Hope to Die

Scudder's nowhere to be seen.

And, he realizes, no one to be feared. Oh, he's involved in this, the son of a bitch. And now he knows why he looked familiar, and where he saw him before. In Brooklyn, on Coney Island Avenue, when he drove past the house where it had all started. He'd been driving along, and he'd seen two men emerge from the house, two men who didn't look right for the neighborhood. The younger man wore a Hawaiian shirt and looked like a cop, and the older man, Scudder, looked like the landlord or someone who worked for the city.

Now he knows his name and where he lives, and that's all he knows about the man. But whenever you turned around, he turned up. Was it time to do something about him?

Just now, if he'd had a gun, he could have dropped him in his tracks and kept walking. Or a knife, a sharpened hunting knife in a leather sheath on his belt, and he'd draw it in a single motion and thrust forward in another, swift and silent.

Where could you buy a hunting knife? In the rest of the country, certainly, but in New York?

Well, it will wait. He has a castle's walls to breach, a maiden to rescue.

He mounts the steps, rings the bell. If she's not answering the door these days, well, he'll do as he told Peter to do. He'll keep ringing the bell, and he'll talk to her through the door, as if the door's not there.

And, whatever her intentions, she'll open it.

His finger moves to the bell, and he's just about to give it another poke when the door opens. And there's a giant of a man planted in the doorway, filling the doorway, glowering at him. Christ, will you look at him- unforgiving green eyes in a face like a chunk of granite. He looks as though bullets would bounce right off him.

"What do you want?"

A rough voice- no surprise there- with a trace of brogue.

He can't think what to say.

"What are ye, then, some fucking reporter?"

He hesitates, nods.

"Then you're not wanted here, so why don't you fuck off?"

The door closes in his face. He scampers down the stairs, turns right, heads toward the park. At the corner he drops his white string-wrapped pastry box in a trash can.

THIRTY-SIX

I said, "Here we are. Adam Breit," and spelled it. I'd been looking for Bright, as in bright as day, because no one had told me how he spelled it, and why would they? Neither Kristin nor Helen Watling had seen the name written down.

I was in T J's hotel room, where we were going through the phone books, I the White Pages and he the Yellow. I'd had no luck in the residential section, but I'd found a business listing for Breit, Adam, with a 255-number and no address.

I dialed the number, and a recorded voice told me it was no longer in service.

I called information, and did what you had to do to talk to a living human being. I'd have done as well with a recording. I identified myself as a police officer, invented a name and a shield number to go with it, and told her I needed an unpublished address. I gave her the name and phone number, and she put me briefly on hold and came back with the news that the number was no longer in service.

I said I knew that, but that I needed to know the address where it had been in service, once upon a time. She said she didn't have that information. I asked if there was a new listing for that name, Adam Breit, published or unpublished, and she checked and told me there wasn't.

I hung up, and T J said, "Ain't that a crime, Sime? Sayin' you a cop when you ain't?"

"It is," I agreed, "and by using criminal methods I'm revealing myself as no better than Adam Breit."

"Adam Breit, Arden Brill," he said. "Subtle pattern here?"

"Maybe. If we could find him we could ask him."

"You want to make some more calls," he said, "use this." He handed me his cell phone and did something with his computer, and it made that weird sound they make when they hook up somewhere in space with all the other computers in the world. Then a friendly voice told him he had mail, and he said, "Yeah, well, it'll have to wait," and set about tapping keys and frowning and making nerdlike clucking noises with his tongue.

I picked up a Classic Comic version of A Tale of Two Cities- required reading for his French Revolution course, no doubt- and was getting reintroduced to Madame Defarge and her knitting needles when he said, "Seven twenty-four Broadway."

"What about it?"

"Goes with that phone number."

"What have you got there, a reverse directory?"

"Sort of an everything directory," he said. "An' I didn't have to lie to no operator."

"She said he had an office on Broadway," I remembered. "Down below Fourteenth Street. That sounds about right."

"Just a minute," he said, and came back with the information that 724 Broadway would be somewhere around Waverly Place. I asked if he could find anybody else at the same address, and he wanted to know who we were looking for. Anybody who might know where Adam Breit had gone, I told him.

I wound up with a dozen phone numbers. Five went unanswered when I called, and the others were about as useful; four of the people I reached had never heard of Adam Breit, two recalled the name vaguely, and one said he'd moved, but couldn't say when or where to.

I said, "You're near Waverly Place, right?"

"Between Waverly and Washington," he said, "but I'm on my way out, pal, so there's no point coming over."

"That's all right," I said. "I've got no further use for you."

"Well, the hell with you too," he said, and hung up.

T J had some other ideas of how to find Breit, so he stayed at his computer while I caught a subway downtown. I came up to the surface at Broadway and Astor Place and walked a block and a half to a narrow building with a cast-iron front. Most of its eight stories of commercial loft space had been turned into residential units. All the mailboxes had names on them, and Breit was not among them, but that was no surprise.

A sign directed me two doors south to the super, and I managed to find him in the basement, a light-ski

"It would be very helpful if he left a forwarding address," I said.

"Oh," he said, "that would be helpful for everyone, wouldn't it? When he left here Mr. Breit had the better part of two years to go on his lease, and he was a full three months behind in his rent. The landlord would be very happy to know where he is, and so would Mr. Edison and Mrs. Bell."

"Mr. Edison and- "

"Mr. Conrad Edison," he said, enjoying himself, "and Mrs. Alexander Graham Bell, best known as Ma. He didn't pay the light bill or the phone bill."

"When did he move out?"

"Now there's a question. It seems to me it was sometime after the first of the year when his absence became evident, but as to when he quit the premises, I don't really know. The landlord was after him about the rent, and finally brought a locksmith over to open the door, and it was Old Mother Hubbard all over again."

"How's that?"

"When she got there, the cupboard was bare. He took his clothes, left his furniture, and lit out for the Territories."

"Just like Old Mother Hubbard."

"Exactly."

"Furniture worth anything?"

"He owed money on it, and it must have been worth something, because the firm that sold it to him sent people to fetch it back. What's your business with him, if I may be so bold?"

"That's a good question," I said. "Speaking of business, was he ru

"Speaking of business," he said, "I was busy minding my own, so I'd be hard put to say. He lived here, and people came to see him during business hours, and during nonbusiness hours as well, but who's to say what a man's hours of business may be?"