"Excuse me?"

"Go on."

"We learned enough to get a warrant for a search of his phone logs and we believe we found the call you may be referring to."

"A woman, right?"

"Isn't it always?"

"You mind giving me the address?"

"Yes, I mind. But I will give you some advice, Victor. You don't want to be interfering with an active homicide investigation. Trust me, you don't."

"I don't want to interfere, Detective. I want to help. I heard Joey was in a little too heavy with a loan shark by the name of Teddy Big Tits."

"Oh yeah?"

"He hangs out at a saloon called the Seven Out."

"Is that right?"

"It seems Joey might have been borrowing to keep the party at that number happy to see him walk in the door. Don't know for certain, but I'm just trying to help."

"We always appreciate help."

"And I wouldn't mind asking that same party some questions so long as you don't think it will hinder your investigation." I was just about to close the Tommy Greeley file and stuff it in my briefcase when something stopped me.

"What's this right here?" I said, pointing to a small yellow slip fastened in between two longer sheets of paper.

McDeiss shoved his glasses back onto his face, brought the file close. "It says the active investigation was closed after the initial inquiries and a discussion with... with S.A. Telushkin, and then it gives a phone number."

"Who is S.A. Telushkin?" I said.

"I didn't notice this before."

"Who is he?"

McDeiss took off his glasses, pursed his lips. "Remember when I said you could have the file?"

"Yes."

"I was mistaken." He shut the file, jammed it into his briefcase, and grinned at me. "Believe it or not, I might want to look at it again. In fact, I might want to reopen a decades-old missing persons case. Would you have a problem with that?"

"Would it make a difference?"

"No."

"Then I've no problem, no problem at all."

"Good," said McDeiss. "Later on maybe I'll make you a copy, send it off to your office. But right now I have a sneaking suspicion that this old file might prove to be more interesting than I first thought. You know, Carl, I suddenly am wondering whether this old file might link up to one of my open cases. What do you think about that?"

"I think you're a hell of a detective, Detective."

"Yes, I am."

"Who is S.A. Telushkin?"

"I think he's retired now, but I had some dealings with him early in my career when I was doing fraud. An interesting character. Easy to underestimate."

"McDeiss."

"His name is Jeffrey, Jeffrey Telushkin."

"So what's the S.A. part?"

"Special Agent," said McDeiss.

"Aaaah."

"Special Agent Jeffrey Telushkin of the FBI."

Did you hear that? Did you? There it was, the kerthump of the other shoe dropping smack on my head.

Chapter.

14.

PHIL SKINK WAS a long walk off a dank pier. Phil Skink was as ugly as a Salisbury steak but his teeth were pearly. He smoked cigars that smelled like the New Jersey Turnpike. He bought his suits wholesale from a guy named Harry. His cholesterol level was a national tragedy. The sight of him on the beach with his shirt off was enough to stun a jellyfish. Phil Skink played golf in a straw hat and old wingtips, and on the city course he played once a week he would take your money, guaranteed. He would have been the world Jumble champion if there was any money in it. He could have starred in the Lon Chaney story without the makeup. He played the "Star-Spangled Banner" through the gap in his teeth. He was a bad enemy, a good friend, a free man. Just by looking at him you would never figure he was smarter than you, but he was, guaranteed.

I had met Skink when he was working the other side of a murder case, working the other side, that is, until we realized we had the very same intentions and so we started working together. He was a licensed PI, and every lawyer needs a PI, and so I hired him, when he was available, to PI for me. He was smart, like I said, and he was fast.

"She's working for a company called Jacopo," said Skink over the phone as Kimberly Blue, Vice President of External Affairs, sat in a plastic chair set up in front of our secretary's desk. "Some la-dida outfit what is renting a town house smack on the southwest corner of Rittenhouse Square."

"What do they do?"

"Everything and nothing."

"Who owns it?"

"A couple of shell corporations I traced to the Caymans where the traces, they disappear."

"You're slipping, Skink."

"Yeah, well, maybe I am. You want to send me down there for a few days, I could maybe dig a little deeper."

"And work on your tan in the process."

"They gots golf courses down there look like brochures."

"Forget it."

"Thought to check with the rental agent on the town house. Tough bird, she is. Constant cigarette, voice like a lawn mower. Insisted on a personal guarantee on the lease, and got one too. Signed by a man of substance name of Edward Dean."

"Edward Dean. Okay. Now we're getting somewhere. Tell me about our little Miss Blue."

"Grew up in South Jersey, just over the bridge, Bellmawr. Father ran a liquor store. Cheerleader, no surprise there, right? Graduated this year from Penn. Didn't have the grades or SATs for an Ivy, but slipped her way in and survived. Was a marketing major, seems that's what they major in if they don't know what the hell to major in. Found her current position on a bulletin board at the job office at the school. Lots applied, this bird pulled it down. Good for her, right?"

"How'd she get it?"

"No one knows. There was better-qualified applicants, top of the class, Wharton grads even. But she's a looker, ain't she. I had my choice between some little owl with a four-point-oh and our little Kimberly, I'd take Kimberly too. Now she's living in a walk-up with some of her school chums but she ain't there much, if you catch the drift. No steady boyfriend since she broke up with a basketball star last year, least not what her flat mates know of."

"Anything else?"

"She's an orphan."

"What?"

"She's an orphan. Her moms died when she was still in diapers, her pops died last year. And every now and then, ever since her pops died, she just goes off and cries."

"Come on, Phil. What am I supposed to do with that?"

"I thought you should know, is all."

"You like her."

"I been keeping my distance like you wanted, never spoke to her once."

"But you're sweet on her all the same."

"Yeah, maybe I am. But not in the way you're thinking. I spent some time with her mates. Nice girls, though two beers and they can't stop their yapping. But Kimberly, she was working that night, like she works almost every night. Like she worked her way through a college that was too hard for her, like she worked her way into this job that ain't like any job a girl like her should grab hold of. You get a sense of a girl giving her the tail. Our Kimberly, she's been in over her head every day of her life and she keeps going on, doesn't she?"

"Except when she's home crying."

"There you go. Anything else you want?"

"Not just yet, Phil. But keep your phone on, I sense I'm going to need you sooner rather than later."

Today Kimberly Blue was wearing a different version of her corporate outfit, this one bright red, with matching pumps and lipstick. Very nice. She smiled when she saw me, but I gestured her to wait for a moment.

Rashard Porter was standing behind my secretary, Ellie, as she typed out his application to the Philadelphia College of Art.

"How's it going?" I said.

Ellie looked up, seemingly exasperated. "He keeps changing his answers."

"They got more questions than the probation lady," said Rashard. "I mean my address and high school stuff is no problem, but like this here. They want to know why I want to go to art school. Should I tell them the truth, Mr. Carl? I don't think they want to hear the truth, being that the truth is me liking the idea of spending the day staring at naked ladies and needing to get in to keep my butt out of jail."

"Except that's not the real truth, is it?"

"It isn't?"

"If you could do anything with your life, what would you do?"

"Blow dope and play X-Box?"

"Really?"

"Nah, man."

"So then tell them what you really want to do. And tell them why. Tell them about the newspaper thing you did at the high school. From what I understand, with these places the most important thing is your portfolio."

"Mine's like a piece-of-crap cardboard thing."

"Not what it's made of, Rashard, what's inside of it. I've seen your stuff. You'll do all right. Just be sure to show them your best. Keep at it, but I have a meeting."

With that I nodded at Kimberly Blue and led her into my office.

Chapter.

15.

SHE DROPPED INTO a chair, pulled at the hem of her skirt, straightened the fabric on her lap, removed the stenographic pad from her leather portfolio. We chatted a bit, about the weather, about the city, about law school. She had been thinking about law school, she said, before she got a job as a vice president. "Now, being a lawyer would be a step down, don't you think?"

"Absolutely," I said. "So, where were we?"

She glanced at her pad. "You want me to start the whole thing over again, beginning with the card? Have you seen my card?"

"Yes I have. It's quality, for sure."

"It is, isn't it? Did you notice that the printing is raised?"

"Yes, I noticed. Why don't we begin where we left off in the courthouse. You said you had a case for me."

"Yes, yes, okay. Okay. Here it is." She calmed herself, looked at her pad, and then punched her fist in the air like a peewee soccer coach exhorting her troops. "Victor, we need for you, Victor, to collect a debt."

"Collect a debt?" I said.