Scam

pardon?”
    “It appears someone was attempting to take advantage of your husband. As his heir, I’d think you’d want to find out why.”
    She blinked. Frowned. “You’re asking me to hire you?”
    “I’m asking you if you’d like me to complete my work.”
    She blinked again. “Thank you, no. Whatever my husband may have been involved in, I can’t see how it has anything to do with me. It disturbs me to think he was trying to pick up girls in bars. But as it is, I see no point in going into all that now.”
    “What if it was more sinister than that?”
    “How could it be?”
    I took a breath. “You’ll pardon me, but your husband is dead.”
    “Which is a matter for the police. I’m sure they’re capable of handling it.”
    What could I say to that? Tell her that might be true, if the officer in charge didn’t happen to be swayed by personal grudges? Somehow that seemed a little much to lay on a grieving widow.
    Only she wasn’t exactly grieving, this grieving widow. She wasn’t wearing black, and as I said, she looked damn good. It occurred to me, perhaps I should set my sights on her a few notches higher.
    Particularly if getting her to hire me was out.
    “Fine,” I said. “If you’d like to leave the investigation to the police, that’s perfectly understandable. There’s only one other small matter.”
    “Oh? And what is that?”
    “The work I’ve already done. The money your husband advanced me, I used up in expenses.”
    She shrugged her shoulders, spread her arms. “Again, I don’t see what that has to do with me.”
    “I would presume you were the executor of your husband’s estate.”
    “As to that, I wouldn’t know. I really can’t deal with it now. If you feel you have a claim against my husband’s estate, I suggest you put it in writing and I’ll forward it to his attorneys.”
    See what I mean about humiliating? I’d practically been reduced to groveling.
    Miriam Pritchert had stood up. I stood too and, cowed, allowed myself to be shown out the door.
    My car was right outside. What can I say? Some days you get lucky. I hadn’t gotten hired, but I had found a parking space in front of her building. I unlocked the car, got in, and switched off the code alarm.
    Just as a familiar face went in the front door.
    I slipped out of the car and gave chase. Surreptitiously, to be sure. I didn’t want to be spotted and recognized, either by the doorman or by the visitor. Just inside the door was a bank of mailboxes. I turned my back, pretended to inspect them. I was maybe twenty feet away from the reception desk, but I was still close enough to hear what was going on.
    The gentleman in question was indeed calling on Miriam Pritchert.
    I’m not good at putting names to faces, and I couldn’t do so now, but that didn’t matter. One thing I knew for sure.
    The young gentleman who had just called on the young, attractive, and none too grieving Miriam Pritchert was one of the two other vice-presidents from her husband’s firm.

29.
    H E TOOK HER OUT TO LUNCH. I know, because I tagged along. They ate at some trendy little restaurant in the East 60s where the drinks probably cost more than my average meal.
    I would have loved to have listened in, but it was not to be. The dining room was small and wide open. There was no way to get close to them without being seen.
    Oh, well, having a poor memory left me with other fish to fry. I walked down the block to a pay phone, took out my notebook, checked the number, and made a call.
    “Philip Greenberg Investments,” the receptionist said.
    “Marty Rothstein, please.”
    “I’m sorry. Mr. Rothstein is out to lunch. Could I take a message?”
    “How about Kevin Dunbar?”
    “One moment, please.”
    There was a ring and a click and a voice said, “Hello?”
    I hung up.
    And that was that. There were two vice-presidents, the tall, thin one and the short, stocky one with the mustache. Tall, thin Marty Rothstein was having lunch with Miriam Pritchert. Short, stocky Kevin Dunbar had answered the phone. The ace detective strikes again.
    I was just patting myself on the back when my beeper went off. It occurred to me it was just as well. While I would have liked to have stuck around and seen if Miriam Pritchert and her late husband’s rival had gone back to her place after lunch, no one was paying me for it. I could use some hours on the clock.
    I fished a quarter out of my pocket, called Rosenberg and Stone.
    Mary Mason absolutely