3

IT TOOK us about ten minutes to reach the Clifton hillside and another five to find Ira Sullivan’s brownstone apartment building on Telford. I parked beside a gas lamp and sat there for a time, waiting for Cindy to decide whether she still wanted to press the question of where Mason Greenleaf had disappeared to.

“I guess I gotta do this, huh?” she finally said.

“No, you don’t. It’s my bet that Mason will show up in a couple of days. You could wait and let him explain it to you.”

“Half of me is so pissed off, I could care less about explanations. But the other half—” She turned on the car seat and stared at me with that frank look of hers. “I gotta find out, Harry. I’d worry too much if I didn’t.”

“All right.”

I opened the car door, and the hot night air came pouring in, full of the smell of magnolia and the rasping of crickets. Cindy got out and started for the brownstone apartment building. I fell in behind her.

The apartment house was old and well-tended—the kind of neat, bundled-up Clifton address that caters to elderly couples and well-to-do singles. No children, no pets, no nonsense. Ira Sullivan’s place was on the second floor, up a wide staircase trimmed in brass and floored in marble. The wide landings were cool like marble and shot with the soft glow of burnished wood and polished brass.

When we got to Sullivan’s door, Cindy gave me a cautionary look. “Sully’s a little odd.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning I should do the talking.”

“Fine.”

She stared at the polished door with foreboding. “He’s going to eat this up,” she said under her breath.

Raising a hand, she knocked.

A moment passed, and then an extremely tall, ungainly-looking man answered the door. At first glance he looked like a wildly overgrown Tweedledum. He had that same petulant, downturned mouth and barrel belly. His red hair stood straight up about three inches high, mowed level on top like a fade. His blue eyes were so lively, they looked electrified, as if he’d just pulled his hand from a socket.

“Cin,” he said in a booming bass voice. “What brings you to my neck of the woods? And where the hell is Mason?” He craned his neck and stared at me so intently, I thought his eyes would pop. “You’re not Mason.”

“Harry Stoner,” I said, holding out a hand.

The man shook with me. “Well, come the hell in, Harry Stoner. And Miss Cindy.”

He waved us through the doorway.

The living room was papered in stripes and furnished in dark blue chintz. A gilt Japanese screen, picturing geese flying over a temple pagoda, blocked off the view of the street. A red Persian rug covered the floors. We sat down on the chintz couch. Sullivan sat across from us in a fanback chair the size of a stuffed bear.

“Can I offer you a drink?” Sullivan said. “Or is this a social visit?”

I could feel Cindy squirm beside me. “We’re looking for Mason, Sully.”

“You won’t find him here,” the big man said amiably. “In fact, I haven’t seen him in ages. Not since the last time we all got together at the Cincinnati Club. You remember that evening, don’t you, Cin?”

Cindy shuddered. “I remember.”

Sullivan laughed a booming laugh. “I never did apologize for my behavior, did I? Well, I was a little drunk and you both forgave me. Right?

“People always forgive Sully,” he said merrily. “It’s written in the social contract. ‘Sully is to be forgiven his excesses.’”

“About Greenleaf?” I said.

Sullivan arched an eyebrow at me. “Yes?”

“He’s disappeared, Sully,” Cindy said, getting it over with.

For a split second Ira Sullivan looked shocked. Then he smiled cynically. “When you say ‘disappeared,’ Cin, honey, exactly what do you mean?”

“He hasn’t been at home or work for three days. His car is gone, too.”

“Is he out of town, perhaps?”

“I don’t think so.”

Sullivan put on his thinking cap. “Could he be staying with a friend?”

“It’s possible.”

“Uh-huh.” Sullivan gave Cindy a wry look. “Did you two have a little tiff, maybe?”

“Sully, this is serious. Mason vanished three days ago without a word. We need to talk to him. I need to talk to him.”

Sullivan took this in dispassionately, then shifted his gaze to me. “And who are you, sir?”

“I’m a detective Ms. Dorn hired to find Greenleaf.”

Sullivan paled. “Detective? You say you are a detective?”

I pointed a finger at him. “Right the first time.”

Sullivan turned back to Cindy—his expression completely changed. “This is rather melodramatic, Cin, even for you. You hired a detective?”

“I’m worried, Sully.”

“You must be crazed with anxiety,” he said caustically. “What is it you want from me?”

“She wants the address of Greenleaf’s friend Del,” I said.

Sullivan bit his lower lip. “You think he’s with Del again?”

Cindy nodded. “I think it’s possible.”

“Well, I don’t.” Sullivan leaned back in the huge chair, folding his arms across his Tweedledum belly. “That’s over with. Anyway, Mason wouldn’t do that to you, sweetie. For better or worse, he loves you.”

“I didn’t think he would, either,” she said sadly. “But somebody was with him in the apartment. We found an empty bottle of Scotch and a glass. Mason once told me that Del drank a lot of Scotch.”

“A lot of people drink a lot of Scotch, for heaven’s sake. That’s no reason to call a cop. I myself have been known to drink a lot of Scotch.”

“I don’t,” Cindy said. “Neither does Mason. Please, Sully. Help us find Del.”

Sullivan shifted uncomfortably in the chair. “The man you’re talking about has problems of his own right now, hon. Serious problems. The last things in the world he needs in his life are burly detectives and hysterical women.”

“Why don’t you just give us the address,” I said, “and let Del decide what he does or doesn’t need?”

“Don’t try to intimidate me,” Sullivan snapped. “I’m a lawyer. So don’t you try to intimidate me, Mr. Stoner.”

“I’m not trying to intimidate you. Just give us the address, and we’ll leave.”

“Please, Sully,” Cindy said.

Sullivan sighed dramatically. “Del Cavanaugh lives on Rose Hill in Avondale. 52 Rose Hill Place. But for chrissake, don’t you go upsetting him.” He shot me an angry glance, then said to Cindy, “He’s a sick man, Cin. A dying man.”

“AIDS?” Cindy said, looking horrified.

Sullivan nodded. “If Mason did have a drink with him, if he did go to visit him for a few days . . . well, it was just to comfort an old friend. Keep that in mind, okay?”

Cindy Dorn whispered, “Okay.”

Out in the car again, in the hot, too-sweet-smelling night, Cindy stared through the windshield at Sullivan’s apartment house.

As I started up the engine, she turned on the seat and said, “I think you’d better take me back to Finneytown.”

“What about Del Cavanaugh?”

She shook her head. “I can’t do it.”

“Then why don’t you let me do it? That’s what you hired me for.”

“No, Harry. If Mason is with Del . . . well, he’s got a good reason to be there. And I should have known that. I shouldn’t have doubted him.”

“If you’re satisfied, I’m satisfied.”

Cindy frowned. “I won’t be satisfied until Mason is back, until I can touch him and hold him again. But I’m not going to barge in on a dying man. That would be unforgivable. Mason will come home when he’s ready. And he’ll explain it or not explain it. That’s just the way it’ll have to be.”

“All right, Cindy.”

I pulled onto Telford and circled around to Ludlow, then down the hill to the expressway. It took me about twenty minutes to get her home, back to the yellow-brick birdhouse on Blue Jay Drive.