The phone rang.

I stepped forward and picked it up.

“I found another one,” came the voice.

“Excuse me?”

“A car, mate. Another of Manley’s cars.”

“Skink?”

“Who’d you think it was?”

“No one. Go on.”

“A 1989 LeBaron convertible. Who came up with that name for a car, hey? LaIdiot? But there it is. A LeBaron convertible, a classic much in demand with collectors, sos I hear. But that don’t matter none to you, does it? LePiece-of-crap, it’s one of two registered to the girlfriend, but she drives the other one, a Lincoln. This one, we traced the pinks back to a dummy New Jersey corp. what’s stock is registered to our boy. It’s behind her apartment down in German-town. A la-di-da place called the Alden Park.”

“I suppose we should go after it.”

“Suppose?”

“It’s just that Manley looks like a beaten dog already.”

“Some dogs you just can’t beat enough.”

“You’re a card carrying member of PETA, I presume. I’ll set up a date with R.T. in the sheriff’s office.”

“Do that, mate, afore it disappears on us. The thing about a car is it’s a mobile asset, innit? Here one day, cruising west on Route 66 the next.”

“I don’t think this one’s going anywhere.”

“How’s the job going?”

“Confusing,” I said. “It’s like I’m lost in a maze.”

“Oh, a rat like you will find his way eventually, I got no doubt, long as there’s cheese at the end. Anything more for me?”

“Yeah, there is.” I rubbed my scalp with my fingernails, rubbed it so hard I could feel the burn. “I want someone followed. Very discreetly. No hint you’re giving her the tail.”

“A dame?”

“That’s right. But it’s real Mission Impossible stuff.”

“I’m caught or captured, the secretary will be disavowing any knowledge of my knickers, is that it?”

“That’s it.”

“All right, Vic. It’s good to know where I stand. Give it up.”

“Her name’s Straczynski,” I said. “Alura Straczynski.”

Chapter 33

SEVEN NINETY-NINE WOLF STREET. Apartment Three B.

Beth and I stood in the hallway, at the door. We had debated for how to play it. Vacuum cleaner salespersons? City health inspectors? Homeland Security investigators checking out a suspicious neighbor? We came up with a bundle of bad possibilities, and then decided to play it straight, sort of.

“Hello,” said Beth, when the door was cracked opened by a heavy woman in a great red-and-purple muumuu. “We’re looking for Beverly Rodgers. Is this her residence?”

“Yes.”

“Are you Ms. Rodgers?”

“No.” The woman gathered up the collar of her housedress in a meaty hand. “I’m just a friend who helps take care of her. And you are?”

“We’re lawyers,” I said, handing my card through the narrow opening. “We need to talk to Ms. Rodgers about a matter of some urgency.”

“How did you get through the security door?”

“A nice lady on her way out held it open for us.”

“They’re not supposed to do that. A letter has been sent to all the tenants.” She leaned out the doorway, looked behind us into the hall. “You’ll have to leave. Beverly can’t be disturbed right now. She is ill.”

“Nothing serious, I hope,” said Beth.

“I’m afraid it is. She is a terribly ill woman and she has insisted that she have no visitors. But later, if she gains enough strength, perhaps she’ll be able to give you a call.”

“Like I already told you, we are here on a matter of some urgency,” I said. “It involves a will. I believe she knew a Mr. Joseph Parma, now deceased?” I looked behind me and then lowered my voice. “I can’t talk about it in the hallway, but it might be in her interest to see us immediately, before Mr. Parma’s mother takes charge of the estate.”

“I’m sorry. She can’t be disturbed.”

“Why don’t you ask her. We’ll wait out here while you do.”

She squinted at us for a moment and then closed the door. We could hear the locks engage and then the groaning of the floorboards as she stepped away, toward some back room in the apartment

“It won’t be long,” I said, and it wasn’t.

Muumuu lady gave us a quick, halfhearted smile when she opened the door again. “My name is Martha,” she said. “I’m a friend of Bev’s. I help take care of her.”

“Are you here often?” I said.

“Every day.”

“Paid?”

“I said I’m a friend.”

“So you knew Mr. Parma.”

“They come and go,” said Martha. “Bev is feeling a little better and says she is able to see you. This way, please.”

Martha led us through a fussily furnished living room, with chintz throws thrown over the chairs and strange erotic statues turned into lamps. The place smelled of stale perfume, of spilt whiskey, of Dorothy Parker. A box of candy, its top off, its small brown papers strewn and empty, sat on a coffee table between a fluffy couch and an old console television. A couple of framed art nouveau prints of dancing women were side-by-side on a wall. Erté? Ouch. In the corner sat a wheelchair.

“How long has Ms. Rodgers been ill?” I said.

“Oh years and years,” said Martha. “She has a weak constitution.”

“Don’t we all,” said Beth.

Beyond the living room was a dark hallway, an eat-in kitchen to the right, a bathroom to the left, the hallway leading to a closed white door.

“Wait a moment,” said Martha as she opened the door and went through, shutting it behind her.

“Bev’s an invalid?” said Beth, quietly.

“Joey Cheaps, humanitarian,” I said. “Who knew?”

“All right, Mr. Carl,” said Martha, opening again the door. “Bev will see you now.” And then Martha opened the door wide and waved us in as if we were about to have an audience with the queen.

We stepped into a boudoir if ever there was one.

“You told Martha something about a will,” said a brightly lit woman sitting high in the bed, pillows fluffed all about her as if she were held aloft on a cloud, her voice as sharp and as grating as a cat with its tail pinned beneath a tire.

Bev Rodgers was a honey, all right, just as McDeiss had described her. She had short, coiffed blond hair, a pretty round face, and she wore a dressing gown trimmed with white fluff. She could have been anywhere between thirty and fifty, it was hard to tell with all the makeup so brightly and thickly applied. She had a mole, either natural or painted, beside her small shapely mouth, and she had a lit cigarette in an actual cigarette holder that she held between two crimson-tipped fingers. She looked like the lead in a Busby Berkeley musical and her voice was impossible.

“I’m very interested in wills,” she said. “I was hitched to one once, but that’s a short story. It’s Vic, isn’t it?” she said to me, her bright lips quivering as if to hypnotize.

“Yes, it is,” I said.

“Joey mentioned you. You’re the spieler, right? The one who’s been calling.”

“That’s right. Why didn’t you return my calls?”

“I don’t like the phone. Nothing good ever comes over the phone. And besides, I been ill.” She put a hand onto her forehead. “Oh Joey, dear, sweet Joey. What happened is tragic. Getting greased like that. Just tragic. I’m still not over it.” She took a drag from her cigarette holder, exhaled a thin plume of smoke. “Now, about the will. What did my little scrumpkins leave me?”

“Well, he didn’t mention you by name, Ms. Rodgers-”

“Call me Bev, Vic. We’re all chums here.”

“Thank you, Bev. And this is my partner, Beth Derringer.”

“Pleased to meet you, I’m sure,” said Bev, never taking her eyes off me, obviously not finding the female of the species worth a quiver of the lips.

“Joey didn’t mention you in the will by name, Bev, but he stated he wanted all his debts paid by the estate. And prior to his death he did mention you to me.”

“Something flattering, I hope.”

“Oh yes, yes indeed. In fact, he said he owed you much. And so I wondered if, by chance, what he owed you was money.”