Shadow of a Broken Man by George C. Chesbro

had a vision of a lot of flower cutters suddenly stopping work.
    "I'm sorry, sir." Her voice had aged; it was now professional, wary. "We have no Mr. Lippitt working for us. Perhaps you'd like to speak to Mr. Raines."
    "I doubt it. Mr. Lippitt was the man who took my order."
    "What order was that, sir? I don't believe you gave me your order number."
    I could feel the woman listening very closely. "The flowers were for Victor Rafferty," I said slowly. "I can't remember the order number. It was five years ago. The order may have been premature, and I'd like to discuss the whole matter with Mr. Lippitt."
    There was another silence. Then: "Isn't it a little late to be discussing a floral order that went out five years ago?" "No, missy, I don't think so. These flowers were for a funeral, but the man may still be alive." I paused for effect. "That's what I want you to tell Lippitt if he happens to drop by the shop."
    This time there wasn't any argument. The woman's voice was fast, sharp. "May I have your name and a number where you may be reached, sir?"
    I gave her the information and hung up just as Mike Foster pulled up to the curb in a late-model blue Oldsmobile.
    I slid in beside him. He checked the rearview mirror, then pulled out into the traffic and drove uptown toward Harlem. His face was set in a scowl. The muscles under the brown skin of his face and arms worked, and his hands were clenched on the wheel.
    His voice shook. "I thought I'd made it clear that this was a matter between you and me."
    "It could save a lot of time—"
    "I will not permit you to talk to my wife!" he said slamming his hand against the steering wheel. "Elizabeth is worse; I'm afraid she's going to have some kind of breakdown. Damn it, you agreed that you wouldn't talk to her!" He sucked in his stomach. "Now, if I didn't make it clear before—"
    "Stop the car, Foster."
    "Huh?"
    "Stop the car."
    Foster pulled the car back over to the curb. I opened the door and got out. When I looked back he seemed uncertain.
    "I don't like being bawled out before the fact," I said quietly. "In fact, I don't like being bawled out at all."
    "Uh, look, Frederickson—"
    "I took your money and you're entitled to what I found out, along with an opinion or two. First, Richard Patern did design the Nately. Museum, but he admits to getting the idea and inspiration from someone else. He says he doesn't know who, and I believe him. I don't believe the man who claims he saw Rafferty go into the furnace. By the way, did you know Rafferty was reported missing two days before he's supposed to have died?"
    "No," Foster said sheepishly. "Elizabeth?"
    "No. A very heavy government agency that doesn't mess with small fry. Also, the neurosurgeon who saved Rafferty's life was murdered a few days before Rafferty's supposed final accident. I think there's a connection."
    "You do?" Foster said weakly.
    "And I'll tell you something else: I think there's a good possibility that Victor Rafferty is alive, but the smart money says to forget it. That's up to you. Goodbye."
    I slammed the car door shut and started hoofing it back down Eighth Avenue. There was a squeal of tires as Foster's car backed past me and screeched to a halt beside a fire hydrant. Foster got out and hurried up to me.
    "Frederickson," he said, breathing hard. "Just hang on a minute. Please."
    I stopped. A cop appeared from the shadows of a storefront and began writing out a ticket. Foster ignored him.
    "I... I don't know what to say," Foster continued. "You're telling me Rafferty may be alive?"
    "In my opinion, it's a reasonable possibility."
    "Do ... you think Elizabeth knows for sure?" His voice cracked.
    "Maybe. We won't know until we talk to her, Mike. It all comes back to that." We were standing in the middle of the sidewalk being jostled by people going in both directions, but Foster didn't seem inclined to move.
    "Look, I'm sorry about the way I came on back in the car. I am really worried about Elizabeth. It's