In the Shadow of Gotham - By Stefanie Pintoff Page 0,109
imagination to think of that—finding a man based on an amount of money. Only you.” Then he grew sober. “I think Nicky could do it. You’re right on that count.” There was a long silence. “If you go that route, you know what you’re risking, right?”
“What do you mean?” I asked. I was on guard now.
“Nicky’s always taken care of you because of his deep regard”—he drew a breath—“the affection, even, he held for your mother.”
He waited for my reaction, but I gave him none. I was not unfamiliar with the rumors that had swirled around Nicky Scarpetta and my mother. But I had never dignified them by acknowledging them, and I would not do so now.
After a moment, he continued, saying, “Be careful, Ziele. You deal with the devil, it’s only a matter of time before the devil wants his due.”
“Nicky is not the devil,” I said, objecting strongly to his characterization.
“No,” Mulvaney said, adding sagely, “but Nicky’s favors are not free. Not for most people. And when he wants payment, it won’t come cheap.”
“You think I should be concerned?” I asked, taking him more seriously now.
He thought a moment. “Yeah, I do. But then again, you want to save the girl, right? There are worse things you could do. You got scruples about this, maybe you ought to have been a rabbi or a priest. They’re the ones that get to have scruples in this life.” He considered what he had said. “And I’m not even sure about them.”
And so our conversation ended. I thanked him and replaced the telephone receiver on its hook.
I stared at it for another few seconds. Then I took a deep breath and picked up the receiver once again. “Four-seven-six Franklin,” I said to the operator—and waited for someone at Nicky Scarpetta’s Fortune Club to pick up the telephone.
I explained my plan to Alistair and Tom while I waited for Nicky to call back with the information I needed. He had agreed to follow through, just as I had expected. “Yeah,” he had said, “The Bottler owes me a favor. I got no problem calling it in.”
We waited in agonizing silence, but Nicky was quick to call back.
I picked up the phone, my anticipation high.
“I got the name for you,” Nicky said without delay.
“Who is it?” My heart seemed to be beating loudly enough for everyone to hear.
“Theodore Sinclair,” he said. “No doubt about it. Your dates and amounts made a perfect match.”
I sighed in exasperation. “It’s not his real name. Theodore Sinclair was the son of one of my colleagues. He’s been dead two years.”
Alistair, overhearing, dropped his head into his hands.
“Can you get me something more?” I asked Nicky. “Like a physical description, maybe the address where he lives? If this guy owes thousands of dollars, as the list I’ve seen suggests, then the Bottler’s men know exactly where to find him.”
We waited some more.
“It’s almost as if he’s out to destroy you, Alistair,” Tom said. “Whoever he is, he is stealing from your fund; assuming the name of your son; and taking your daughter-in-law. You really have no idea who he may be?” Tom was careful with his last question, but it needed to be asked.
“I—” Alistair was cut off by the telephone’s ring.
I answered it on the first ring. “Ziele here.”
“All right,” Nicky said, “I got the address and description. The description ain’t much help. Customer looks like half the fellas in this city. But you’ll get him from the address. You ready?”
“Go,” I said. I had a pencil in hand, and with Tom and Alistair watching eagerly, I first wrote the physical description: brown eyes/hair; medium, stocky build; square jaw; visible injuries.
Nicky explained, saying, “He got roughed up last week when he didn’t pay up.”
Then the address: I wrote down 508 West 112th Street, apartment 5B.
Thanking Nicky again, I hung up.
Alistair and I looked at each other. His face was ashen.
“You know who it is?” I asked.
But his ice-blue eyes reflected confusion. “I’m hoping I’m wrong.”
“We’ve got his address. Let’s go find out,” I said, my voice grim. Almost as an afterthought, I asked Tom, “Will you wait here in case she returns?”
“Wait a minute,” Tom said. “I still don’t understand. Who is it?”
Alistair looked away, then walked out of the small office, leaving it to me to answer Tom’s question.
“These words describe a lot of men in this city,” I said, tapping the piece of paper I carried. “I’m hoping my own suspicions are wrong.”