Part 57 (1/2)

After the thirteenth of November, 1954, Vincent De Septio was never seen or heard from again.

Without question, the Vincent De Septio affair was the major case before Zenger and Daniels that year, perhaps their most important case in the 1950s. But Thomas would never have drawn the De Septio connection-at all had it not been for one word, one forever-unproven charge which drifted like a phantom through the accounts of the case.

Counterfeiting.

Chapter 21 An eskimo, Thomas thought to himself. She must think I'm a G.o.d-d.a.m.ned eskimo.

He s.h.i.+vered against the railing to the Brooklyn Heights Promenade. His back was to the ma.s.sive brutal skyline of Manhattan and he looked both ways, waiting for her. Waiting for Leslie at eight P.M. that next evening. And the winter wind, sweeping across the unprotected Promenade, was freezing him.

Each time he breathed, the cold breath he drew in almost hurt his lungs. And the flesh of his face was stinging-actually stinging from the cold. He looked up and down the Promenade again, seeing only one isolated stroller and another man crazy enough to walk his dog in such weather. Thomas envied the dog its fur coat.

What was wrong? The note he'd received had given this location, the Promenade just off Pineapple Street, at eight P.M. Where was she? What had happened? Yes, he admitted, he was worried about her. Worried about her physical safety. He began to walk up and down the Promenade again, four hundred yards down and back, just to move around and keep warm. Keep warm and think.

The man with the dog, a German shepherd, pa.s.sed him, white clouds of frosty breath appearing before the man's face and the dos paws. Holy Christ, it was cold out there!

He'd like to build a fire, Thomas thought. Yes, that was it. He agreed with himself, a nice big raging log fire in a six-foot fireplace.

And he'd curl up in front of it with with . . .

Well, yes. With Leslie.

He'd surprised himself. Leslie? It used to be Andrea, the prime candidate for accompaniment at a cozy fireside

He couldn't stand the wind in his face anymore. He turned and started walking the other way, up the Promenade now, with the wind at his back and with his gloved hands clenched into fists and shoved uncomfortably into his pockets.

Leslie? Well, yes, d.a.m.n it! Of course he cared about her.

Personally.

How could he not? Bad, bad, bad, he told himself, s.h.i.+vering and now convinced he would freeze to death out there overlooking the cargo docks and the mouth of the East River.

Bad, real bad. First thing his father ever taught him: Don't get personally involved with a client. It blinds you, Tom. Might just as well gouge your own eyes out. You stop seeing.

His head was down against the cold and he continued to walk.

Then he saw feet. He raised his head quickly and saw a figure fifteen feet in front of him.

And then all worry about her safety or his own personal involvement with her vanished.

”Leslie” he said.

”I'm sorry. I'm late.” She was clad in a dirk coat, and the fair and lovely face was masked partially by a wool scarf.

”it happens” he shrugged. He didn't mind the cold so much for a few moments. His instinct was to go to her and embrace her. But he refrained. She was, after all, a client.

”You weren't worried, were you?” she asked.

”I figured you'd turn up. I just put my mind to waiting” He moved the final few steps next to her. They began to walk, following the railing and with Manhattan at their sides. Manhattan's lights glittered.

”I could have picked a warmer place,” she conceded.