“Nancy Nickerson. Here’s my ID.” She began rooting in her bag, made from a pair of old jeans. She removed a large yellow comb and put it on his desk. Then came a tube of lipstick, a paperback book, half a sandwich, a two-way mirror, and a candy bar. “It’s in here somewhere.”
“Never mind. Nancy Nickerson,” he mumbled, writing it down. “My name’s Brownley. I’m the boss.”
They were suddenly interrupted by a deep, male voice calling for him. “Mr. Brownley?”
“What is it, Dayton?” A good-looking, young blond cabbie appeared in the doorway—the same one who had picked up Nancy two days before.
“My lunch is over, and I’m going back out. Which car should I take?” Dayton looked over at Nancy. She could tell he was trying to decide if they’d ever met.
“Take the one you used earlier,” Brownley answered.
“Okay, see you later.”
Brownley grunted, “So long,” and then turned back to Nancy.
“We’ve got to get your picture taken. Follow me.”
Heaving himself from a swivel chair that creaked loudly, he led her into a storage closet behind the office and stood her against a white wall. Taking a Polaroid camera off a shelf, he said, “Smile.” Before she could do it, the flash went off in her eyes.
“Okay. You start tomorrow, eight to four.”
That was a problem. It would be harder to poke around in broad daylight. “Uh, couldn’t I work at night? I take a couple of classes during the day. I could even start this evening.”
“We don’t need night drivers.”
It took five minutes of haggling before Brownley agreed to let her work from four to midnight.
“Gee, thanks,” she said, popping her gum. She looked out the window of his office at the cabs. “Any of those have stick shifts? What kind ya got, anyway?” She was out into the garage, trotting past the lines of cars before Brownley could get through his office door.
He followed, panting. “Hey! You’ll be using one up front. I choose, you don’t.”
Nancy had already walked half the length of the space and from there could see all the cabs and the vehicles she had not been able to make out before.
“Oh. Okay,” she said and strolled back toward him. “See ya tonight. Thanks again.” And she ducked under the rollup door.
Nancy congratulated herself on an Oscar-winning performance, especially the last sixty seconds of it. It had been very difficult to hide how excited she was after she had seen the vehicles at the rear of the garage.
Parked in the left corner, almost invisible in the gloom, was a dirty white van, with strips of tape over the lettering on its sides—and a bent right fender.
Chapter
Eleven
JUDGE JONATHAN RENK’S memorial was well-attended. The church was filled with the most respected members of the community and a few nationally known political figures.
The media was barred from the service itself. Ann, feeling awkward about attending, had decided not to come. But it looked as if every other reporter in the Midwest was standing outside the church, waiting to pounce on key figures as they left. The Drews, Bess, and Ned avoided them by leaving through a rear door.
They all went back to the judge’s house with the housekeeper. “It was lovely, wasn’t it?” Mrs. O’Hara kept asking Nancy, her father, and Ned. Bess had gone into the living room.
“It went very well,” Nancy said, helping her remove her coat and hanging it in the closet off the kitchen. The house was filling up with people who had come to pay their respects. “I guess the guests are starting to arrive. Hannah and Bess will help you keep things running smoothly.”
Mrs. O’Hara dabbed at her eyes. “It’s so sad. But he hadn’t been the same since before Miss Martha died. You could tell that, couldn’t you, Mr. Drew?”
“Well, I hadn’t seen him that often, Katherine. Once he dropped out of our weekly card games, I—”
The housekeeper’s eyes widened, and she stared at Nancy’s father. “He dropped out? When?”
“It’s been almost a year. We assumed he’d just lost the heart for it.”
Mrs. O’Hara looked away, a bewildered expression on her face. “Then where was he going?”
“Pardon?”
“Mr. Drew, the judge left here every Wednesday night, the way he’s always done since I came to work here.”
“He wasn’t with us. Perhaps he found a new group. They never played here?”
“No, sir, always somewhere else. Sometimes he drove, sometimes someone came to pick him up. Last summer, it was, he was going two and three times a week.”
“Perhaps he was going somewhere else,” Nancy suggested. “I mean, to the theater or something.”
“No, lass. He had a routine. Whenever he was going to play cards, he’d sit at his desk and practice shuffling and dealing. That’s how I could tell.”
Carson Drew smiled sadly. “He always joked that if he hadn’t gone into law, he’d have been a dealer in Las Vegas.”
“Aye. He and Miss Martha, they were a pair. All the time she was sick, he’d go to Pinebrook to see her with a deck of cards in his pocket. They’d enjoy a game together there in her hospital room until she couldn’t play any longer. I—I had no idea he wasn’t playing with you anymore, Mr. Carson.”
Nancy’s eyes locked with those of Ned, who had been listening quietly. “Pinebrook?” she asked.
“Yes. He wanted the best for her. A lovely place.”
Mrs. O’Hara launched into a lengthy description of the hospital. Nancy, knowing that her father was enough of a captive audience, excused herself and Ned, and they slipped into the library. Closing the door, they crossed to the judge’s desk.
The fingerprinting dust was gone, and the window had been repaired. But Jonathan Renk’s presence remained.
“What are you going to do?” Ned asked.
Nancy picked up the phone. “Call Ann. We may have found another link.” She dialed Ann’s number at the newspaper.
“Where are you?” the reporter asked.
“At my uncle Jon’s. Got a task for you. Can you find out the dates that Mrs. Harvey was a patient at Pinebrook?”
“I don’t see why not. What’s up?”
“My uncle Jon’s wife was a patient there over a year ago. Mrs. Harvey was there for two months. I’m just wondering if they were there at the same time.”
“Now, that would be interesting, wouldn’t it? Give me your number. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”
Nancy looked around the library as she replaced the phone. She had planned to ask Mrs. O’Hara if she could check the judge’s files the next day, but since she wasn’t here—
She opened the desk drawers.
“What are you looking for?” Ned asked.
“I don’t know,” Nancy admitted. “Anything that’ll help explain why my uncle would agree to help frame my dad.”
“In other words, what had the judge done that could be used against him as blackmail.”
Nancy looked over at the wall of photographs, all with the judge’s smiling face, and sighed. “I guess so.”
Ned cupped her chin in his hand. “He was very special to you, wasn’t he? I’m sorry. I thought he was just your father’s friend.” He held her for a minute, smoothing her hair. “You must hate having to poke through his things.”
Nancy nodded and wrapped her arms around his waist. “I do. But I have to. Four days, Ned! I’m so worried that I won’t have worked this out by then and my father will be bound over for trial. The sooner this is cleared up, the faster people will forget, and then he can resume his practice.”
After he brushed his lips across hers, Ned gently pushed her away. “Then you’d better get to work, huh?”
She smiled. “I’d better get to work.” She went back to the desk.
The only items of interest were the judge’s checkbook and a box of canceled checks. Nothing unusual there—payments to the phone, gas, and power companies.
/> The lower drawer was filled with file folders. Nancy sat on the floor and flipped through the labels. Under “Deeds” she found the one for the house and the Renks’ vacation home at a nearby lake. There were also several papers clipped to each deed. They were from a bank.
“Ned, look at these.”
He left the drawer of the file cabinet he was going through. After a moment he said, “Judge Renk borrowed money from two different banks and used this house and his cottage as collateral.”
“Perhaps to pay my aunt Martha’s medical bills,” Nancy said.
“I’m not so sure,” he said slowly. “I saw several file folders in the cabinet with names of banks on the labels. They’re loan agreements, too. I’ll pull them. See if there are any more in his desk.”
There weren’t. Ned had found the only items of interest. They sat on the floor again and spread the folders out around them.
“This is incredible,” Ned said. “In this past year, Judge Renk borrowed over a hundred thousand dollars!”
“And paid it all back with interest—when? One bank a month for the past six months.”
“Where’d he get the money?” Ned asked. He raised an eyebrow. “He couldn’t have been that good at cards, could he?”
“You’ll have to ask my dad. Look, before we jump to conclusions, let’s check the dates on any canceled checks made out to Pinebrook. See if they match up with the dates he got the loans.”
They searched through several boxes of canceled checks. Jonathan Renk had paid the balance due on his wife’s hospital bill two months after her death. Thirty-nine thousand dollars.
“So why the loans for the hundred thousand?” Nancy muttered to herself. She bundled the folders together and put them aside to show her father.
Ned had begun looking at the photographs on the wall. “He sure had some high-powered friends,” Ned commented. There were pictures of the judge with presidents, senators, a governor, and nationally known mayors of large cities.
Nancy had joined Ned to look at the photographs. “That’s my aunt Martha. It must have been taken at Pinebrook.”
Martha Renk, wearing a robe and looking thinner than Nancy remembered, sat at a table with her husband and two nurses. Each had cards in their hands and smiles on their faces. But the face that caught Nancy’s attention was in the background. She gasped.
“What is it?”
“Ned! That looks like the man who tried to kidnap me!”
“Which one?”
There were six people standing behind the four at the card table. Nancy pointed to the man on the end. She had only seen his features for a few seconds, but thought she remembered his thin face, light eyes, and narrow lips.
Someone knocked on the door. Ned opened it, and Bess peered in. “Oh, there you are. Ned, we need some help with a fifty-pound bag of ice.”
“Sure. I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he told Nancy.
Nancy turned back to the photograph. She had to be sure it was the same man.
Taking it to the desk, she removed it from its frame. Without the glare of the glass, the face was clearer. It definitely was he. The judge had written the names of the people in the photo on the back. Philip Reston. That’s what the dispatcher had called him! Res, not Wes! She had seen the name before, too. Where?
The phone rang, and Nancy snatched the receiver to her ear. “Renk residence.”
“It’s Ann, Nancy. They were there at the same time, but Mrs. Harvey wouldn’t tell me a thing. In fact, she sounded terrified. She hung up on me. I asked a doctor friend to find out for me.”
“He called Pinebrook?”
“Yes. Mrs. Harvey was there five weeks before Mrs. Renk died, and she went home three weeks afterward.”
“And I just found a photo,” Nancy said, “of my uncle Jon and a nasty character named Philip Reston, the man who snatched me out of the Grand.” She slapped her forehead. “Now I remember where I’ve seen the name! He’s one of the owners of Gold Star!”
Ann said, “Uh-oh. This is getting better and better, and worse and worse. Nancy, you’d better stay away from that place.”
“I can’t! Now that we’ve established a link between Reston and my uncle? No way! We’re coming down the pike, Ann, I’m sure of it.”
Ann snorted. “If you aren’t careful, the pike will be coming down on you.”
• • •
When Nancy arrived at Gold Star late that afternoon, Brownley handed her a hack’s license that looked perfectly legitimate. “Don’t advertise how you got this,” he said, warning her. “That wouldn’t be smart.”
“Okay by me,” Nancy said, popping gum at top speed.
“Take one-six-one,” he said. “Don’t hit any bumps or you’ll bash your head in. It needs shocks. And if you get it dirty, run it through the car wash next door on your way back in. See you at midnight.”
“Is the car wash open at night? That seems odd.”
“Yeah, well, they just keep a skeleton crew on. Must make money or they wouldn’t do it.”
“Do you work twenty-four hours a day?” Nancy then asked, needing to know when she could search his office. “When do you eat?”
“My, my, aren’t we full of questions. What’s it to you when I work?”
“I thought if I was close by, I could bring you a pizza or something. I didn’t mean to bother you, just wanted to help.”
He grinned. “You’re an okay kid. Nobody ever offered before. I have dinner around ten, but don’t make a special trip if you’ve got a fare.”
As Nancy walked through the garage to her assigned car, she saw Jim Dayton getting out of his cab.
“Hi,” he called to her. “Working the evening shift, huh? Tough break.”
“Well, not exactly.” Nancy stopped, and then said, “I asked for it. I need to make some extra money fast.”
“I know what you mean. I’m in between semesters from college now, and I’m doing this to pick up some fast cash myself,” he said. “Oh, my name’s Jim Dayton.”
“Nancy Nickerson. Nice to meet you.”
“Same here. They don’t have too many female drivers around here, you know.”
Nancy quickly glanced at her watch. “And they’ll have one less if I don’t get out of here,” she said smiling. “I’ll be seeing you around.”
“I hope so,” Jim answered. Nancy noticed that his incredibly blue eyes sparkled even in the harsh light of the garage.
Nancy got into the car and started the engine. Too bad this guy’s only temporary, she thought. He’s friendly, and he might know something.
• • •
By ten o’clock Nancy had driven over two hundred miles. Her money bag was full, her back was stiff, and her rear end was numb from sitting. But if Brownley was away from his desk, she wouldn’t be sitting much longer.
Turning onto McConnell, she made a pass by the garage to see if the office was empty. It was. Unfortunately, Brownley was standing just outside of it talking to a tall, thin man, who turned just then and glanced out into the street.
“Oh, no!” Nancy whispered.
It was Philip Reston. If he got a close look at her, her life wouldn’t be worth a ten-cent tip.
Chapter
Twelve
NANCY EASED PAST the garage so the sound of the motor wouldn’t attract the attention of either man. What should she do? She wasn’t sure whether Brownley had seen her.
Grabbing the mike, she called in. After a second, Brownley answered. “Hey, kid, did you just pass here?”
“Sure, on the way to twenty-five-twelve Bennett. Is something wrong with the radio? I called you three times before you answered.”
“Guess I didn’t hear you,” he said. “I was talking to somebody.”
“Oh. Sorry. Want me to call back?”
“No, I’m finished.” Just what Nancy wanted to hear. “Why don’t you knock off early? Call it a night. Come on in when you’ve finished this run. Nothing’s happening tonight.”
“W
ill do. One-six-one out.”
She drove a couple of blocks farther and parked long enough to put in the money her imaginary fare would have paid. Then she doubled back, edging around the corner onto McConnell again. Reston was standing by a late-model Buick parked on the street just beyond the garage. It was a dead ringer for the car that had tried to run her over the day before.
To kill more time, Nancy ran the cab through the car wash next door, sitting in the vehicle as it glided through the cycles. It seemed to take much too short a time. Reston was still out front, but she couldn’t put off going in any longer.
The Gold Star sign—a brightly lit rectangle above the broad rollup door—spilled its gaudy light into the cab as she drove under it. From the corner of her eye, Nancy saw Reston staring at her with a puzzled expression.
After a moment’s hesitation, he got in the Buick and started the engine. Nancy’s hand shook slightly as she opened the cab door. But Reston was gone. She’d survived her first shift as a Gold Star cabbie.
“Not bad, Nickerson,” Brownley said, counting her money. “Lay off that gum, and you’ll do even better.”
“I’ll think about it.” Nancy removed the cushion she’d brought from the front seat of the cab. “Where can I leave this?”
He nodded toward a bank of lockers just beyond his office. “Snag one for yourself. You have to supply your own lock, though.”
Nancy walked along the row of lockers, hoping for an empty one as close to the back of the garage as possible. The second and third from the end were available.
She crammed the cushion into one and hunted for a pen to scratch “Ellison” off the strip of adhesive tape that served as the name tag on the locker door. After squeezing “Nickerson” on it, she glanced at the names on either side—Eastman, which had a monster combination lock on the door, and Tyler, with no lock at all.
Nancy stared at it. “T. Tyler.” The doorman at Mrs. Harvey’s building had mentioned a Tyler. The same man? she wondered.
“Hey, Nickerson! Find an empty?” Brownley shouted from the office.
“Uh—yes.” Nancy slammed the door closed and ambled toward the front. Perhaps the next night she’d be able to slip away from her locker and see what else was back there in the dark.