Black Dog

Fifty-Three

Stone and Joan sat in Stone’s office and listened to Mike Freeman’s report. “We’ve been there six days,” he said. “For the first part of that we detected very subtle signs that Eddie Jr. had been sleeping there. He was very careful, until last night.”

“Did you catch him?” Joan asked.

“No, but he removed a considerable amount of Eddie Sr.’s clothing and two alligator suitcases, which indicates to us that he’s moved out and, likely, won’t be back.”

Stone pondered that. “Where is Eddie’s beige Mercedes station wagon?” he asked.

“Found at an impound lot,” Mike replied. “Nobody has claimed it just yet.”

“So he needs transportation,” Stone said, “and a roof over his head.”

“He seems partial to Mercedes,” Mike mused. “We’ll check the classified ads and the dealers’ used car lots.”

“Good. If you were footloose in New York, Mike, how would you seek shelter?”

“Well, he’s already used two clubs and the YMCA, and the houses of two people he knows — you and Joan. Maybe he’s looking for something more permanent, like a furnished apartment. Again, we can check the classified ads, and there are real estate offices up and down the Upper East Side. You’ve seen them, their windows full of photographs of their properties.”

“It’s one thing to check the classifieds, but it’s another to send people out to search Realtors’ shops. That sort of work is more suited to police departments. I mean, I know you can do it, but you have a client who’s tight with a buck.” He nodded toward Joan.

“What about it, Joan?” Mike asked. “You want us to do a real estate search?”

“I’m tight with a buck,” Joan said. “I think we’ll hold off until he tries to kill somebody again.”

“What if it’s you?” Stone asked.

“I’m packing these days,” Joan replied. “I think I’d welcome the opportunity to get a shot at him.”

“Mike,” Stone said, “you didn’t hear that.”

“Hear what?” Mike replied.

Herb Rice, an investigator for Strategic Services, was assigned the task of identifying cars that Eddie Charles Jr. might have bought. He went quickly over the classified ads, but nothing jumped out at him. He took a cab to the Mercedes dealer on Eleventh Avenue.

As he alit from his cab, Herb saw a dozen or fifteen cars parked in the lot for used — or “pre-owned” — cars, as fancy dealers liked to call them. Maybe half met the criteria for an Eddie Jr. purchase. Through the showroom glass, he could see a single person, probably a salesman, at a desk. He walked inside.

The man rose from his seat. “Good day,” he said. “May I help you?”

Herb took his ID card from his wallet and held it close enough for the man to read. “Yes, if you can,” Herb said. “I am a licensed investigator with the security firm of Strategic Services.”

The man’s face registered Cop, private dick. His personal experience with such people during two divorce proceedings had not been pleasant.

Herb could see that the man’s body language conveyed he was clamming up. Herb smiled as warmly as he could manage. “I wonder if you might have sold an, ah, pre-owned Mercedes to a man named Edwin Charles Jr. in the past couple of days? He’s about five-nine, 160 pounds, dark hair, well-dressed.” He paused. He was not getting a good reaction, so he said, “Mr. Charles is being sought as part of a murder investigation by the police.”

“Is he a suspect?”

“He’s a person of interest to the police.”

“I haven’t sold a car to anyone like that in the last week,” the salesman said.

“Pretty quiet around here, isn’t it?” Herb asked.

“We’ve got two salesmen on vacation. I’m holding down the fort. And anyway, we see most of our customers by appointment.”

The phone on the man’s desk rang. He sat down and picked it up. “Hello? Well, hello, there.”

A woman, Herb thought.

The salesman held his hand over the receiver. “Anything else? I’ve got to take this call.”

“No,” Herb said, and the man went back to the phone call. Herb knew when he was licked. He walked out and began looking for a cab on the street.

The salesman pressed a button on the phone. “Thanks, Sheila,” he said. “The coast is clear.” He hung up.

Herb got into a cab and gave the driver an address, then he made a cell phone call. “It’s Herb. I’ve checked the classifieds — nothing there for us. I’ve just come from the Mercedes dealer. Eddie Jr. might have shopped there, but the only salesman on duty is a cop-hater, and he gave up nothing. Yeah, I’m on the way back now. Hang on, can you check new registrations of used Mercedeses from the last day or two? It’s a long shot, but it might give us something.” He hung up and zoned out, until he was back at the office, then he went immediately to a colleague’s cubicle. “Anything?”

“One new registration of a used Mercedes yesterday. A three-year-old obsidian black E55, with 22K on the odometer.”

“Name of owner?”

The man consulted his notes. “Registered to a Delaware corporation, only a PO box for an address in Wilmington.”

“Bingo!” Herb said.