Deadly Pedigree - By Jimmy Fox Page 0,2

and success Nick envied and at the same time despised.

Lately, this section of downtown had become a mecca of affordable addresses for small businesses. The buildings now wore “For Sale or Lease” signs for only weeks instead of years before they were snapped up. It was a seller’s market. Somebody was making a mint where yesterday tourists were advised not to walk.

Between “Gemstones” and “General Merchandise,” his ad was nearly lost in the clutter. Nick now admitted to himself that he had bought the ad in the hope of striking up a friendship with the young saleswoman. A date would have been cheaper, he thought now, looking at the bill that had arrived at his post-office box that morning.

He sighed and opened a drawer in his desk. It wasn’t the first time he’d done something stupid in the name of love–or lust. And it wouldn’t be the last bill he swore he never received, when the dunning began. He crammed the bill into the drawer, among the many others, and slammed it shut.

Then he turned to his typewriter and got back to work.

His research was finished on this project. A thousand dollars waited for him–if he could justify the inflated bill. That feat was going to be trickier than the project had proved to be. It was big money, for him. Yet he hated to see the job come to an end, since it was the only one he had at the moment, phone-book ad notwithstanding.

He had been commissioned to do an extensive family tree for a woman who believed, based on family lore, that she was descended from the royalty of Sweden. Nick had found that this certainly was not the case. The truth was that her forefathers had been blacksmiths and shepherds since the dawn of history in Ireland.

There was no disgrace in the lack of royal ancestors; most of the world’s population was in the same boat, not to mention the fact that once every royal family was non-royal. But Nick knew it wasn’t what she wanted to hear. He could do more if she wished, follow other limbs, twigs, and roots by mail and fax and phone, but it would be even more expensive, and of course, this extended research wouldn’t change his findings. The facts of genealogy, he’d learned from his studies, can’t be forced, though force might make genealogy.

But genealogy could be delayed, through a bit of fudging by a creative, needy researcher. All he had to do was carefully withhold certain information, and then maybe he could milk this project–

A noise interrupted his ruminations.

Was that his office door? Maybe his old typewriter had a new complaint. He certainly wasn’t expecting anyone. It was two-fifteen. He could use some lunch, he suddenly realized, as he continued to listen.

There was definitely someone in the office now, Nick was sure. Maybe the janitorial crew, back for something forgotten that morning. Hell, it used to be all they did was empty the trash can, and that rarely. A new vitality had energized the neighborhood, which probably explained this annoying, unusual zealousness of the cleaning guys.

The wooden floor in the small anteroom gave a few initial creaks, and then there was silence.

“Is someone there? Can I help you?” Nick said, at once irritated, curious, and a bit apprehensive.

“Where…where are you?” replied a quavering voice.

Before Nick could reach the doorway that separated the two rooms, an elderly, unsteady man stumbled around the corner, taking mincing steps in the shackles of age and pain.

“Oh my! Such a nice office you have here,” the old man wheezed. “So many books…everywhere! That’s good. You are a smart fellow. And it is so cool in here! Thank God! Just give me a minute, just a minute, to get my breath.” He leaned against a section of the tall bookcases opposite the windows and wiped his forehead with an extraordinarily fine handkerchief. Nick saw the initials in ornate letters: M C.

He wondered briefly if the old guy was a member of his reading classes at the public library, or an escapee from one of the nursing homes where he sometimes gave genealogy lectures. He certainly wasn’t a janitor. From the old school, one of those who still dressed up, in their own sad way, to go downtown. A dandy once, probably, judging from the handkerchief; but he’d lost the knack.

No, Nick couldn’t place the old fellow. It was obvious to him, however, that his visitor was in serious respiratory distress. He must be feeble