Masquerade for Murder

Chapter Three

The offices of Colby, Daltree & Levine, near Wall Street, took up the thirty-seventh floor of a glass and concrete tower, just another giant tombstone marking, some would say, the graveyard that was Manhattan’s Financial District — a place where at times it seemed that integrity had gone to die.

Just two years ago the Wall Street boom had gone bust, thanks to corporate raiders, leveraged buyouts, junk bonds, and especially insider trading, where high finance had become street corner deals where cash-filled suitcases were passed from one dirty white-collar hand to another.

Though several weeks had passed, I’d been summoned to the Colby firm, retaining enough curiosity about that hit-and-run I’d witnessed to accept the invitation with neither hesitation nor query.

After taking a cab from the Hackard Building, I signed in at the Liberty Exchange lobby with a uniformed guy about my age who seemed even more surprised than I did to find my name on the approved list.

I went on up.

Soon I was strolling down one of several aisles that separated rows of jammed-together desks, making my way through this many-windowed Yuppie warren as unnoticed as a towel attendant at a Turkish bath. Computer monitors cast their aquarium-green glow on at least one hundred brokers and sales assistants (almost exclusively male, in phone headsets and suspenders and no jacket), nobody ever seeming to pause to take in a panoramic harbor view that started at the Brooklyn Bridge and extended to Governors Island.

They were working the phones, making cold call after cold call, colder than the gray sky they were ignoring out all those windows as they projected confidence and success in this vast, soulless, drop-ceilinged boiler room, worker bees basking in the same kind of fluorescent lighting that Bellevue dispensed to its patients.

On the west side of the floor was a row of glassed-in offices penning up slightly older individuals with designer suspenders and two-hundred-buck haircuts.

These offices had Danish modern furniture and a couple of green-glow monitors on separate low-slung tables behind desks the size of knocked-over refrigerators with surfaces that somehow managed to be cluttered and orderly at the same time. I wandered in that direction, all the phone chatter around me like the buzzing of stirred-up hornets.

As I neared the row of window-walled workstations, a familiar face behind the glass of the larger central office landed on mine. Vincent (for heaven’s sake, don’t call him Vince) was on the phone, not surprisingly, and — in addition to the two behind him — he had an extra computer monitor right on his desk. Like his minions, he was in shirt sleeves and suspenders, but his probably cost plenty more.

That was the world we lived in now. Designer suspenders.

Young Colby frowned at me. It was damn near a scowl.

I smiled a little, put a touch of smirk in it. Gave him a tiny tickle-the-air wave, like I’d spotted a child I knew playing in a park. Well, hadn’t I?

I took a right to go down a short hallway tucked behind a wall of photocopy machines. Here were offices you couldn’t see into, with various executive vice presidents in them, assuming their doors weren’t lying — the older breed of execs like those who’d accompanied young Colby to Pete’s Chophouse. The hall led to a receptionist — a forty-something, severe but beautiful brunette in a gray tailored suit, cream-color silk blouse, and black-framed mannish glasses. She had cheekbones that could cut glass.

Despite Velda’s attempts to make a respectable-looking man of business out of me, my non-cashmere Burberry, Dobbs hat-in-hand, and Today’s Man threads failed to impress.

She asked, “May I help you?” like a floorwalker to a shoplifter. Her nameplate said Ms. Stern. Really.

“Your boss is expecting me. Mike Hammer.”

Her manner shifted. She’d been given that name, it was on her list too; but the moniker itself had meant nothing to her. There was a time...

“May I take your coat and hat?” she asked, butter wouldn’t melt.

I nodded, she rose, and I gave them to her.

“Now, if you’ll take a seat,” she said, squeezing out a smile, gesturing to the little row of chairs, “it will be just a few moments.”

In the weeks that had passed since my visit to Vincent Colby at Bellevue, my life — and business — had gone on. The peculiarities of the hit-and-run at Pete’s, and what I was now taking for a love triangle between Colby, Sheila Ryan and whatever that bartender’s name was, continued to linger. And linger for no good reason, as Velda would remind me (ever more impatient) whenever I brought it up.

Then this morning Vincent Colby’s father had called the offices of Michael Hammer Investigations — not this secretary or receptionist, whichever Ms. Stern was, but Vance Colby himself, the president of the firm. Velda had been suitably impressed, so my ice queen here wasn’t the first female today to underestimate me.

And, as promised, in a manner of moments, I was ushered in to a world apart from that bustling boiler room out there. This chamber, with not a computer monitor in sight, might have been a Financial District office fifty years ago. The walls were dark lush wood with gleaming parquet flooring and an occasional Oriental carpet under a high, elaborately-molded ceiling — no acoustic tiles here.

The furnishings were fine wood with plush upholstery, and framed landscapes spruced up the palatial walls — none of this modern art nonsense that had only been around for a hundred years or so. A fireplace big enough to accommodate a couple of St. Nicks and their bags of goodies was overseen by a huge gilt-framed standing portrait of a middle-aged man in formal attire, circa 1920 — the late Vernon P. Colby (a nameplate boldly read), who resembled a more severe, dignified but every bit as handsome version of his grandson Vincent.

The man who came trundling around a mahogany desk, which was smaller than a tank but not much, had similar facial features to his son and that of his own gilt-framed father. But this was a smaller man, made even more so by the vastness of the chamber, somewhat portly — no matter how hard his well-tailored charcoal pinstripe suit tried to conceal it. His silver hair lay in curls like his son’s, that Roman Emperor effect again, but his well-grooved face was home to a skinny salt-and-pepper mustache, while his gilt-framed father and window-enclosed son were clean shaven.

“Mr. Hammer,” Vance Colby said, his hand extended even before he’d reached me, his voice mellow like his son’s, “you’re kind to respond to my entreaty so quickly.”

“Sure,” I said, as we shook. His hand was small but his grip large. “But you didn’t indicate the nature of your, uh, entreaty.”

“Sit, sit, sir. Please.”

He was gesturing to a pair of two-seater couches facing each other by the hearth, a modest gas fire going, the cold snap out in the real world making it appropriate. The low-slung coffee table between us had a gleaming pot of its namesake waiting on a silver tray with china cups to be filled.

“Coffee?” he asked, as if the thought had just occurred to him.

“Thanks.”

He poured, then told me to help myself to cream and sugar, which I did.

As he settled back on the couch, a steaming cup in hand, my host said, “I’m of an age, Mr. Hammer, to know of you first-hand, from your newspaper exploits.”

That was second-hand, really, but I just said, “I’m of an age to have had them. Might I ask, sir...” His formality was catching. “...if you mean that as a compliment, or just an observation?”

“A compliment, definitely,” Vance Colby said, sitting forward, putting the coffee cup on a coaster on the glass top between us. He grinned and it seemed a little forced. “You know, somehow I always felt that we had a lot in common.”

Yeah, I was just thinking that.

But what I said was, “How’s that, Mr. Colby?”

He flipped a hand. “Well, politically, for instance.”

I grunted a laugh. “Not unless you haven’t voted for twenty years, either.”

That widened his eyes, which were faded blue and not the pretty eyes of his son — that must have been Vincent’s mother’s DNA.

“Really, Mr. Hammer? A man with your strong opinions doesn’t vote? Why ever not?”

“It only encourages them.” I sat forward. “Sir, I’m going to guess you already have a big-ticket private security company handling both your business and your home. And we only have two licensed investigators in my firm, including my secretary. We’re very good, but we’re a staff of two.”

He was nodding. “Understood.”

I sat back. “And even if you don’t already have a security outfit, I’m not an appropriate choice for your needs.”

He sat back as well. Folded his arms. Some shrewdness came into his voice, which was a relief, because I had not been impressed so far. “You already know why you’re here, don’t you, Mike? If I may address you that way.”

“Sure, if I can call you ‘Vance.’” I sipped my coffee, which was world-class, like Juan Valdez himself had delivered it on his burro. “I get uncomfortable when I’m on a first-name basis with somebody who expects a ‘mister’ out of me in return.”

He chuckled at that. “Of course. Obviously, this is about my son.”

“Yeah, we exchanged greetings when I got here.” Sort of. “You must be glad to have him back here at work.”

Vance nodded, but seemed distracted. “Vincent was only in the hospital overnight, but, uh... before we go any further, I’d like to get you on retainer. Make this official. What would you say to $1,000?”

“Yippee?”

A grin blossomed, unforced this time. “I’ve taken the liberty,” he said, and reached in a jacket pocket for a check fold. He tore the check out and handed it to me — he’d made it out in advance, and somehow I just knew he’d used a fountain pen. Probably a Mont Blanc.

But I raised a traffic-cop palm with one hand, the check drooping from my other.

“Is there a problem?” he asked, frowning, confused.

“A technicality. I work through an attorney. You become his client and that grants us the attorney/client confidentiality privilege.”

His eyebrows went up and so did the corners of his smile. “Very wise, Mr. Hammer.”

“My terms are $250 a day, the retainer my minimum. You cover expenses. My secretary will give you a detailed accounting at the wrap-up.”

A hand flicked the air, as if shooing a fly. “Let’s call it $1,000 a day, bump the retainer to $10,000, and you cover your own expenses.”

“Sure.” Having a rich client already had its benefits. “Unless there’s out-of-state travel. That you’ll cover.”

“Certainly.”

I carried a small stack of my attorney’s cards in my wallet and got one out and handed it to him. Then my host rose, went to his mahogany monster of a desk, and filled out a new check (with a fountain pen), crumpling the old one and tossing it in a mahogany wastebasket. This chamber was an office, after all.

When I had the ten grand tucked away, I said, “Now we can talk. If your son is back at work, after such a short hospital stay, what’s the problem?”

Seated across from me again, he leaned forward, hands folded and draped between his legs. He had a look of parental concern that every working private investigator knows too well.

“Mr. Hammer,” Vance began, and sighed, and was searching for words when the words of someone else interrupted, loudly.

“What the hell is he doing here?”

The door behind me slammed as Vincent Colby entered, stalked across an Oriental carpet, talking to us as he approached, his face flushed, his eyes narrowed, brow furrowed, fists tight.

The father looked up as the son towered. “Son, I’m engaging Mr. Hammer here to find the offender.”

Colby’s fists went to his waist as he positioned himself at the end of the coffee table, his back to the fire, standing there like a demented Superman. “The ‘offender’? You mean the son of a bitch who ran me down? That offender?”

“Yes,” his father said calmly. “The driver.”

Young Colby turned toward me. He stuck out a forefinger in my direction, more casual than accusing, as if at a zoo identifying which chimp threw monkey shit at him.

“I don’t like this person,” he blustered. “I don’t like him one little bit.”

He was twice as loud as necessary and he began to pace.

“Hammer said offensive things about someone I care deeply about, and he’s lucky I didn’t break him in half, then and there.” Finally his eyes landed on me and his upper lip curled back. “But it’s just not my habit to abuse the elderly.”

I crossed my arms, and put my right ankle on my left knee as I took it all in expressionlessly. A comment or a grin from me would just make this worse. Nothing to do but wait it out.

“I will find the ‘offender,’” young Colby said. “I have a good idea what happened, and who is responsible! And if I’m wrong, I know where to start after that.”

“Son...”

Now he pointed at his father and it was accusatory. “You shut-up. Shut-up and stay out of my life, old man! You interfere in my private affairs and I will walk out of here and leave you to pick up the pieces.” He turned to me again. “This old fool hasn’t done a thing for this firm for ten years! The ancient mariner here has no idea what it takes to run a company like this, in this day and age! I doubt he knows how to turn on a computer!”

I knew. Velda had taught me.

Colby lurched forward and his father, still seated, backed away, frightened, as his son’s fist came down, and I was poised to go for the raving ranter myself; but the base of the blow was meant for the table, and it connected, making everything on that coffee table jump.

Then Vincent Colby stormed out and slammed the door behind him.

We sat in silence for a while broken only by the gentle lapping of flames. Fortunately my coffee cup had been in my hand and not on the coffee table. I took a drink. Vance Colby had a hand over his face and was doing his best not to sob. His best wasn’t enough.

I waited.

Soon he was dabbing at his face with a handkerchief. “I... I apologize, Mr. Hammer.”

I smiled at him, just a gentle thing. “Mike, remember? Families are tough sometimes.”

The smaller Colby gestured with both hands, as if balancing two objects. “That’s just the thing! We’ve always been close, Vincent and I. Always. His mother died when he was seven and we’ve been best friends ever since. Never a harsh word between us. Until...”

I frowned. “Until the accident?”

He nodded. “Yes. I am assured by the medical experts that my son will fully recover, but... it may take time. Vincent is on medication and he is seeing a psychiatrist on a daily basis. So far it’s... frankly, it’s not doing any good.” He swallowed. “But it’s early. It’s early yet.”

“Has there been an impact on his work?”

His shrug was elaborate. “Vincent’s working only half days — seeing the shrink in the afternoons, sometimes his physician, as well. There are... occasional explosions of temper. He’s always been a charmer where the staff is concerned — a bit manipulative perhaps, but that’s not a bad thing in this game. He has not, at least not as yet, evinced any signs of violent behavior.”

My eyes got big as I pointed to the door Vincent had stormed through minutes ago. “What the hell would you call that?”

He lifted a hand. “No signs of physical violence, I should say. He’s been short with his people, and lost it with them, and they understand, but it shakes them. It’s so unlike him. He’s been such a great boss to them. He also... oh, Mr. Hammer. This is hard.”

“I know, sir. Go on.”

Vance swallowed thickly. “When I get home tonight, one of two things will happen. Either Vincent will not remember any of this... amnesiac bouts can come with certain concussion cases, I have been told... or he may break down and cry and apologize. I am not generally a demonstrative man, Mr. Hammer, but I will hold my grown son in my arms. Hold him like a baby.”

And he began to weep.

I went over and sat next to him. Put a hand on his shoulder. It made me uncomfortable as hell, but I did it. Maybe it was the ten grand in my pocket. Maybe I’m a human being after all, not that being one is anything to brag about.

“Your son is correct, I take it,” I said, when he had composed himself, still sitting next to him, “that you want me find the hit-and-run driver.”

He nodded. “I do not feel the police have done nearly a thorough enough job on what is to them, I’m sure, just a routine hit-and-run. They have very little to go on, admittedly. But I fear they’ve dismissed this, or at least downplayed it, due to a victim who was not badly hurt.”

I shook my head. “You’re not helpless in this. Someone like you could make noise. You could make it known that Vincent’s injury was anything but ‘routine.’”

He turned to me alarmed. “That kind of publicity would have a terrible negative effect on this business! Daltree and Levine, the two partners of mine on our masthead, are deceased, and I am semi-retired. My son is the moving force behind our operation. I do not want his condition getting out. It would compromise the firm horribly.”

“Okay.” I got up and resumed my seat opposite him. “I get that.”

Slumped, hands clasped, he stared at the floor. “Also, I feel there’s a chance that something more might be behind this.”

“You think someone might have been trying to kill Vincent.”

He looked at me, his eyes hard now. “I do. My son has made enemies in business — he can be ruthless, which is necessary in this business. And you heard him talk about his own suspicions, though I’m afraid I have my doubts — that may be delusional behavior, another concussion symptom. But just the same, I’m already exploring that possibility.”

“In what way?”

“As you surmised, I employ a major security firm.”

He mentioned the outfit by name and I nodded, said they did good work. Assured him, on that score, they would do better than I could.

“So if this is related to business,” Vance Colby said, “we’ll assume they will find out. But if it’s a personal matter... you will find out. Is that agreeable?”

“It is. Sir...”

“Vance. Please.”

“Vance, your son may be involved in a love triangle of sorts, which provides me with an immediate avenue to go down.”

His eyes tightened. “I knew nothing of that. Had no idea.”

“I only have a vague sense of it myself, but it’s a start. Is there anything else you can think of? I make no judgment when I ask this, but could he have been involved in drugs? Or any other illegal activity that would put him in contact with criminal elements?”

The father shook his head, firmly. “No drugs, certainly. He is something of a health enthusiast. Played rugby at Harvard. Lots of raw vegetables in his diet, very limited intake of red meat. Vitamins. Works out at home in our exercise room. Doesn’t smoke. Very little drinking.”

“What’s he normally like? His personality, I mean. His temperament.”

“In work my son walks a line between being conservative and, as I said, reckless — I’d generally call him moderate, but he will take a risk, if he feels it’s called for. He has always been a deliberate boy. Maintains control. Which is why it’s so terribly disturbing to see him fly off the handle, and go into such an erratic, violent tailspin.”

“What exactly do you expect of me?”

“Find the person driving that red sports car.”

“And what?”

He held up two hands, palms out, as if in surrender. “I’ll leave that to your discretion. If this was truly an accident, turn the individual over to the police. If it does turn out to be someone striking out at Vincent, personally — if that incident was a murder attempt, not an accident... or if the man turns out to have been a drunk driver... use your own judgment.”

I leaned forward. I spoke very quietly.

“Vance, I want no misunderstanding here. Despite my reputation, you’re hiring an investigator, not a vigilante.” I gestured around me. “Even with all this, you don’t have enough money to hire me to kill someone, or even knock them around. I’m not a hired killer. Not a thug. No matter what some people believe.”

“What if someone were to pull a gun on you?”

“I’d shoot them, of course.”

He smiled. “That’s good enough for me, Mike.”