street and stared into the window. Diamonds, rubies, pearls, rings, and necklaces, all sedately displayed. The sign said “Mela Jewelers—Orestes Mela, Proprietor.” I entered and saw a balding man in a vest waiting on a couple. I browsed for about five minutes until they’d made their purchase and left.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

“I certainly hope so,” I said. “I’m looking for some diamonds.”

“Some?” he asked.

I nodded. “About a million dollars’ worth,” I answered. “They were attached to a cat’s collar. You know anything about them?”

He looked like I’d just shot his best friend.

“I knew someone would come looking for them sooner or later.” He sighed deeply. What took you so long?”