“But off the record, just for my ears, how long have they been coming here?” I said, in what I hoped was a sincere, persuasive voice.
“What’s the problem?” She was still suspicious.
“Paternity suit,” I said promptly, the first thing that came into my mind. It sounded ridiculous, even to me, but she relaxed.
“Well, that doesn’t sound too dreadful. I guess it’s been about five years. This is my husband’s restaurant, and We’ve been working it together for eighteen years now. I remember most of my regular customers.”
“Do they come in often?” I asked.
“Oh, maybe three times a year. But over a period of time, you get to recognize your regulars. Besides, this man”—she tapped McGraw’s picture—”comes in a lot. I think he’s with that big union down the road.”
“Oh, really?” I said politely. I pulled Thayer’s picture out. “What about him?” I asked.
She studied it. “It looks familiar,” she said, “but he’s never been in here.”
“Well, I certainly won’t spread your name any further. And thanks for a very nice lunch.”
I felt dizzy walking out into the blinding heat. I couldn’t believe my luck. Every now and then you get a break like that as a detective, and you start to think maybe you’re on the side of right and good after all and a benevolent Providence is guiding your steps. Hot damn! I thought. I’ve got Masters tied to McGraw. And McGraw knows Smeissen. And the twig is on the branch, the branch is on the tree, the tree is on the hill. Vic, you are a genius, I told myself. The only question is, what is tying these two guys together? It must be that beautiful claim draft I found in Peter Thayer’s apartment, but how?
I found a pay phone and called Ralph to see if he had tracked down the Gielczowski file. He was in a meeting. No, I wouldn’t leave a message, I’d call later.
There was another question, too. What was the connection among Thayer, McGraw, and Masters? Still, that shouldn’t be too difficult to find out. The whole thing probably revolved around some way to make money, maybe nontaxable money. If that were so, then Thayer came in naturally as Masters’s neighbor and good friend and vice-president of a bank. He could probably launder money in a dozen different ways that I couldn’t begin to imagine. Say he laundered the money and Peter found out. McGraw got Smeissen to kill Peter. Then Thayer was overcome with remorse. “I won’t be a party to it,” he said—to Masters? to McGraw? and they got Earl to blow him away, too.
Steady, Vic, I told myself, getting into the car. So far you only have one fact: McGraw and Masters know each other. But what a beautiful, highly suggestive fact.
It was the bottom of the fifth inning at Wrigley Field, and the Cubs were rolling over Philadelphia. For some reason, smoggy, wilting air acted on them like a tonic; everyone else was dying, but the Cubs were leading 8-1. Kingman hit his thirty-fourth homer. I thought maybe I’d earned a trip to the park to see the rest of the game, but sternly squashed the idea.
I got back to the clinic at 2:30. The outer room was even more crowded than it had been in the morning. A small window air conditioner fought against the heat and the combined bodies and lost. As I walked into the room, the inner door opened and a face looked around. “Mean and stupid” summed it up exactly. I went on across the room. “You must be Paul,” I said, holding out a hand. “I’m Vic.”
He smiled. The transformation was incredible. I could see the bright intelligence in his eyes, and he looked handsome rather than brutish. I wondered fleetingly if Jill was old enough to fall in love.
“Everything’s quiet here,” he said. “Everything but the babies, of course. Do you want to come out and see how Jill is doing?”
I followed him to the back. Lotty had moved the steel table out of her second examining room. In this tiny space Jill sat playing with five children between the ages of two and seven. She had the self-important look of someone coping with a major crisis. I grinned to myself. A baby was asleep in a basket in the corner. She looked up when I came in, and said hello, but her smile was for Paul. Was that an unnecessary complication or a help? I wondered.
“How’s it going?” I asked.
“Great. Whenever things get too hectic, Paul makes a quick trip to the Good Humor man. I’m just afraid they’ll catch on and squawk all the time.”
“Do you think you could leave them for a few minutes? I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
She looked at the group doubtfully. “Go ahead,” Paul said cheerfully. “I’ll fill in for you—you’ve been at it too long, anyway.”
She got up. One of the children, a little boy, protested. “You can’t go,” he said in a loud, bossy voice.
“Sure, she can,” Paul said, squatting easily in her place. “Now where were you?”
I took Jill into Lotty’s office. “Looks like you’re a natural,” I said. “Lotty will probably try to talk you into spending the rest of the summer down here.”