Where Are You Now?

71

W ith his ever-increasing arthritis, Derek Olsen often woke up during the night, throbbing pain in his hips and knees. On Wednesday night, when his aching joints woke him up, he could not go back to sleep again. The call from the police about his nephew Steve meant, of course, that he was in some kind of trouble again. So much for the fifty thousand I was going to leave him, Olsen thought. He can go whistle for it!

The one bright spot was that in a few hours he was going to have the fun of watching the wrecking ball smash that decrepit old town house into smithereens. Every chip that flies in the air represents money I made on the deal, he thought with satisfaction. I wouldn’t put it past Doug Twining to operate the rig himself. That’s how mad he is at having to pay me so much.

The pleasurable thought comforted him to the point that sometime before dawn he fell into the deep sleep that normally lasted till eight A.M. But on Thursday morning, his phone rang at six. It was Detective Barrott wanting to know where Howard Altman was. He hadn’t returned to his apartment all night.

“Am I his babysitter?” Olsen demanded querulously. “You wake me up to ask me where he is? How do I know? I don’t socialize with him. He works for me.”

“What kind of car does Howard drive?” Barrott asked.

“When he drives me, he drives my SUV. I don’t think he has a car of his own. I don’t care.”

“Does he ever take your SUV in the evening?”

“Not that I know of. He better not. It’s a Mercedes.”

“What color is it?”

“Black. At my age do you think I want a red one?”

“Mr. Olsen, we really need to talk about Howard,” Barrott said. “What do you know about his personal life?”

“I know nothing. I want to know nothing. He’s been working for me nearly ten years. He’s done a good enough job.”

“Did you check his references when you hired him?”

“He was recommended by an impeccable source, my financial advisor Elliott Wallace.”

“Thank you, Mr. Olsen. Have a good day.”

“You ruined most of it for me. I’ll be tired all day.” Derek Olsen slammed down the receiver. But not all of it, he thought as he envisioned the wrecking ball striking a bull’s-eye on his piggy bank.

At the other end of the phone, Barrott, unable to conceal his exultation, said, “Elliott Wallace recommended him for the job.”

“It ties in with Lucas Reeves’s theory,” Ahearn agreed. “But we have to go easy. Wallace is a big shot on Wall Street.”

“Yes, but he wouldn’t be the first executor who dipped into his client’s funds, if that’s the way it plays,” Barrott said. “Any result on the fingerprints?”

“Not yet. We can’t be sure the ones we lifted from the outer door of Howard’s apartment are absolutely his, but we’re running them anyway. I’d swear that guy has a prior record,” Gaylor said.

Barrott checked his watch. “The security guard at Wallace’s building said he normally gets in at eight thirty. We’ll be waiting for him.”