Ghost Hero by S. J. Rozan Page B

Listen, not to diss your detecting genius or anything, but the police already worked that out.”
    “Which must be why they think their ‘random’ theory’s reasonable. If you were at your desk, there’s no way anyone over here would’ve seen you.”
    Jack gave Bill another brief look, then glanced across at his own window. “Well. Damn. Do you think maybe they’re right, then?”
    “Not for a minute. I think it wasn’t real.”
    “A mass hallucination? Group hypnosis? No, wait, you mean it was me! A grab for attention? A cry for help?”
    “If it were you it would’ve been more theatrical.”
    “Well, thanks for that, anyway. Though how much more theatrical could it get?”
    “You weren’t supposed to get hurt. Just scared.”
    “A complete success, then! Can I ask who? Why?”
    “You can ask, but I can’t answer. Someone who wants you off the case.”
    Jack sighed. “Though it hurts my ego to say it, there are other people in New York who do what I do. Scare me off and my client would just hire one of them. Why not shoot at my client and scare him off? Then he’d fire me and run away, and we’d all be happy.”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Maybe,” I said, “we should ask him.”
    “Dr. Yang?” said Jack. “You want to go charging down to NYU and ask Dr. Bernard Yang why someone’s shooting at me?”
    “Yes.”
    “Well, I think that’s a damn good idea.” He took out his iPhone and poked a number. When he spoke it was obvious he was leaving a message. He clicked off and said, “Voice mail. He’s probably in class. I said to call me.”
    We headed up the street. Both Bill and Jack seemed to know exactly where we were making for. I could only assume it was one of their male-bonding taverns.
    “So,” Jack asked, “what did you guys do today? Tell me you haven’t been goofing off while someone tried to take me out.”
    “Hey,” said Bill. “We’ve been busting our accents working this case.”
    “Actually,” I said, “if you can hold off on that drink, when you called we were on our way to see someone.”
    Jack stopped. “You have a lead?”
    “We got it from our other lead.”
    “You have leads ? That you didn’t tell me about?”
    “We weren’t working together then.”
    He waited, then said, “Are you going to tell me now, or do I only get to know things that happen from now on?”
    “Sure,” I said. “We leaned on a kid at Baxter/Haig and he broke like a twig.”
    “Baxter/Haig? That repulsive little Nick something?”
    “You know him?”
    “He’s been there a long time. Haig’s a walking oil slick and he generally hires people from the same toxic gene pool. Baxter was better, but in the end he couldn’t stand Haig—”
    “No, really?”
    “—and he demanded to be bought out. Haig must have found someone else to finance him and now the place is all his.”
    “He had to be financed?” Bill asked. “You don’t think he bought Baxter out himself?”
    “Doug Haig only spends other people’s money. Count on it.” He looked Bill over again. “So Nick whatever, he was what the Russian gangster gag was for?”
    “Greenbank. Gangster and his art consultant.” Bill thumbed at me. “Worked, too. He gave up Shayna Dylan. A gallerina at Gruber. You know her?”
    “Nope. Must be new.”
    “She’s reputed to have photos of these Chaus on her cell phone. Nick doesn’t know where she took them.”
    “Gallerina?” I asked. “Is that really what they’re called?”
    Jack nodded, verifying.
    “Does that make Nick Greenbank a gallerino?”
    “No,” said Jack. “It makes him a yellow-bellied sapsucker, if he gave up his girlfriend.”
    “She’s not his girlfriend. According to him he hardly knows her.”
    “My judgment doesn’t change.”
    “Stubborn consistency in the face of facts,” said Bill. “I like it.”
    “We also talked to the monumentally revolting Doug Haig himself,” I said. “You should have heard Bill say ‘Gvai Yink