Celine stuck her head in. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your meeting or eavesdrop…okay, I did mean to eavesdrop. It sounds like insider trading.”
They all looked at her. She walked in and said, “The secretaries know what is going on at each brokerage firm. They always talk to one another. I see guys chatting up the girls, trying to get them to spill company beans. But we aren’t as dumb as we look…well some of us are. It sounds like whoever hired your friend wanted to know what the competition was up to, to get an edge. More coffee anyone?”
There was a thoughtful silence. Celine took this to mean no, then whirled around and went back to her desk. Henry looked at the professor and said loud enough so Celine would hear, “You found a good one there. Bright kid.”
“I’m not a kid…Boss.”
They all laughed, then Henry got serious again. “Celine is right: it sounds like someone is trying to stack the deck in their favor. Hans and Dr. Schaeffer certainly seem to be trying to get an edge. For all we know, someone else hired Mickey to do the same. I think that both of you should check out every name on this list. Mike, you check for anything criminal; Professor, try to find out where their money comes from. Plus anything else you can learn about this mechanism would be great. And everyone, be careful…” his voice trailed off.
There was another long silence, and then Mike cleared his throat. “One more thing Henry…Luna and I have got the wake set up for tomorrow night, at The Dublin Rogue. You want me to start on the funeral arrangements? There are at least a half a dozen precincts taking up a collection. He had a lot of friends on the force.”
Henry sighed. “It bothers me, the thought of putting him in the ground with his killer on the loose, but I guess we should. A priest came by; I think I'll go talk to him and let you know tomorrow.”
The professor and Mike said goodbye, and went on their way. Henry walked out and sat in the waiting room chair. Celine was behind the desk, writing things on her notepad. “Sorry about the kid crack,” Henry said.
She looked up. “Sorry about the boss crack. I heard you tell Mike. What do you want me to call you?”
“I prefer Henry, but really it doesn’t matter too much. That was a nice observation you made. You've only been here three hours and I can’t believe I ever got along without you. How about I buy you lunch?”
“You’re not getting fresh, Henry, are you?”
“Nope, I am just getting hungry.”
“Then I accept. Plus, I have a list of things we need.” She ripped off the top sheet of paper, neatly folded it, and then stuck it in her purse. As they headed out, she said, “Remind me to add, ‘Buy an Out to Lunch sign’ for the door.”
“Will do…Boss,” Henry said as he locked the door behind them.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
After lunch Henry walked, alone with his thoughts, Celine having gone back to the office. His efforts to hail a cab were half-hearted at best. A few of them drove past, stopping for better dressed and more aggressive fares. He drifted along for several blocks, his mind trying to connect all of the disparate pieces. His focus reached such a state that the din of the city faded to zero. Henry didn't notice the three guys in leather coats who had been watching him since he and Celine left the deli.
In his mind, he shifted pieces, theorized, moved other pieces, and still couldn't tell what the picture was supposed to be. Eight blocks later, unable to make any progress, a thought leapt into his mind as he passed a pay phone. He picked up the receiver, threw a dime in, and started to dial the number he knew by heart: Klondike 5, 5, 3, 7, 8…and then his finger hung in the air. The din of the city returned.
He hung up the phone. His brain had reflexively suggested he dial the number and ask for help, but Mickey wasn't there. He was dead. He was really dead. Seeing his body hadn't done it, spending every waking moment thinking about finding his killer hadn't made it sink in; Henry had not reached the horrible realization until the pay phone told him the truth.
The traffic, the car horns, the guy selling newspapers on the corner, all seemed loud and annoying. Henry crossed the street and caught a glimpse, in the chrome bumper of a bright green ‘52 Chevy, of three people behind him. He didn't turn around; he didn't need to. Henry walked for three more blocks. The windows told the tale: he was being tailed. It made him mad.
Henry was about to make a serious effort at getting a cab, when he realized he was only a block away from the gallery. Earlier he had looked through the phone book and noticed a gallery owned by some French guy who sounded like he might be related to Henri Matisse. Henry figured that he could at least fake going there, as Henry liked Matisse's work. If one wanted to learn about the art community, go to a gallery. It seemed like a reasonable move.