Separate Cases

  Books by Robert J. Randisi

  Nick Delvecchio Novels

  The End of Brooklyn *

  The Dead of Brooklyn

  No Exit from Brooklyn

  Miles Jacoby Novels

  Eye in the Ring *

  Beaten to a Pulp *

  Full Contact *

  Separate Cases *

  Hard Look *

  Stand-Up *

  Other Novels

  The Bottom of Every Bottle *

  Hey There (You with the Gun in Your Hand)

  Luck Be a Lady, Don’t Die

  Everybody Kills Somebody Sometime

  Alone With the Dead

  Arch Angels

  East of the Arch

  Blood on the Arch

  In the Shadow of the Arch

  Short Stories

  The Guilt Edge *

  Anthologies (Editor)

  The Shamus Winner Volume I (1982-1995) *

  The Shamus Winners Volume II (1996-2009) *

  *Published by Perfect Crime Books

  SEPARATE CASES. Copyright © 2012, 1990 by Robert J. Randisi. Afterword Copyright © 2012 by Robert J. Randisi. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored by any means without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address Crime@PerfectCrimeBooks.com.

  Perfect Crime BooksTM is a registered Trademark.

  Cover by Christopher Mills.

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, entities and institutions are products of the Author’s imagination and do not refer to actual persons, entities, or institutions.

  Perfect Crime Books Trade Paperback Edition

  July 2012

  Kindle Edition July 2012

  This one is for Bill Pronzini

  Because he's had a lot of things coming for a long time

  and this is just one of them.

  Prologue

  “. . . And so it is your expert opinion, Mr. Jacoby, that Mr. Maxwell, as a licensed private investigator, could have acted in no other way?” Heck Delgado asked.

  “Yes,” I said. I mean that was my job, after all, to testify as an expert witness for Maxwell. That was the reason Heck had asked me to appear in court.

  “Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Jacoby.” Heck turned to the District Attorney and said, “Your witness.” That’s when I got nervous.

  I had never served as an expert witness before, not in my three years as a P.I., so it was only natural that I’d be nervous. At least, that was what Heck had told me. That and to try not to be nervous.

  Fat chance.

  The DA.’s name was Richard Hilary—“Dirty Dicky” to his enemies—and he was not known for his easygoing manner. I’d checked his record when I found out he’d be cross-examining me. At fifty-one, Hilary was known as an ambitious ladder climber, and you didn’t climb his kind of ladder by stepping around people—you did it by stepping on them. He was supposed to be very good at it.

  He approached me, looking for all the world like he thought I was the next rung. Hell, he was even rubbing his palms together in anticipation.

  “Mr. Jacoby, you are a licensed private investigator, is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you tell the court where your office is?”

  I squirmed.

  “Uh, I don’t have an office.”

  “You don’t have an office?” he repeated loudly.

  “No.”

  “How do you meet clients, then?”

  “Usually they call me and we arrange a meeting place.”

  “Call you where? At home?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “If not at home, then where?”

  “Uh, I sometimes get calls at a restaurant I frequent.”

  “What restaurant?”

  “Bogie’s.”

  “Bogie’s?” he asked, frowning. “Isn’t Bogie’s a bar?”

  “It has a bar, yes, but it’s not—”

  “I see,” he said, smoothly cutting me off. “Mr. Jacoby, tell me, why do you not have an office?”

  I squirmed again and looked at Heck. His face was expressionless. I tried to do the same with mine, but I could feel the perspiration on my forehead.

  “I can’t afford it.”

  “You can’t afford it?” He repeated it loudly, as if the jury was hard of hearing.

  “That’s right.”

  “I see.” He paced a bit, as if he had to think of another question, but I knew he had all of these questions set in his mind.

  “Mr. Jacoby, were you ever a policeman?”

  “No.”

  “Have you ever been a law enforcement agent of any kind?”

  “No.”

  Dicky Hilary turned to the jury so they’d be able to see the puzzled look on his face.

  “No?”

  I chose not to repeat myself and just waited.

  “Have you ever taken any kind of law enforcement course?”

  “No.”

  “You have never attended, say, John Jay College of Criminal Justice?”

  “No, I have not.”

  “Have you ever taken a home study course in law enforcement?”

  “No.”

  Some of the jury members found that amusing and Dicky Hilary put a smile on his handsome face to show that he was one of them, and agreed with them.

  “Mr. Jacoby, perhaps you will tell the court just what experience you have had in law enforcement?”

  “I’ve had none.”

  “None,” Hilary repeated, frowning. “I find that odd. Aren’t many private investigators ex-policemen?”

  “It’s not a prerequisite for a license.”

  “Nevertheless, many of the men in your business have been policemen.”

  “I suppose.”

  “Would you tell the court—and the members of the jury—just what your profession was before you obtained your private investigator’s license?”

  This would go over like a lead balloon. I looked at Heck, but he was unable to do more than just look back. I was on my own.

  “I was a fighter.”

  “A fighter? Er, what kind of fighter?”

  “A prize fighter.”

  “Ah,” Hilary said, as if he had just gotten it, “you were a professional boxer.”

  “I was.”

  “How many fights did you have?”

  “Fifteen.”

  “Would you consider yourself a successful boxer, Mr. Jacoby.”

  “I won more fights than I lost.”

  Hilary chuckled and looked at the jury as he continued.

  “So did the Mets last season, Mr. Jacoby, but that did not mean they had a successful season. In fact, most people considered them to be losers.”

  “I object,” Heck said at that point. “Mr. Hilary is badgering the witness. I also object to this entire line of questioning. What Mr. Jacoby did before he became a private investigator is of no importance in this case.”

  “No?” Hilary asked. “Your Honor, I’m laying the foundation to challenge Mr. Jacoby’s appearance here as a so-called ‘expert witness.’ I beg the court’s indulgence for just a moment longer.”

  “Objection overruled,” the judge said to Heck. He looked at Hilary and said, “You may proceed, Mr. Hilary.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor.”

  Yeah, thanks loads.

  “Now, Mr. Jacoby, what was your won and lost record as a fighter?”

  “I was twelve and three.”

  “That is, twelve wins and three losses?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “And how did you fare in your very last fight?”

  “I lost.”

  “Well,
how unfortunate. How did you lose?”

  I pinned him with a hard glare that he ignored and said, “I was knocked out.”

  “Oh dear,” Hilary said, showing the jury his best look of dismay. “And after having been knocked unconscious in that fight,” Dicky Hilary continued, facing the jury, “you picked yourself up from the canvas and decided to become a private investigator.” He turned dramatically to face me and said, “Isn’t that correct?”

  “It wasn’t like—”

  “No further questions, Your Honor.”

  “Redirect, Mr. Delgado?”

  Well, sure, Heck stood up and allowed me to explain that I had worked for Eddie Waters for three years, acquiring the necessary experience for my P.I. ticket, and that getting knocked out in my last fight had absolutely nothing to do with my decision to change professions, but by that time the damage was done.

  Ol’ Dicky Hilary had moved himself up one more rung on the ladder.

  1

  I sighted down the barrel at the silhouetted head of the figure in front of me and squeezed off three shots very deliberately. One shot took the figure between the eyes, and the other two went successively higher—one in the forehead and then a clean miss.

  I put my next three shots in the figure’s torso—heart, mid-chest, and belly, as aimed.

  “You do a lot better when you’re not trying to be fancy and hit the head, Mr. Jacoby,” instructor Dan Turner said.

  He was standing behind me and I turned to look at him as I ejected the six spent shells from my .38.

  “Miles,” I said for the hundredth time, “or Jack, or just plain Jacoby. Stop calling me Mr. Jacoby, Dan.”

  Turner was younger than me by only about five years, which, I guess, is why I objected to being called “Mister.” If anything it should have worked the other way, since he was my instructor. A sharpshooter in the army, he was now one of the head instructors at the Chelsea Gun Club, located on Twenty-fifth Street and Eighth Avenue. For a twenty-five-year-old single guy, he was doing all right.

  “Try putting six in the chest, Mis—Jack,” he said. “That’s what’s going to stop the man for you. I’ve seen slugs—even thirty-eights and larger—just glance off a man’s skull, which would leave him free to kill you.”

  “All right, Dan.”

  It had been three years now since the death of Eddie Waters—my mentor in the business, and much more—and the same period of time since I’d received my P.I. license. I’d had some interesting cases during that time. I’d learned quite a lot—and one of the things I’d learned was that once in a while you’ve got to carry a gun, and if you’re going to carry a gun, you better damn well know how to use it. Point and shoot had been enough so far, but of late I’d decided to really learn how to use the damned thing—which I hated— and as a result of that I was in my second month as a member of the Chelsea Gun Club.

  I sighted down the barrel and squeezed six times. You’d have needed a frisbee to cover the holes.

  “Try to group them tighter, Jack,” Dan said, and went on to his next student, a pudgy shopkeeper named Mr. Andros who was tired of being robbed.

  Sure, I thought, ejecting the empties and reloading, easy for you to say.

  I wasn’t really a good student, which was part of the problem. My mind tended to wander while I was at the range, invariably to whatever case I was working on at the moment.

  Normally, if I have one case I’m happy, because I’m eating. This was a rare time for me because I actually had two cases to work on, and they were stretching me beyond my limits.

  Which was why I was at the range for an unscheduled session. I had to go someplace to think.

  Earlier that day I was in Bogie’s, a Manhattan restaurant on Twenty-sixth Street between Seventh and Eighth Avenues. It caters to a mystery crowd—that is, people who read, write, and publish mystery novels. They even have signed photos and book covers framed and hanging on the walls. Bogie’s has become a home away from home for local and out-of-town writers. The owners, Billy and Karen Palmer, are friends of mine, and tolerate me hanging around there and using their phone.

  I was sitting at the bar doing just that, waiting for a call from a street source named Binky. He was supposed to tell me where a hooker known as Two-John was holed up. Two-John was a hooker with a specialty; handling two johns at one time. Her real name was Jenny Wheeler. Heck Delgado—the attorney for whom I’d testified as an expert witness—had hired me to find her because he needed her to testify on behalf of one of his clients.

  “Well, well,” Stuart the bartender said as he set another bottle of St. Pauli Girl in front of me.

  I looked at him and saw that he was looking at the front door. I looked that way and saw a woman coming in. She had long, graceful legs and dark brown hair that fell to her shoulders. She was fairly tall—five seven or eight. A very good-looking lady, but a little old to be from the Fashion Institute around the corner—unless she was an instructor. Maybe she was from CBS down the block.

  “That’s class,” Stuart said.

  “I thought you liked young bunnies,” I said.

  He frowned at me and said, “I am a class man all the way, Jack.”

  “I see,” I said, sucking on the Pauli.

  “Of course,” he added, “if a young bunny with class happens to walk in . . .”

  The class lady who was there now came walking down the bar and Stuart moved to meet her.

  “Can I help you, Miss?” he asked. Suddenly, his Australian accent had gotten a bit thicker. I wondered if he used it on the ladies.

  “My name is Caroline McWilliams,” she said. “I’m looking for Miles Jacoby.”

  Stuart looked at me, not wanting to give me away if I didn’t want to be given.

  “I’m Jacoby.”

  Suddenly, she ignored Stuart—which not a lot of women do, because Stuart’s a pretty good-looking guy. He’s about my height, but several years younger, and a few pounds trimmer, with blond hair and regular features. Stuart was not really a bartender at Bogie’s; he was the manager filling in behind the bar.

  Stuart usually made out pretty well with the ladies, but this particular lady only had eyes for me at the moment. I didn’t let it go to my head.

  “May I talk with you for a few minutes?” she asked.

  “Sure.”

  “Privately?”

  I looked at Stuart and said, “I’ll be in my office,” indicating the dining room and slid off the bar stool.

  2

  After we sat down at a table, I asked, “Would you like a drink?”

  “Is that any good?” she asked, indicating the Pauli Girl in my hand.

  “If you like beer.”

  “I’ll have one, please.”

  I made motions to Stuart to bring two Paulies to the table.

  “What can I do to help you?”

  She opened her purse and took out her wallet. From that she took a photostat much like the one I had in my wallet. I studied it and gave it back.

  “So you’re a lady P.I., huh?”

  “There are such things, you know,” she said, putting the photostat back in her wallet.

  “Wait a minute,” I said as bells started ringing in my head.

  “McWilliams, McWilliams,” I repeated. “Are you related to Andy McWilliams?”

  She hesitated for a moment, then said, “I was his wife.”

  She used the past tense for a good reason. Andy McWilliams had been dead, if I remembered correctly, for about five months.

  McWilliams had been a private investigator whose cases always made the papers—until somebody made the papers by killing him. The police attributed his murder to the Backshooter, a random, Son of Sam type killer who had been roaming the streets of New York’s boroughs at night for about seven months.

  “You’ve taken over the business?”

  She nodded, and I refrained from mentioning that this gave us something in common, since I had taken over Eddie Waters’s business after he was killed. r />
  “I had to do something,” she said. “I was going crazy. Andy made me apply for a license once as a joke. I never used it until after he was killed. I was like a zombie that first month, but four months ago I reactivated the agency. The first case I took was Andy’s.”

  “To find out who killed him.”

  “Yes. I’m still working on it.”

  “You don’t believe that it was the Backshooter?”

  She shook her head.

  “I think he was shot in the back to make it look like another Backshooter killing.”

  “I see. And what makes you think that?”

  She stared at me a moment, then shrugged.

  “Intuition, I guess.”

  “I see.”

  “Andy was jumpy the last few weeks before his death,” she said. “Andy was never nervous about anything, Mr. Jacoby.”

  “Did he mention anything to you about what was making him jumpy?”

  ‘No, he never discussed his business with me, unless it was necessary.”

  “I guess he didn’t feel whatever it was he was jumpy about was necessary for you to know.”

  “Maybe he didn’t want me to worry,” she said, “but I did, nevertheless.”

  “Didn’t you ever ask him about it?”

  “No . . . I never asked Andy questions.”

  The ideal wife, I thought.

  “I’ve worked on other cases as well, but whenever something comes up that I feel might lead me to Andy’s killer, off I go again.”

  “Is that what brought you here? Another lead?”

  “No,” she said. “Frankly, Mr. Jacoby, I really don’t think I can do it alone anymore. I’d like you to help me find Andy’s killer.”

  “I see.”

  “You knew my husband.”

  “Not really.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Well, we worked on a case at the same time once. Not together, but at the same time. Needless to say, he solved it before I did. He was a brilliant investigator.”