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“Yes, he has. Let me show you something.” He led his chief into the dressing room and pointed at a rack of hanging clothes. “There was a beautiful tan cashmere jacket hanging there yesterday.” He knew because he had been thinking of stealing it when the job ended. “Also, some other jackets and suits, plus, shirts and underwear from the dresser. And two large alligator suitcases have been taken. Looks to me like the guy has moved out.”
FIFTY-THREE
Stone and Joan sat in Stone’s office and listened to Mike Freeman’s report. “We’ve been there six days,” he said. “For the first part of that we detected very subtle signs that Eddie Jr. had been sleeping there. He was very careful, until last night.”
“Did you catch him?” Joan asked.
“No, but he removed a considerable amount of Eddie Sr.’s clothing and two alligator suitcases, which indicates to us that he’s moved out and, likely, won’t be back.”
Stone pondered that. “Where is Eddie’s beige Mercedes station wagon?” he asked.
“Found at an impound lot,” Mike replied. “Nobody has claimed it just yet.”
“So he needs transportation,” Stone said, “and a roof over his head.”
“He seems partial to Mercedes,” Mike mused. “We’ll check the classified ads and the dealers’ used car lots.”
“Good. If you were footloose in New York, Mike, how would you seek shelter?”
“Well, he’s already used two clubs and the YMCA, and the houses of two people he knows—you and Joan. Maybe he’s looking for something more permanent, like a furnished apartment. Again, we can check the classified ads, and there are real estate offices up and down the Upper East Side. You’ve seen them, their windows full of photographs of their properties.”
“It’s one thing to check the classifieds, but it’s another to send people out to search Realtors’ shops. That sort of work is more suited to police departments. I mean, I know you can do it, but you have a client who’s tight with a buck.” He nodded toward Joan.
“What about it, Joan?” Mike asked. “You want us to do a real estate search?”
“I’m tight with a buck,” Joan said. “I think we’ll hold off until he tries to kill somebody again.”
“What if it’s you?” Stone asked.
“I’m packing these days,” Joan replied. “I think I’d welcome the opportunity to get a shot at him.”
“Mike,” Stone said, “you didn’t hear that.”
“Hear what?” Mike replied.
—
Herb Rice, an investigator for Strategic Services, was assigned the task of identifying cars that Eddie Charles Jr. might havebought. He went quickly over the classified ads, but nothing jumped out at him. He took a cab to the Mercedes dealer on Eleventh Avenue.
As he alit from his cab, Herb saw a dozen or fifteen cars parked in the lot for used—or “pre-owned”—cars, as fancy dealers liked to call them. Maybe half met the criteria for an Eddie Jr. purchase. Through the showroom glass, he could see a single person, probably a salesman, at a desk. He walked inside.
The man rose from his seat. “Good day,” he said. “May I help you?”
Herb took his ID card from his wallet and held it close enough for the man to read. “Yes, if you can,” Herb said. “I am a licensed investigator with the security firm of Strategic Services.”
The man’s face registeredCop, private dick.His personal experience with such people during two divorce proceedings had not been pleasant.
Herb could see that the man’s body language conveyed he was clamming up. Herb smiled as warmly as he could manage. “I wonder if you might have sold an, ah, pre-owned Mercedes to a man named Edwin Charles Jr. in the past couple of days? He’s about five-nine, 160 pounds, dark hair, well-dressed.” He paused. He was not getting a good reaction, so he said, “Mr. Charles is being sought as part of a murder investigation by the police.”
“Is he a suspect?”
“He’s a person of interest to the police.”
“I haven’t sold a car to anyone like that in the last week,” the salesman said.
“Pretty quiet around here, isn’t it?” Herb asked.
“We’ve got two salesmen on vacation. I’m holding down the fort. And anyway, we see most of our customers by appointment.”
