Chapter 2: In a Glass, No Ice

Harland's reflection against the window is like the face that looks back at you from a puddle in the street. His hands aren't folded in his lap anymore. They're clutching the arms of his wheelchair like talons. His knobby knuckles are white.

I clear my throat. "With all due respect, Mr. Harland, we've never even met. I don't know how comfortable I'd be taking a client I don't-"

"You know who I am, and I've done my homework on you. That'll be enough."

"Maybe. But you don't know my methods."

"Jack, I have a personal security force on call. And I could hire every private investigator in this city if it pleased me. I need you because I have reason to believe the mob was involved in my son's death. They've been trying to take me down for years. To get at Nathan like this, it's possible they've infiltrated my business. Nobody associated with my companies can be trusted. And as for the police." He laughs. "They're even worse."

After swallowing, I manage, "Not all cops are like that."

"Enough of them are. I need somebody who won't cave under pressure. Somebody who's gone up against the mob before."

I feel my nostrils flare. "You know about that, huh? Well, then you know I lost."

"And I know you've taken too many falls to be a man easily bought. We're kindred spirits, you and I."

"Those days are long gone, but if you need a good private eye, I can give you some names. Guys who are smarter than me. Smoother, too. Me, I've got a temper. I strong-arm too much. Sometimes I drink too much, too."

"And sometimes you're too honest. In my book, that's the perfect man for finding the truth."

My teeth are grinding. I wish I weren't such a glutton for punishment.

"I work alone," I hear myself say.

"You will," responds Harland. "And you'll be compensated handsomely."

"I never doubted that." I look him in the eye, and I sigh. "You're a tough one to read, you know that? You must be good at cards."

"Dreadful," says Harland, without cracking a smile. "Too headstrong to bluff."

He extends a bony, long-fingered hand my direction. I grip it gently, and we shake. His skin is cold and soft.

***

Hennessy is there to meet me outside of the observatory. As the door swings shut behind me, I catch one last glimpse of Rutherford Harland on his balcony, looking out at the city. I'm still in shock over what I've just gotten myself into-a bum like me, suddenly under the employ of a man who probably makes more money in a day than I've seen in my entire life.

"My coat and hat?" I ask, because Hennessy's hands are empty.

"Mrs. Reed would like a word."

"Mrs. who?"

"Mrs. Reed."

"I meant, who is she?"

"Mr. Harland's daughter. She awaits you in the library."

"There wouldn't happen to be any more of that scotch in the library?"

"I shall arrange it, Sir. If you'll follow me."

As Hennessy leads me up an adjoining staircase and beneath more portrait-gazes, I'm trying to remember current affairs. This all happened so quickly, I didn't have much time in the way of research. I know from the papers that Rutherford has a daughter; a regular face at charity benefits and high society functions. Beyond that, I don't know much about her. Never thought I'd need to.

I can't help but wonder how Rutherford Harland even found me. In ten years as a private detective, I've never advertised once. Word-of-mouth business, exclusively. Mostly small cases; just enough to eat and keep the lights on. The murder of a business magnate like Nathan Harland-son of a legendary industrialist like Rutherford Harland, whose reputation approaches mythology... This kind of thing isn't exactly in my wheelhouse. It's been a long time since I worked a murder case, let alone anything of this magnitude.

Hennessy leads me to another high-ceilinged room with the doors wide open. There are big windows here, too, but the curtains are all drawn. Every wall is packed to the ceiling with shelves upon shelves of leather-bound books-about as many books as a man could hope to read in a lifetime. Crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling, and the walls glow from panels of recessed lighting.

Standing atop a brass stepladder on rollers, licking her finger to flip through the pages of a book, is a dark-haired woman, mid-thirties, with lean calves peeking out from beneath a long skirt.

Behind me, Hennessy announces, "Mr. Jack Tarelli to see you, Mrs. Reed."

"Of course," she says. "Leave us."

"Very good, Madame. And how do you take your scotch, Sir?"

"In a glass," I answer. "No ice."