Painted Ladies

60

Molly Pitcher was wearing a little white blouse with a little Peter Pan collar and a little black string tie. Adorable.

“Morton Lloyd,” I said.

“Do you have”—she looked up and her voice trailed off—“an appointment?”

“I do,” I said, and walked past her into Lloyd’s office carrying a manila envelope.

“What the hell are you doing,” he said.

“I’m barging in,” I said.

“Well, barge the hell right back out,” Lloyd said.

“I’m hoping to save your life,” I said.

“What?” Lloyd said.

I closed the door behind me.

“You know Rosalind Wellington?” I said.

“I don’t really know her,” he said. “I know she’s Ashton Prince’s wife. What’s this about saving my life?”

“Would you recognize her if you saw her?” I said.

“I don’t think I ever met her. Why are you asking?”

I took three of the goriest crime scene photos of the dead Rosalind out of the manila envelope and spread them faceup on his desk.

“What she looks like currently,” I said.

He glanced down.

“Jesus Christ,” he said. “What the hell are you doing?”

“That’s Rosalind Wellington, the late wife of the late Ashton Prince,” I said.

“She’s dead.”

“Yep. Somebody beat the hell out of her, then shot her twice in the forehead,” I said.

“I don’t want to look at this,” he said.

“Shooting somebody in the forehead twice,” I said, “is like wearing suspenders and a belt.”

“Who did it?”

“We think it was the Herzberg Foundation,” I said. “We think they killed her because she had information that might hurt them. And now we’re worried about you.”

“That Herzberg will kill me?”

“Yep.”

He was silent, looking at me with an odd expression. It might have been fear. I walked to the window on the side wall of his office, the one that overlooked Batterymarch.

“Who’s ‘we’?” he said.

“Me and the cops,” I said.

“Why aren’t they here?”

“Figure if you’re seen talking to the cops, you’re a dead man,” I said. “So they sent me.”

I continued to look out the window.

“Who would see me?” he said.

I nodded out the window.

“Maybe them,” I said.

He stood and came to the window. A silver BMW sedan with tinted windows was parked in a tow zone on Batterymarch.

“How do you know someone’s in it,” Lloyd said.

“Motor’s running,” I said. “See the vapor from the exhaust?”

“So probably some guy waiting for his wife or something,” Lloyd said.

“They followed me here,” I said.

Lloyd was silent. I glanced at him. His face seemed pale. He swallowed a couple of times.

“What are you gonna do?” Lloyd said.

He sounded as if his mouth was dry and talking was hard.

“I was thinking of asking you to tell me what you know about the Herzberg Foundation.”

“And if I don’t tell you?”

“I leave,” I said. “What else can I do.”

“They’ll kill me,” he said.

“If you talk?” I said.

“Yes.”

“And if you don’t,” I said.

“Whaddya mean?” he said.

“There’s a leak sprung somewhere in their enterprise,” I said. “They’re running around trying to button everything up. You know stuff. Button, button.”

“Don’t you even care?”

“Not especially,” I said.

“You can’t leave me alone,” he said.

“Can, too,” I said.

“I need protection,” he said.

“Cops can give you that,” I said. “If you got anything to give them.”

He stared down at the BMW.

“Okay,” he said. “Will you stay with me till the cops get here?”

“I will,” I said. “And beyond.”

“I don’t want to go to jail,” he said.

“Not my department,” I said. “But the cops and the prosecutors generally don’t like to put cooperative witnesses away. It discourages other cooperative witnesses.”

“You got a gun?” he said.

“Yes.”

He stared down at the BMW some more.

“And you’ll stay with me until they get here,” he said. “I can pay you.”

“Coin of the realm here is information,” I said. “I’ll protect you.”

“Okay,” he said. “Call them.”

About ten minutes after I called, Quirk and Belson walked into the office with a couple of uniformed cops. I could see a little color come back into Lloyd’s face. The uniforms stayed in the outer office, to protect us. Belson followed Lloyd into the inner office.

“Who’s in the Beamer,” I said to Quirk.

“Lee Farrell,” Quirk said. “It’s his car.”

“Tell him he does a good ominous,” I said.

Quirk grinned, and we went into Lloyd’s office, too.