Catholic Home Bureau in Brooklyn. It’s an orphanage. I checked.”
“But they might let you look at them, right?”
Danny nodded slowly. “Yeah . . . they might. Or maybe not.”
Caleigh risked another bite of bruschetta. Finally, she said, “So, actually . . . you’re not really getting anywhere.”
Danny made a helpless gesture. “I’m getting a hundred bucks an hour—which is
some
kind of somewhere. I mean, when you think of it, the worst thing that could happen is—I solve the case. Right away. Then where would I be?”
An hour later, they were back in the apartment, high on each other’s company.
“And now, for a truly slammin’ dessert,” Caleigh promised, her blue eyes lighting up as she headed for the bedroom. Danny watched her go, her hips shifting in a liquid saunter.
It’s the wine,
he thought.
Two glasses and her inhibitions disappear.
The truth was, for someone as straitlaced as Caleigh, she had a libido that just wouldn’t quit. “In another century,” she’d once kidded him, “I would have been ‘tormented by the yearnings of my body.’ But that was then.”
And this,
Danny thought,
this is now
—as she leaned out through the doorway to the bedroom and threw him a look. “Don’t go ‘way.”
He wouldn’t. But while he was waiting, he jotted down a note on a Post-it and clapped it to the refrigerator door:
Call lawyer re estate.
Then he snuck in a quick call to an information broker in Daytona Beach, requesting an expedited list of Terio’s phone calls in the month before he died. “Not just the numbers,” Danny said. “Names, too.” He was reciting his Visa number and expiration date when Caleigh sashayed into the living room wearing a pair of see-through black harem pajamas.
“Whoa!” he exclaimed, sparking a laugh from Caleigh as he made a show of fumbling the phone as he tried to hang it up. “Can I get you something?”
“Like what?” Caleigh asked.
“I dunno. Me?”
In the morning, she was long gone by the time he came out of the shower.
Wrapping a towel around his waist, he made a cup of coffee, then telephoned Alfred Dunkirk, the lawyer handling Terio’s estate. Although Belzer hadn’t said anything about suing Terio’s estate, it seemed prudent to take a low profile with the late professor’s lawyer.
“I saw the story about Mr. Terio’s death,” Danny told him, “and the obituary in the
Post
.”
“Yes?”
“I was wondering about the house. . . .”
“Excuse me?” The lawyer seemed genuinely baffled.
“I was wondering when it might come up for sale.”
Dunkirk made no attempt to disguise his repugnance at Danny’s opportunism, but neither did he blow him off—not entirely. “Call Spencer Realty,” he suggested. “They’re handling it.”
And so he did. “Al Dunkirk said I should give you a call,” he told the Realtor. “He said you were handling the Terio property.”
“That’s right,” the woman replied. “We are.”
“Well, I’d be very interested in seeing it.”
“Oh, well . . . that’s
great
—although I should tell you, it’s a little premature. I won’t really have the listing until next week.”
“Oh.” Danny made his disappointment obvious.
And the real-estate agent rushed to reassure him. “Oh, I can show you the house!” she promised. “I just can’t sell it to you. Not yet! But if you’re really interested—we could look at it this morning.”
It didn’t seem like a good idea to arrive at Adele Slivinski’s office in the Bomber—it was a car that tended to make people skeptical of the driver. So he took a taxi. A forty-year-old with a helmet of stiff blond hair and a button nose that didn’t seem to go with the rest of her face, Adele was an ebullient woman with a white Mercedes and a vanity plate that read: HOMEY .
“I like your plates,” Danny remarked as they pulled away from the curb, heading toward Route 50 West.
“I wanted HOMES or even HOMZ , but they were taken. So I had
“But they might let you look at them, right?”
Danny nodded slowly. “Yeah . . . they might. Or maybe not.”
Caleigh risked another bite of bruschetta. Finally, she said, “So, actually . . . you’re not really getting anywhere.”
Danny made a helpless gesture. “I’m getting a hundred bucks an hour—which is
some
kind of somewhere. I mean, when you think of it, the worst thing that could happen is—I solve the case. Right away. Then where would I be?”
An hour later, they were back in the apartment, high on each other’s company.
“And now, for a truly slammin’ dessert,” Caleigh promised, her blue eyes lighting up as she headed for the bedroom. Danny watched her go, her hips shifting in a liquid saunter.
It’s the wine,
he thought.
Two glasses and her inhibitions disappear.
The truth was, for someone as straitlaced as Caleigh, she had a libido that just wouldn’t quit. “In another century,” she’d once kidded him, “I would have been ‘tormented by the yearnings of my body.’ But that was then.”
And this,
Danny thought,
this is now
—as she leaned out through the doorway to the bedroom and threw him a look. “Don’t go ‘way.”
He wouldn’t. But while he was waiting, he jotted down a note on a Post-it and clapped it to the refrigerator door:
Call lawyer re estate.
Then he snuck in a quick call to an information broker in Daytona Beach, requesting an expedited list of Terio’s phone calls in the month before he died. “Not just the numbers,” Danny said. “Names, too.” He was reciting his Visa number and expiration date when Caleigh sashayed into the living room wearing a pair of see-through black harem pajamas.
“Whoa!” he exclaimed, sparking a laugh from Caleigh as he made a show of fumbling the phone as he tried to hang it up. “Can I get you something?”
“Like what?” Caleigh asked.
“I dunno. Me?”
In the morning, she was long gone by the time he came out of the shower.
Wrapping a towel around his waist, he made a cup of coffee, then telephoned Alfred Dunkirk, the lawyer handling Terio’s estate. Although Belzer hadn’t said anything about suing Terio’s estate, it seemed prudent to take a low profile with the late professor’s lawyer.
“I saw the story about Mr. Terio’s death,” Danny told him, “and the obituary in the
Post
.”
“Yes?”
“I was wondering about the house. . . .”
“Excuse me?” The lawyer seemed genuinely baffled.
“I was wondering when it might come up for sale.”
Dunkirk made no attempt to disguise his repugnance at Danny’s opportunism, but neither did he blow him off—not entirely. “Call Spencer Realty,” he suggested. “They’re handling it.”
And so he did. “Al Dunkirk said I should give you a call,” he told the Realtor. “He said you were handling the Terio property.”
“That’s right,” the woman replied. “We are.”
“Well, I’d be very interested in seeing it.”
“Oh, well . . . that’s
great
—although I should tell you, it’s a little premature. I won’t really have the listing until next week.”
“Oh.” Danny made his disappointment obvious.
And the real-estate agent rushed to reassure him. “Oh, I can show you the house!” she promised. “I just can’t sell it to you. Not yet! But if you’re really interested—we could look at it this morning.”
It didn’t seem like a good idea to arrive at Adele Slivinski’s office in the Bomber—it was a car that tended to make people skeptical of the driver. So he took a taxi. A forty-year-old with a helmet of stiff blond hair and a button nose that didn’t seem to go with the rest of her face, Adele was an ebullient woman with a white Mercedes and a vanity plate that read: HOMEY .
“I like your plates,” Danny remarked as they pulled away from the curb, heading toward Route 50 West.
“I wanted HOMES or even HOMZ , but they were taken. So I had
Similar Books
