Attached was a photo of Patrick Michael Lynam Corley, who had died seven years earlier and to whom the vintage Mercedes 450 SL was registered. He had been a fresh-faced stocky man with thick white hair and a winning smile.
Although it was midnight in New York, Isaac seldom went to bed before one in the morning. He got by on five hours of sleep a night and sometimes seemed on a sugar high without benefit of sugar.
After pouring brandy into a snifter and settling behind his desk in the study, David placed the call.
Isaac answered on the third ring. “My second-favorite writer.”
“Who’s number one?”
“Privileged info, boychik. Rest assured, it’s not his literary excellence that ranks him above you. He routinely gets himself in the most imaginative kinds of trouble, so he’s one of my top twenty billings just about every year. Have you shtupped that stunning girl yet?”
“Privileged info.”
“Yeah, so you struck out. Maybe it’s just as well.”
“How so?”
“Something’s not kosher about this cutie. A valued source of mine says he’s ninety-five percent sure her driver’s license and the registration for that 450 SL are phantom inserts in the DMV files.”
“Which means?”
“They’re forgeries that were backdoored into the state system. They’ll stand up to any police check, but she never took a driver’s test or paid a registration fee for the Mercedes. It was all done with digital finesse.”
“Even if he’s right, there’s still a five percent chance she’s on the up-and-up.”
“Actually, my guy’s ninety-nine percent sure they’re phantom inserts. I just wanted to give you a little more room to see if you’d leap to defend her. Listen to me, pal. Be careful with this. Think with your head, not your dick.”
David swirled the brandy in the snifter. “What if I’m thinking with my heart?”
“Armageddon. Thinking with your dick, pretty much the worst you can get is a curable disease.”
David sipped his drink.
“Thinking with your heart,” Isaac continued, “you can be ruined forever. What’s that, port or brandy?”
“How do you know it’s anything? You smell it over the phone?”
“You made a swallowing sound. I know your tastes, and I don’t figure you were choked up about my wise advice.”
“You’re a modern Sherlock.”
“I never claimed less.”
“Why the photo of Patrick Corley?”
“Patrick Michael Lynam Corley. If a man wants to assert his Irishness with four names, who am I to call him by two? I wanted you to see him so you’d have a reference when I report on him tomorrow.”
“Why not report now?”
“I’m still getting feedback from people who knew him. It’s not just that this Maddison Sutton is driving a car registered to this guy. Patrick Michael Lynam Corley has taken this investigation into some very weird territory. I don’t want to get into that until I’ve spoken to a couple more people about him.”
“How can he take the investigation anywhere, weird or not? He’s been dead for seven years.”
“Maybe yes. Maybe no. Keep your pants zipped, boychik, until Uncle Isaac tells you otherwise. And if you’re listening to your heart again, quickly drink yourself unconscious.”
| 23 |
The restaurant was a few steps down from the street, funky but clean, romantically lighted even for a Sunday lunch. David arrived first and was seated in a booth in a private back corner of the room.
When Maddison entered in white slacks, matching jacket, and a blouse the precise blue of her eyes, it was as if spring personified had stepped in from the street. She came directly to him and slid into the booth.
“You look refreshed, David. Your Saturday business must have gone well.”
“Not as well as I would have liked. And how was your Saturday? Did you kill anyone?”
“No, dear. The job is set for this evening.”
“I thought we were spending the day together.”
“I’d like nothing better, but we have only the afternoon.” She winked at him. “The evening is for murder.”
“May I ask who the victim will be?”
“If I told you, then you would be an accessory. The last thing I want is to see you in prison. Orange is not your color. Besides, how could our relationship blossom with bars between us?”
The waitress came with menus, and they ordered glasses of a Meritage.