stayed with her old jeans and sandals and faded shirt. "I called Minnie," she explained, "and she's expecting me. Any black folks in that neighborhood don't look like Aunt Jemima are arrested for suspicion of burglary. You still got that old cop ID with the fake shield?"
I nodded. "Uh huh."
"Then you take the missus and I'll take Minnie."
We walked down to the street, and I was startled to see a new-looking Ford parked there behind ours. Brandy handed me the keys.
"You didn't charge this!"
She laughed. "Sure I did. At Avis. Looks a lot like the cars the detectives drive. You take the front and it; I'll take our car and the servants' entrance. We'll meet back at the Midway Diner and compare notes while we buy each other dinner."
Whitlock's place was a simple one-story brick rancher off a long driveway in Ardmore, one of the richer suburbs of Philadelphia. The fact is, the place didn't look all that big from the front, but if you started walking around you found out it went back a ways. Like maybe Pittsburgh.
There was only a single Mercedes wagon in the driveway, but even Little Jimmy could tell me that Whitlock's two-door sports Mercedes coupe was still parked in his marked space in the Tri-State lot downtown. I put on my glasses, which I normally use only for reading, and was just going to the door when I saw our two-tone Chevy come up and pull around to the side and Brandy get out and walk on back. I rang the bell and stood there awhile, wondering whether it was that nobody was home or only that with the housekeeper occupied, it was beneath the dignity of a Whitlock to open her own door.
It wasn't. I guess even blue bloods get caught in the John.
She was tall and very slender, with a conservative hairdo, with makeup even in the late afternoon with no place to go. "Yes?"
"Mrs. Whitlock? I'm Sam Horowitz, with the Department of the Treasury. Is your husband at home?"
"You know he isn't. Your people were here earlier today."
I harrumphed apologetically. "Well, there are two separate agencies involved in this, and I guess you understand the bureaucracy." She finally invited me in, and we had a pleasant if inconsequential talk. I did finally get to see a photo of him; a distinguished-looking man, much younger in appearance than his years would indicate, with short, peppery hair, light complexion, blue or gray eyes, clean shaven, no moustache, beard, or even sideburns, which look a bit out of date these days. I have bushy sideburns myself, but that was overcompensation for what was missing on top. I know what I look like with a beard, though, and forget it.
I didn't expect to ever get back here—or be able to, once the feds found out I was here at all—so I decided to play a chance card or two and see if I passed Go.
"Mrs. Whitlock, I know how hard this must be for you, but we have some evidence that your husband was involved with organized crime. Laundering drug money, to be precise. That's what this is all about, and why we think he left. We think he stole some mob money and skipped."
She was not completely surprised by this, but some of it was new. "Oh, my. They said something about the Mafia or something, but I find that hard to accept. Drug money, you say! He—he was on the Mayor's Council for Stamping Out Drug Abuse. He always hated drugs. Wouldn't permit a smoker in the house, and had to be ready for the hospital before he'd even take an aspirin."
"If that's true, then it makes even less sense," I told her honestly. "I mean, he had a nice family, money, position. . . . Why do it? He wasn't a thrill seeker, was he? Somebody who might do it just out of boredom?"
"Oh, my, no! He never even drove the speed limit in spite of his sports car!"
"Then they had something on him. Some kind of blackmail. Do you have any idea what they had that they could blackmail him with?"
"Certainly not! His life was an open book!" But I could tell by her eyes that she was hiding something.
There wasn't much more I could
I nodded. "Uh huh."
"Then you take the missus and I'll take Minnie."
We walked down to the street, and I was startled to see a new-looking Ford parked there behind ours. Brandy handed me the keys.
"You didn't charge this!"
She laughed. "Sure I did. At Avis. Looks a lot like the cars the detectives drive. You take the front and it; I'll take our car and the servants' entrance. We'll meet back at the Midway Diner and compare notes while we buy each other dinner."
Whitlock's place was a simple one-story brick rancher off a long driveway in Ardmore, one of the richer suburbs of Philadelphia. The fact is, the place didn't look all that big from the front, but if you started walking around you found out it went back a ways. Like maybe Pittsburgh.
There was only a single Mercedes wagon in the driveway, but even Little Jimmy could tell me that Whitlock's two-door sports Mercedes coupe was still parked in his marked space in the Tri-State lot downtown. I put on my glasses, which I normally use only for reading, and was just going to the door when I saw our two-tone Chevy come up and pull around to the side and Brandy get out and walk on back. I rang the bell and stood there awhile, wondering whether it was that nobody was home or only that with the housekeeper occupied, it was beneath the dignity of a Whitlock to open her own door.
It wasn't. I guess even blue bloods get caught in the John.
She was tall and very slender, with a conservative hairdo, with makeup even in the late afternoon with no place to go. "Yes?"
"Mrs. Whitlock? I'm Sam Horowitz, with the Department of the Treasury. Is your husband at home?"
"You know he isn't. Your people were here earlier today."
I harrumphed apologetically. "Well, there are two separate agencies involved in this, and I guess you understand the bureaucracy." She finally invited me in, and we had a pleasant if inconsequential talk. I did finally get to see a photo of him; a distinguished-looking man, much younger in appearance than his years would indicate, with short, peppery hair, light complexion, blue or gray eyes, clean shaven, no moustache, beard, or even sideburns, which look a bit out of date these days. I have bushy sideburns myself, but that was overcompensation for what was missing on top. I know what I look like with a beard, though, and forget it.
I didn't expect to ever get back here—or be able to, once the feds found out I was here at all—so I decided to play a chance card or two and see if I passed Go.
"Mrs. Whitlock, I know how hard this must be for you, but we have some evidence that your husband was involved with organized crime. Laundering drug money, to be precise. That's what this is all about, and why we think he left. We think he stole some mob money and skipped."
She was not completely surprised by this, but some of it was new. "Oh, my. They said something about the Mafia or something, but I find that hard to accept. Drug money, you say! He—he was on the Mayor's Council for Stamping Out Drug Abuse. He always hated drugs. Wouldn't permit a smoker in the house, and had to be ready for the hospital before he'd even take an aspirin."
"If that's true, then it makes even less sense," I told her honestly. "I mean, he had a nice family, money, position. . . . Why do it? He wasn't a thrill seeker, was he? Somebody who might do it just out of boredom?"
"Oh, my, no! He never even drove the speed limit in spite of his sports car!"
"Then they had something on him. Some kind of blackmail. Do you have any idea what they had that they could blackmail him with?"
"Certainly not! His life was an open book!" But I could tell by her eyes that she was hiding something.
There wasn't much more I could
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