Flesh and Blood (8 page)

“Of course,” Frank said. He took a sip of whiskey.

Farouk cocked his head slightly. “You're not from New York.” Again, it was a statement. “Your accent. Southern?”

“Atlanta,” Frank said. “But I live here now.”

“In this part of the city?”

“My office is on Forty-ninth Street.”

“Hell's Kitchen. Not a place for everyone.”

“The rent's low,” Frank said. He drained the last of the whiskey from his glass.

“May I offer you another?” Farouk asked immediately.

Frank looked at him with suspicion.

“It is always in my interest to know a person in your profession,” Farouk said, “as it is probably in your interest to know a person in mine.”

Frank said nothing.

“It would be my pleasure to buy a final drink,” Farouk told him. “If you wish, you may think of it as a business expense.”

“I think I've had too many already,” Frank said. He glanced toward the window, his eyes squinting against the morning light.

“Coffee, then?”

“All right.”

“Excellent,” Farouk said. He motioned to Toby. “
Traenos dos cafés turcos.
” Then he turned back to Frank. “Do you speak Spanish?”

“No.”

“I am a student of languages,” Farouk said quite casually. “It is important in my profession. Especially in New York. An international city, yes? One should know different languages.”

Frank nodded.

“Different coffees, too,” he added with the same casualness. “Have you ever had Turkish?”

“Not that I know of,” Frank admitted.

The thin smile once again broke over Farouk's face. “Then you will be pleased to try it,” he said.

Toby brought over the coffees a moment later, set them down firmly, gave Farouk a quizzical look, then retreated back to the bar.

“My wife,” Farouk said, as if in explanation.

“Toby?”

“From time past, my wife,” Farouk added. “As they say, ‘to keep her from oppression.'” He took a quick sip of the coffee. “For a time, we lived together. But for many years now, we have not. I prefer a place of my own. It suits my nature.” One thick black eyebrow arched slowly upward. “You are married?”

“Not anymore.”

Farouk nodded toward the cup. “Try it.”

Frank took a slow sip. “Strong.”

Farouk smiled cheerfully. “Which is the point of it, I think.” He leaned forward lightly, folding his thick arms over the table. “I suppose you have a case?”

“A few,” Frank said, then suddenly realized that the others did not engage him anymore, that for the immediate future, lawyers could meet whomever they wished in the motels of New Jersey, that clerks could steal jewelry, and painters forge paintings, that all humanity could spread queer and bounce paper throughout the vast green land without any fear of him.

“Up on Central Park West,” he added. “A murder.”

Farouk's eyes narrowed in concentration. “A dead woman, I think. It was in the
Post.
About two weeks ago?”

“How did you know which murder?” Frank asked immediately.

“You are a private investigator,” Farouk said. “Which means your fee is … what … thirty-five, forty dollars an hour?”

“Something like that.”

“At any rate, substantial,” Farouk said. “The average person cannot employ you. It must be a person of means. The woman you speak of, she alone in recent days could have known people of such wealth.”

“Well, you're right,” Frank said. “It was the case in the newspapers.”

“I presume you are familiar with Midtown North?”

“Yeah.”

“I might have been of some assistance in an introduction.”

“I already know the guy who's in charge of the case.”

“And who is that, if you do not mind my asking.”

“Leo Tannenbaum.”

Farouk nodded. “Ah, yes.”

“You know him?”

“Yes, I do,” Farouk said. He finished his coffee in one sip, then took out a small notebook. “Who was the woman?”

Frank said nothing.

Farouk looked at him evenly. “Unless I am of assistance, there will be no charge.”

“I don't think I need any assistance,” Frank said firmly.

“That is not true, I assure you,” Farouk said, just as firmly. “Shall I tell you why?”

“Go ahead.”

“Because of your nature,” Farouk said. “You are always moving. Your fingers on the table, your feet, your eyes, always moving.” He smiled knowingly. “This tells me that there are certain things which you do not do well. Things which involve stuffy rooms, papers, files, too much reading, too much sitting down. You do not bother with these things, and yet, they can be of great assistance.”

“What makes you think that kind of work would be helpful in this case?” Frank asked.

“If memory serves,” Farouk said, “this woman was in the garment trade, yes?”

“That's right.”

“Do you know much about this business?”

“No,” Frank admitted.

“I could find out about all her business dealings,” Farouk said. “I could find out what she owned, what she recently acquired. It is quite possible that such information would be of assistance. But if it is not, I can assure you that there will be no charge for my services.”

Frank continued to watch him, not entirely convinced.

Farouk eyed him piercingly. “For you, it is a human thing, murder. You want to deal with it face to face, one person to another. You like to hear the voice, see the eyes.” He smiled. “I admire this.” Then he shook his head. “But it is naive.”

“Why?”

“Because much is hidden in words and pages. In such things, for example, even the dead still speak.”

Frank looked at him intently. “You mean the victim?”

“Yes,” Farouk said. “And I might be of some assistance in finding what is hidden.”

Frank considered it for a moment, but remained unconvinced. “There's another problem,” he said.

“And what is that?”

“I don't know you,” Frank said. “For all I know, you could leave here and boost a few cars on the way home.”

Farouk frowned. “Such a petty crime,” he said contemptuously. “Surely you already think better of me than that.”

Frank looked at him evenly. “No, I don't.”

“Then what would raise your estimation?”

“A reference might help.”

“Would one from the police do?”

“Maybe,” Frank said. “If I knew the cop.”

“Perhaps Detective Tannenbaum?”

“Would he stand up for you?”

Farouk smiled. “He would say that I do not boost cars.”

“Anything else?”

“That I do not run cons, or play the Murphy man on the Avenue,” Farouk added. “He would say that I am competent, and that I am honest.” The faint smile which had been lingering on his lips disappeared suddenly. “He would say that I can be ruthless, but he would add that I usually discover the thing I'm looking for.” He leaned forward and eyed Frank intently. “Are you ruthless?”

“Some people think so.”

“And are they ever right?”

“Sometimes.”

“Then you know that it cannot be an act,” Farouk said. “When you tell a man that you will harm him, he must know that you will do it.” He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms over his chest. “They are not so smart, the ones who work the streets, but there is one thing they can recognize very quickly, a coward in their midst, a man who will not act as he speaks.”

For a moment, Frank watched Farouk's face silently. He knew that he had been disturbingly right about a few things, especially one of them, the most critical at the moment, his disinclination to follow paper trails. It was a problem that had plagued him in the past, causing him to overlook obvious motives and connections while pursuing more obscure and darkly passionate ones. He had never liked cases where money was involved, insurance claims or business dealings, and throughout his career, he had avoided as many such cases as he could. But as he sat in the dark bar, he realized that to find a lost or distant relative might require exactly the sort of work he did not want to do. And yet, something in the case drew him irresistibly toward it, and he knew that he wanted to do it right, to overlook nothing, no trail that might lead him further in.

He took a quick drink, then returned the cup to the table. “Do you have any more questions about me?” he asked.

Farouk shook his head. “No.”

“Why not?”

“You work in Hell's Kitchen, but it is not the low rent that draws you there.”

“How do you know?”

“You come to this bar, even though the drinks cost the same as any other bar,” Farouk said. “And you work in Hell's Kitchen even though you don't have to.” He smiled. “That is all I need to know about you.”

For a moment, the two men looked at each other silently.

In his mind, Frank searched for some final reason to work alone, as he preferred, but the nature of the case argued for an assistant, one who knew the ins and outs of the vast bureaucracies that kept track of births and deaths, money, travel, property, the cleaner lines of life.

“All right,” he said finally. “I could probably use a little help here and there.”

Farouk smiled broadly. “You will not regret it.”

“What do you need to begin?”

“The woman's name,” Farouk replied immediately. “I
do not remember it from the papers.”

“Hannah Karlsberg,” Frank said.

“And her address?” Farouk asked.

“Three fifty-seven Central Park West.”

“And the apartment number?”

“Fourteen-A.”

“Yes, yes,” Farouk said, “that would be on the front, facing the park.”

“Yes, it is.”

Farouk looked at him pointedly. “So you have been to the apartment?”

“Yes,” Frank said. “Earlier today.”

“And the death,” Farouk said. “It was with a knife, I believe.”

“Yes, it was.” Frank told him. “But I'm not looking for the killer.”

Farouk looked surprised. “What then?”

“The police won't release the body until a relative asks for it.”

Farouk nodded. “Then you're looking for a brother, sister, child?”

“Yes.”

Farouk smiled broadly. “Ah, then I can be of great assistance,” he said confidently. “I will start with birth certificates, then deeds.” His eyes narrowed in concentration. “Property is a great betrayer.”

“I don't have much to go on,” Frank said. “Right now, the only thing I know about Hannah Karlsberg is that she's dead, and that the police won't release her body.”

“But that is not routine,” Farouk said. “This holding of the body. Do you know why they're doing that?”

“Probably because her hand was cut off,” Frank said. “Severed at the wrist.” He took a long draw on his cigarette. “It looks like the killer took it with him.”

Something in Farouk's large brown face drew strangely concentrated. “And they are hoping to find the hand?”

“That's what it looks like,” Frank said. “And I can see how they're thinking. Anybody crazy enough to steal a hand might be crazy enough to keep it.”

“So they hold the rest of the body as a matter of evidence,” Farouk said.

“With one piece missing,” Frank told him, and suddenly he saw the stump of Hannah's arm as he knew it must look in the darkness of the morgue, ragged, caked with blood and with bits of shattered bone dangling from strings of torn flesh.

He was still thinking of it when he felt Farouk lean toward him and lightly touch his arm.

He glanced up quickly. “What?”

Farouk did not answer, but only stared at him quietly for a moment. Then he pulled himself ponderously to his feet. “Home,” he said as he walked away.

8

Karen had already gone to the gallery by the time Frank made it back to the apartment. He showered quickly, changed his shirt, and went out again. The winter cold seemed to have deepened during the night, and before returning to his office, he walked into one of the cluttered hardware stores along Ninth Avenue and bought a small electric space heater. It was purring softly behind him a few minutes later as he looked up Imalia's number, then dialed it.

A woman answered immediately. “Imalia Covallo Designs.”

“Is Ms. Covallo in?” Frank asked.

“May I ask who's calling?”

“Frank Clemons.”

“Just a moment, please.”

A flurry of harpsichord music suddenly came through his receiver, high and tinkling, and as he listened to it, he tried to imagine Imalia's office, the thick carpet, sumptuous curtains and unimaginably soft textures which were inseparable parts of her world.

“Hello, Frank,” Imalia said. “I'm surprised to hear from you so soon.”

“I like to keep people informed,” Frank told her.

“You mean you already have some information?” Imalia asked anxiously.

“Not very much,” Frank said. “But it seems the police are hitting the same blank. I was hoping you might help me break through it.”

“How?”

“Maybe just by talking,” Frank said. “I need to talk to anybody who knew her, and right now you're at the top of the list.”

“But as I said,” Imalia told him. “I really didn't know much about Hannah's personal life.”

“You might be surprised how much you knew,” Frank said. “I've seen it happen, believe me.”

For a moment she seemed to hesitate. “Well, all right then,” she said finally. “How about lunch?”

“Okay. Where?”

“There's a place on Madison Avenue,” Imalia said. “Bolero. Do you know it?”

“No.”

“Madison and Fifty-first,” Imalia said. “Say, two this afternoon.”