Shivers (15 page)

He had been going to call Andrea’s cousin before he went to see him, but then decided against it. He didn’t want his first contact with the man—someone who might very well become responsible for his brother’s welfare—to be so remote and impersonal. He changed from pajamas into a fresh white shirt and some new slacks he had only worn once. He wanted to feel as if he was starting out on a brand-new day, with new fortitude, new hope on the horizon. He was deliberately not thinking about Andrea and her “business associate,” Donald. Time enough for that later.

He shaved and splashed on some rarely used aftershave, hoping it would help revive his deadened senses. He combed his hair; he’d need a haircut soon. He checked the thermometer outside his bedroom window and put on a warm, but light, winter jacket. He checked the address on the card he’d received from Andrea, and left the apartment. It was 8:55.

He hated rush hour subway traffic. Too many desperate people rushing to jobs they’d just as soon quit if they didn’t need money for food and rent and entertainment. Steven wished he was self-employed. If only he could have afforded to drop the editor’s job and concentrate solely on his free-lance efforts. Editing superficial pieces on New York nightlife, forgettable celebrities, and Broadway shows which might interest the visitor to Manhattan was becoming less and less of a thrill. He managed to get a taxi quickly, and told the driver where to go.

Fifteen minutes later the cab pulled up in front of a large office complex on the Avenue of the Americas in the Fifties. An impressive place for anyone to have their headquarters. He was relieved; he had been afraid that Andrea might have been giving dear cousin Ralph too big a buildup. Steven paid the driver, gave him a healthy tip, and walked into the lobby of the building. He headed for the elevator bank.

As the car rose to the nineteenth floor, Steven tried to swallow his apprehension. The last thing he wanted today was a shove-off; another creep telling him that his brother was simply off somewhere gallivanting with person or persons unknown. He wanted to be taken seriously. He wanted someone—someone with authority—to
care.

The door to Room 1905 was a big, wooden affair with two sections. Opening it, he stepped into a small receiving area. The receptionist, a young woman with curly black hair and blue mascara, sat behind a small oval window to his right. “I’d like to see Ralph Andrews,” he said.

“Do you have an appointment?” she asked.

“No. I didn’t think I’d need one. Mr. Andrews’ cousin spoke to him about my . . . situation yesterday on the telephone. I think he may be expecting me.” He gave the lady his name.

She looked annoyed. “Just a minute, please.” She lifted up the phone and “punched” a number with her pencil.

“Hello, Mr. Andrews? There’s a gentleman here . . .” While she relayed the information, she traced the spaces between the buttons on her phone with the pencil’s eraser. She looked up again. “You can see him now. Go through the door straight ahead, turn to the right, and walk down until you come to the third door. That’s Mr. Andrews’ office.”

“Thank you.” He followed her instructions. The main room behind the inner door was a large waiting area with couches and tables full of magazines. There were three desks at the far end, where secretaries were typing reports and filing papers. Behind them were three small offices. Steven caught only glimpses of the people inside them, talking on the phone or reading documents. He walked to the right, down a hall, counting the doors as he went. The third door was open. Though a large enough room, it was not enormous. Apparently Ralph Andrews was modest.

Sitting behind the desk, flipping through a magazine, was a brawny, pleasant-looking fellow around forty-five years of age. A rugged individual, he had broad shoulders and big hands. His hair was dark, cut short and parted on the side. His features weren’t what you would call handsome, though he might have been quite good-looking in his youth. He was toughness merged with innocence, hardness softened by vulnerability. He had the look of a man who had fought hard to get what he wanted, yet someone who could be easily hurt and who cried at sad movies on the Late Show. His ruddy complexion was somewhat darkened by the thick stubble on his face, which gave him a permanent five-o’clock shadow.

The big man rose and grabbed Steven’s hand in a firm but non-threatening grip. There was no macho challenge there, but a warmth and strength that Steven found appealing. He saw none of the weary detachment that characterized the police officers he’d had occasion to speak to over the years. Even Detective Albright different as he was, had that same air about him. But not Ralph Andrews.

“So you’re Andrea’s friend?” he said.

“Uh, yes. Nice to meet you.”

“Same here.” He motioned Steven toward the chair next to the desk. “Have a seat, Mr—?”

“Everson. Steven Everson.”

Andrews snapped his fingers. “Everson, that’s right. Well, Mr. Everson, why don’t you start from the beginning.”

So he did. He mentioned every little detail. The park, jogging. Vivian Jessup’s theory, her horrible death. His talks with Detective Albright. Everything. When he was finished, he was relieved to see that Ralph seemed confident in taking on the challenge.

“First of all, Mr. Everson—can I call you Steve?”

“Sure.”

“Steve, we’d all like to think that we know everything there is to know about those that we love. But, of course, that isn’t always the case. We often dig up truths that are hard to take, hard to understand. Last month a very distraught young woman came in—wanted us to find her husband. She was almost convinced he was dead. We found him, all right. New name, new city, new brunette. I think his wife would rather we had found him dead than have to face what she must have considered an impossible truth. All that I’m saying is that all of our clients must be ready to
accept
whatever facts we uncover, no matter how bizarre, how out of character, how impossible.”

“I understand. I’m willing to admit that I don’t know each and every thought that may be in my brother’s head. Then you think Mrs. Jessup may have been right? That Joey’s a— what do they call people who drown themselves —a ‘floater’?”

“If he did drown himself, his body’ll turn up eventually. But no, that’s not what I meant. If anything, I was implying that your brother may very well be alive somewhere, keeping to himself for his own reasons. That might hurt. It always does. But it just might be the case. Let us do the legwork and I’ll give you daily reports. I’ll also check with your Detective Albright. Actually, it seems he’s given you more time than usual. Funny.”

“Must be my sad face.”

Ralph chuckled. “Yeah.”

“How are you going to go about this, if I might ask?”

“We take the police basics several steps further. I’m going to retrace your brother’s steps, but more thoroughly. I’ll also look into this Jessup woman’s background. And then we track down every peripheral clue, no matter how minute, how seemingly irrelevant. It usually pays off. But it takes time.”

“I understand.”

“Meanwhile I want you to exercise your memory and try to write me up a list—day by day, as detailed as possible—of everything your brother did after he moved to New York. And maybe before that. And I mean everything. Everyone he spoke to and saw. Where he hung out. Where his” one-night stands were. Any women besides Jessup.

“Where exactly did he go on interviews? Which firms? Which people did he speak to? Something might turn up. Maybe he saw something he shouldn’t have.”

Steven rubbed his forehead. “Pretty tall order.” He didn’t even remember what Joey had majored in in college. Had he paid so little attention to the boy?

“I know it’s a tall order. But you want your brother back, right? The sooner I have all the information, the better. Whatever you forget now and remember later, I want you to write down and bring to me or my assistant’s attention as soon as possible.”

“Joey was with me for a couple of months. I don’t know if I can recall all of his activities, but I’ll try.”

For the next hour Ralph took notes and Steven talked. By the time they had exhausted Steven’s memory, Ralph had filled several pages in a small white pad. Ralph leaned back in his chair and said, “Well, this is enough for starters. By the way, she’s not in this morning, but my assistant on this case will be Valerie Horton. Remember the name. She’ll be in touch with you when I’m doing legwork. Or vice versa. One of us will keep you informed of everything.”

They spent the next few minutes discussing payment of the daily fees and other expenses. Steven would definitely have to cancel his proposed trip to Europe in the summer. He was awfully glad he had that savings account.

Steven got up, shook Ralph’s hand once more, and stepped out into the corridor. He walked past the big room with the secretaries and the offices behind them, busy, busy, busy. His brother’s life was in their hands. Now he would go home and hope that he had paid enough attention to Joey’s activities over the past few weeks to accurately record them.

Somewhere, somehow, he would find out what had happened.

Even if it killed him.

Johnny Albright hung up the phone and settled back in his padded green chair, the wheels propelling him slightly back toward the radiator behind him. He felt its heat and pushed himself closer to the desk. So, his Mr. Everson had hired a private detective. He was glad. Real glad. That was the only way any of these characters were ever going to be found. The only way. His workload was enormous. File after file was lying in one corner of his desk.

Why had he spent so much time mulling over the Everson case? Was it that the small, smiling picture of Joseph Philip Everson looked like what his little boy might look like in about fifteen years? That strong, handsome, but somehow sad and haunting face. Like his brother’s face, only different, more hopeful and more tragic. What a shame to die so young. And he
was
dead. They all were. He was sure of it.

Knowing that, why had he taken such a personal interest in something that he knew would go nowhere? Every day he had his share of distraught relatives, angry husbands, and griefstricken parents. So why bother with Everson? Perhaps because he sensed that, unlike those neurotic relatives, disheveled husbands, shrewish wives, Steven Everson had not
driven
his brother away. Steven Everson was genuinely concerned for his brother’s welfare, not worried over what people might think because, say, his child or his wife had left him. Was that it?

Every time he thought about it he got a headache. Or he got chills. Something kept nagging in the back of his mind, but he’d be damned if he could remember what it was.

Anything was better than the “nonchalants,” as he called them, the people who came in calmly and dispassionately to report a missing person—two weeks after the fact—usually because the one who’d vanished owed them money. Those were the worst, he thought. The ones who didn’t really care.

But it was this new wrinkle that bothered him the most. The increasing number of reports. The diminishing success rate. The number of MPs had always been incredible—the city’s population was enormous, after all—but now it was really getting out of hand. It was enough to make you think some kind of mad conspiracy was going on. But who was it directed against? Everyone? Ah, his wife was right. He was exaggerating.

What
was
it that he couldn’t remember?

Yes, he was glad that Everson had hired himself a private dick. Maybe he’d find something out. Maybe Everson could deal with the truth. Maybe he’d
rather
be called in to identify his brother’s body than spend the rest of his life wondering where Joey had gone.

Sure
he would.

Albright suddenly felt like calling his wife. On the third ring, knowing she always picked up by the fourth, he started to regret it. What did they have to say to one another anymore? Still, he needed comforting. Maybe she could help.

There was no answer.

When Steven got home, a strange woman was sitting on the outside steps of his brownstone. Her face was pale and puffy, and she had
suitcases
under her eyes. She wore a big, silly-looking hat which covered most of her hair. Judging from the strands of hair that struck out from underneath it, Steven assumed she was a peroxide blonde. It was hard to figure her age; pushing sixty perhaps. She looked so sad and lonely Steven had to look away from her pathetic face and quickly turn the key in the entrance lock. He could still feel her eyes upon him.

He stepped inside and went over to his own door. Suddenly he heard a rapping on the glass of the foyer. It was her, banging frantically on the pane. Against his better judgment, he opened the door and let her in.

“Do you live here?” she said, pointing to his apartment. “l-A?”

She must have read the number from the outside looking in. “Yes, I do.”

“You’re Steven Everson?”

“Yes. Can I help you?”

“I have to talk to you. Please, can I come in?”

He was wary, but she looked harmless enough. Ordinarily, he would have suspected a setup—thieves were very ingenious these days. But with his brother gone it was wise to talk to anyone who might have information. He took her into his apartment.

Lina Hobler looked around nervously, rubbing her hands together, seemingly afraid of everything around her. Steven saw that she was limping. She made her way to the sofa in the living room and collapsed onto the cushion. She looked and acted as if she hadn’t slept for days.

“A man gave me this,” she said, taking a slip of paper from her handbag.

“What is it?” He grabbed it and saw that his own name and address were written on it.

“
Who
gave you this?”

“A man named George. He said I should contact you and ask you to meet him. Tonight. He said he was afraid to come here on his own.”

“And who are you?”

Lina was so upset that she dropped her usual pretense and didn’t bother making up a name.

“Lina Hobler,” she said.