ring and say the hell with it, and then if I came hopping into his place he might be as tickled by the interruption as a hibernating bear.
“Help you?”
I hadn’t even heard the door open behind me. I made myself take a breath and I turned around, arranging my face in what was supposed to be a pleasant smile. “Just looking for someone,” I said.
“Who?”
“But he doesn’t seem to be home, so I’ll—”
“Who you looking for?”
Why hadn’t I noticed either of the other tenants’ names? Because I somehow knew who this man was. I had no logical reason for assuming the specter looming before me was Walter Ignatius himself, but I’d have bet all my dimes on it.
And he certainly did loom. He was immensely tall, a good six-six, and while that might make him a backcourt man in pro basketball it certainly placed him squarely in the forecourt of life. He had a broad forehead beneath a mop of straight blondish hair cut soup-bowl style. His cheekbones were prominent and the cheeks sunken. His nose had been broken once and I felt sorry for the idiot who’d done it, because Grabow looked as though he’d known how to get even.
“Uh, Mr. Grabow,” I said. “I’m looking for a Mr. Grabow.”
“Yeah, right. That’s me.”
I could see him attacking a canvas, dipping a three-inch brush in a quart can of porch paint. His hands were enormous—a little dental scalpel would have disappeared in them. If this man had wanted to kill Crystal, his bare hands would have been more lethal than any weapon they might have held.
I said, “That’s odd, I expected an older man.”
“I’m older’n I look. What’s the problem?”
“You’re Mr. William C. Grabow?”
A shake of the head. “Walter. Walter I. Grabow.”
“That’s odd,” I said. I should have had a notebook to look in, a piece of paper, something. I got my wallet out and dug out Jillian’s hair appointment card, holding it so Grabow couldn’t see it. “William C. Grabow,” I said. “Maybe they made a mistake.”
He didn’t say anything.
“I’m sure they made a mistake,” I said, and referred again to the card. “Now you had a sister, Mr. Grabow. Is that right?”
“I got a sister. Two sisters.”
“You had a sister named Clara Grabow Ullrich who lived in Worcester, Massachusetts, and—”
“No.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You got the wrong party after all. I got two sisters, Rita and Florence, Rita’s a nun, Flo’s out in California. What’s this Clara?”
“Well, Clara Grabow Ullrich is deceased, she died several months ago, and—”
He moved a large hand, dismissing Clara Grabow Ullrich forever. “I don’t have to know this,” he said. “You got the wrong party. I’m Walter I. and you’re looking for William.”
“William C.”
“Yeah, whatever.”
“Well, I’m sorry to bother you, Mr. Grabow.” I moved toward the door. He stepped aside to let me pass, then dropped a hand on the doorknob, just resting it there.
“Wait a minute,” he said.
“Is something wrong?” Had the hulk suddenly remembered a long-lost sister? Oh, God, had he decided to try to glom onto some nonexistent legacy?
“This address,” he said.
“Pardon me?”
“Where’d you get this address?”
“My firm supplied it.”
“Firm? What firm?”
“Carson, Kidder and Diehl.”
“What’s that?”
“A law firm.”
“You’re a lawyer? You’re not a lawyer.”
“No, I’m a legal investigator. I work for lawyers.”
“This address isn’t listed anywhere. How’d they get it?”
“There are city directories, Mr. Grabow. Even if you don’t have a phone, all tenants are—”
“I sublet this place. I’m not the tenant of record, I’m not in any directories.” His head jutted forward and his eyes burned down at me.
“Gag,” I said.
“Huh?”
“Gotham Artists’ Guild.”
“They gave you this address?”
“That’s how my firm got it. I just remembered. You were listed with Gotham Artists’ Guild.”
“That’s years back,” he said, wide eyed with wonder. “Back when I was painting. I was into color then, big canvases, I had scope, I had vision—” He broke off the reverie. “You’re with this law firm,” he said, “and you’re coming around here on a Saturday?”
“I work my own hours, Mr. Grabow. I don’t follow a nine-to-five routine.”
“Is that a fact.”
“Now if you’ll just excuse me I’ll let you go on about your business.”
I made to take a step toward the door. His hand stayed on the knob.
“Mr. Grabow—”
“Who the fuck are you?”
God, how had I gotten myself into this mess? And how was I going to get myself out? I started running the same tape again, babbling that I was a legal investigator, repeating the name of my firm, and it was all just hanging in the