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Loomis told me. “Said he didn’t want you riding him all day for them, so he figured…”
    I didn’t care about details. “Does he have any pictures of the dead girl’s face yet?”
    “Don’t know, but I can find out easy enough. What’s the rush? Say, where the hell are you, anyhow?”
    “I’ll tell you later,” I said. “Just get that picture from Frank as soon as it’s ready. Then get an address on a guy by the name of Silas Van Dorn.”
    I heard him writing it down. “The name in the registry?”
    “The same. I found out he’s an old blue-blood after all. And get this: he croaked yesterday morning, out in the Hamptons.” I could hear a smile in Loomis’ voice. “Guess he didn’t rent that room after all.”
    “Nice work, detective,” I said. “I need you to see if the family’s got a place here in the city, too. See what you can get on Silas while you’re at it. When you get all that, call me back at this number.” I gave him the number on the payphone and hung up. I kept the rest of what I was planning to myself. I didn’t want him talking me out of it. I killed time waiting for Floyd’s call by parking myself on a stool at the end of the counter, guzzling black coffee and smoking cigarettes. I thought about the possibilities of hush money, and how much I should ask for. I thought over what I was about to do and why. I even tried talking myself out of it once or twice. But I didn’t try too hard.
    A dull, throbbing ache settled in the back of my head. I told myself it was from the heat. My hand shook a bit as I reached for my cup. I told myself it was from too much coffee. But I knew better. I knew I was about to take the biggest risk of my life. A risk so big that, even if I was right, it could damn well blow up in my face. Forgetting about hush money, and just handing off the Van Dorn lead to the daytime shift, would’ve been the smartest thing to do. And the safest. But when you don’t have much to lose, safety isn’t high on the list. Besides, no one was looking out for my interests anymore. If my luck was going to change, I’d have to do something to change it. And that’s just what I planned on doing once Loomis got there.
     
    I T WAS about a quarter to seven when Floyd called to tell me he’d gotten everything I’d asked him for. Ten minutes later, he swung by to pick me up in front of the Automat. By then, the sun was a gray smear, low in an overcast sky. As Floyd pulled back out into traffic, he told me he’d not only gotten the photo of the girl’s face, but the address of the Van Dorn clan as well. A place up on Sixty-Sixth Street and Fifth Avenue. I checked the girl’s picture to make sure it wasn’t too gory. It wasn’t. It was a close shot of her face, taken above the knife wound and below the halo of blood. Loomis had also gotten the old man’s obituary from the previous night’s Journal.
    The top half of the page featured an article about a garment worker riot that had broken out during a rally up in the Bronx the day before. But the whole page below the fold was dedicated to the Van Dorn obituary, complete with a picture of old Silas himself. He was a tall, hard-looking old bastard with a long, white moustache that drooped at the sides. The obit said he was a humanitarian and a renowned patron of the arts. It said he’d managed the family’s holdings in a variety of industries, but didn’t give specifics. I guess when you’re that rich, specifics aren’t necessary. Money was money. It also listed a couple of charities and museums he’d thrown money at over the years. I hoped they’d be adding my favorite charity to the list soon: The Charles Doherty Benevolent Fund.
    The obit listed a son, Harriman, a daughter-in-law, Eleanor, and two grandchildren — Jessica and Jackson Van Dorn — as surviving relatives.
    We’d just hit Sixth Avenue when Loomis finally asked me, “Where are we going, anyhow?”
    “The Van Dorn house on Fifth. I want to show them