“Who?”

“But he doesn’t seem to be home, so I’ll-”

“Who you looking for?”

Why hadn’t I noticed either of the other tenants’ names? Because I somehow knew who this man was. I had no logical reason for assuming the specter looming before me was Walter Ignatius himself, but I’d have bet all my dimes on it.

And he certainly did loom. He was immensely tall, a good six-six, and while that might make him a backcourt man in pro basketball it certainly placed him squarely in the forecourt of life. He had a broad forehead beneath a mop of straight blondish hair cut soup-bowl style. His cheekbones were prominent and the cheeks sunken. His nose had been broken once and I felt sorry for the idiot who’d done it, because Grabow looked as though he’d known how to get even.

“Uh, Mr. Grabow,” I said. “I’m looking for a Mr. Grabow.”

“Yeah, right. That’s me.”

I could see him attacking a canvas, dipping a three-inch brush in a quart can of porch paint. His hands were enormous-a little dental scalpel would have disappeared in them. If this man had wanted to kill Crystal, his bare hands would have been more lethal than any weapon they might have held.

I said, “That’s odd, I expected an older man.”

“I’m older’n I look. What’s the problem?”

“You’re Mr. William C. Grabow?”

A shake of the head. “Walter. Walter I. Grabow.”

“That’s odd,” I said. I should have had a notebook to look in, a piece of paper, something. I got my wallet out and dug out Jillian’s hair appointment card, holding it so Grabow couldn’t see it. “William C. Grabow,” I said. “Maybe they made a mistake.”

He didn’t say anything.

“I’m sure they made a mistake,” I said, and referred again to the card. “Now you had a sister, Mr. Grabow. Is that right?”

“I got a sister. Two sisters.”

“You had a sister named Clara Grabow Ullrich who lived in Worcester, Massachusetts, and-”

“No.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You got the wrong party after all. I got two sisters, Rita and Florence, Rita’s a nun, Flo’s out in California. What’s this Clara?”

“Well, Clara Grabow Ullrich is deceased, she died several months ago, and-”

He moved a large hand, dismissing Clara Grabow Ullrich forever. “I don’t have to know this,” he said. “You got the wrong party. I’m Walter I. and you’re looking for William.”

“William C.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

“Well, I’m sorry to bother you, Mr. Grabow.” I moved toward the door. He stepped aside to let me pass, then dropped a hand on the doorknob, just resting it there.

“Wait a minute,” he said.

“Is something wrong?” Had the hulk suddenly remembered a long-lost sister? Oh, God, had he decided to try to glom onto some nonexistent legacy?

“This address,” he said.

“Pardon me?”

“Where’d you get this address?”

“My firm supplied it.”

“Firm? What firm?”

“Carson, Kidder and Diehl.”

“What’s that?”

“A law firm.”

“You’re a lawyer? You’re not a lawyer.”

“No, I’m a legal investigator. I work for lawyers.”

“This address isn’t listed anywhere. How’d they get it?”

“There are city directories, Mr. Grabow. Even if you don’t have a phone, all tenants are-”

“I sublet this place. I’m not the tenant of record, I’m not in any directories.” His head jutted forward and his eyes burned down at me.

“Gag,” I said.

“Huh?”

“Gotham Artists’ Guild.”

“They gave you this address?”

“That’s how my firm got it. I just remembered. You were listed with Gotham Artists’ Guild.”

“That’s years back,” he said, wide eyed with wonder. “Back when I was painting. I was into color then, big canvases, I had scope, I had vision-” He broke off the reverie. “You’re with this law firm,” he said, “and you’re coming around here on a Saturday?”

“I work my own hours, Mr. Grabow. I don’t follow a nine-to-five routine.”

“Is that a fact.”

“Now if you’ll just excuse me I’ll let you go on about your business.”

I made to take a step toward the door. His hand stayed on the knob.

“Mr. Grabow-”

“Who the fuck are you?”

God, how had I gotten myself into this mess? And how was I going to get myself out? I started running the same tape again, babbling that I was a legal investigator, repeating the name of my firm, and it was all just hanging in the air like smog. I made up a name for myself, something like John Doe but not quite that original, and then I looked at that hair appointment card again as if something on it would inspire me, and he extended a hand.

“Let’s see that,” he said.

It didn’t have any of the information I’d been making up. All it had was Jillian’s address and number on one side and some crap about an appointment with Keith on the other. And there was his great paw, beckoning.

I started to hand him the card. Then I stopped, and let out a horrible groan, and clapped my hand, card and all, to my chest.

“What in-”

“Air!” I croaked. “Air! I’m dying!”

“What the hell is-”

“My heart!”

“Look-”

“My pills!”

“Pills? I don’t-”

“Air!”

He held the door open. I took a step outside, doubled over, coughing, and then I took another step, and then I straightened up and ran like a sonofabitch.

Chapter Thirteen

Happily, Walter Ignatius Grabow wasn’t in the habit of spending his evenings loping around Gramercy Park. If I’d had a long-distance runner chasing after me I wouldn’t have stood a chance. As it was, I don’t think he even made an effort. I had a few steps on him and took him utterly by surprise, and while I didn’t stop to see whether he was pounding the pavement after me, I did hear his yells of “Hey!” and “What the hell?” and “Where you going, damn it?” trailing off behind me. They trailed rather sharply, suggesting that he merely stood in place and hollered while I ran, appropriately enough, like a thief.

Unhappily, I wasn’t a jogger either, and by the time I’d managed a couple of blocks on sheer adrenaline stimulated by rank cowardice, I was clutching my chest in earnest and holding onto a lamppost with my other hand. My heart was hammering in a distinctly unhealthy fashion and I couldn’t catch my breath, but the old master painter was nowhere to be seen, so that meant I was safe. Two cops wanted me for murder and another cop wanted half the jewels I hadn’t stolen, but at least I wasn’t going to get beaten to death by a crazy artist, and that was something.

When I could breathe normally again I found my way to a bar on Spring Street. There was nothing artsy about the place or the old men in cloth caps who sat drinking shots and beers. It had been doing business long before SoHo got a face-lift, and the years had given it a cozy feel and a homey smell that was composed of equal parts of stale beer, imperfect plumbing, and wet dog. I ordered a glass of beer and spent a long time sipping it. Two gentlemen a few stools over were remembering how Bobby Thompson’s home run won the 1951 pennant for the Giants. They were the New York Giants then, and as far as my fellow drinkers were concerned it all happened the day before yesterday.

“It was Ralph Branca threw that pitch. Bobby Thompson, he hit it a ton. What I always wondered is how Ralph Branca felt about it.”

“Made himself immortal,” the other said. “You wouldn’t be remembering Ralph Branca but for that pitch he served up.”

“Oh, go on.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Me forget Ralph Branca? Now go on.”

When my beer was gone I went to the phone at the back and tried Jillian’s number. While it rang I thought of things to say to Craig when he answered, but he didn’t and neither did anybody else. After eight or ten rings I retrieved my dime and got Craig’s home number from Information. It rang three times and he picked it up.