her family is trying to avoid.”
“Boston family?”
Feigning surprise, the well-put-together and ugly man said, “I didn’t know I had an accent.”
“Peter Morton,” I said.
“You’re thorough.”
“Rich family?”
“My client is.”
“Who’s that?”
The ugly man tried to put on a sympathetic-but-sorry expression and failed.
“That’s one thing I can’t tell you,” he said. “My client likes privacy. That is my first concern.”
“So how do I know that you aren’t using me to wipe out a state’s witness or to get revenge for a jilted john?”
“You watch too much television, Mr. McGill,” Farth admonished. “People do things like that in old books. In the new world criminals stick among themselves. Anyway, I just need you to find Ms. Lombardi and tell her that I’d like to have a conversation with her. You can set that up any way that makes you comfortable.”
He was very good. If I hadn’t met Hiram Stent, seen the photo of Celia Landis, had my office invaded by professionals, and been the cause of two innocent men’s deaths, I might have believed about 2 percent of what he was saying.
“The reason I’m here,” Josh said, now affecting honesty, “is because Coco is in trouble with some bad people. She knows some things that she shouldn’t know and maybe has taken things that don’t belong to her.”
“From your client?”
“No, no. My client is close to the family. I’m here on a mission of mercy, not vengeance.”
“And how do I fit into this mission?”
“Peter told me that you are often a person of interest to the police.”
“And yet you want to hire me anyway.”
“I believe that I will need a man like you to find Coco.”
“A man like me.” I was liking our back-and-forth. It was a way to hone my skills.
“A professional who isn’t afraid of the law,” Farth explained.
“Do you have an ID, Mr. Farth?”
“Why?”
“Just so that I can say, if asked by the constabulary, that I at least checked that you were who you said you were.”
He smiled and took a wallet from his back pocket. From this he produced a Massachusetts driver’s license. Joshua Farth, DOB December 1971.
“Ten thousand dollars,” I said.
“What?”
“Ten thousand down payment for the search and another ten when I find the girl and facilitate your talk.”
“Twenty thousand dollars for a simple missing person case?”
“That’s the going price for a man not afraid of the law.”
“That’s outrageous,” he said in a tone that carried no outrage whatsoever.
Farth or Shonefeld, or whatever his name was, gave me a frown that ever so slowly turned into a smile. I doubted if this man ever had an honest expression in his life. Everything he said, every response he gave, was planned. Too bad for him his plans were scrawled in crayon.
He reached into the same pocket that held the stripper’s photograph. From this he brought out a stack of hundred-dollar bills bound together in thousand-dollar packets. He counted out ten of these and put them on the desk, returning the rest of the treasure to the all-purpose pocket.
Gathering up the cash I asked, “What else can you give me about Coco?”
“Since she’s come to New York she’s been an artist’s model, a topless dancer, a personal assistant to a painter named Fontu Belair, and once she was arrested for kiting checks. She got out on bail and disappeared.”
“So the police are looking for her,” I said.
“Maybe in their sleep. She’s been in New York nearly a year.”
“What about before then?”
“I really don’t know.”
“Did she live in Boston?”
“Possibly. The only information I have about her is since she moved to New York.”
“What about her family?”
“My client is protecting them from the complete truth about the girl. I haven’t even met them.”
“Is Coco her real name?”
“I doubt it,” Josh said. “Like I said, I don’t even know if she’s originally from Boston. One guy
“Boston family?”
Feigning surprise, the well-put-together and ugly man said, “I didn’t know I had an accent.”
“Peter Morton,” I said.
“You’re thorough.”
“Rich family?”
“My client is.”
“Who’s that?”
The ugly man tried to put on a sympathetic-but-sorry expression and failed.
“That’s one thing I can’t tell you,” he said. “My client likes privacy. That is my first concern.”
“So how do I know that you aren’t using me to wipe out a state’s witness or to get revenge for a jilted john?”
“You watch too much television, Mr. McGill,” Farth admonished. “People do things like that in old books. In the new world criminals stick among themselves. Anyway, I just need you to find Ms. Lombardi and tell her that I’d like to have a conversation with her. You can set that up any way that makes you comfortable.”
He was very good. If I hadn’t met Hiram Stent, seen the photo of Celia Landis, had my office invaded by professionals, and been the cause of two innocent men’s deaths, I might have believed about 2 percent of what he was saying.
“The reason I’m here,” Josh said, now affecting honesty, “is because Coco is in trouble with some bad people. She knows some things that she shouldn’t know and maybe has taken things that don’t belong to her.”
“From your client?”
“No, no. My client is close to the family. I’m here on a mission of mercy, not vengeance.”
“And how do I fit into this mission?”
“Peter told me that you are often a person of interest to the police.”
“And yet you want to hire me anyway.”
“I believe that I will need a man like you to find Coco.”
“A man like me.” I was liking our back-and-forth. It was a way to hone my skills.
“A professional who isn’t afraid of the law,” Farth explained.
“Do you have an ID, Mr. Farth?”
“Why?”
“Just so that I can say, if asked by the constabulary, that I at least checked that you were who you said you were.”
He smiled and took a wallet from his back pocket. From this he produced a Massachusetts driver’s license. Joshua Farth, DOB December 1971.
“Ten thousand dollars,” I said.
“What?”
“Ten thousand down payment for the search and another ten when I find the girl and facilitate your talk.”
“Twenty thousand dollars for a simple missing person case?”
“That’s the going price for a man not afraid of the law.”
“That’s outrageous,” he said in a tone that carried no outrage whatsoever.
Farth or Shonefeld, or whatever his name was, gave me a frown that ever so slowly turned into a smile. I doubted if this man ever had an honest expression in his life. Everything he said, every response he gave, was planned. Too bad for him his plans were scrawled in crayon.
He reached into the same pocket that held the stripper’s photograph. From this he brought out a stack of hundred-dollar bills bound together in thousand-dollar packets. He counted out ten of these and put them on the desk, returning the rest of the treasure to the all-purpose pocket.
Gathering up the cash I asked, “What else can you give me about Coco?”
“Since she’s come to New York she’s been an artist’s model, a topless dancer, a personal assistant to a painter named Fontu Belair, and once she was arrested for kiting checks. She got out on bail and disappeared.”
“So the police are looking for her,” I said.
“Maybe in their sleep. She’s been in New York nearly a year.”
“What about before then?”
“I really don’t know.”
“Did she live in Boston?”
“Possibly. The only information I have about her is since she moved to New York.”
“What about her family?”
“My client is protecting them from the complete truth about the girl. I haven’t even met them.”
“Is Coco her real name?”
“I doubt it,” Josh said. “Like I said, I don’t even know if she’s originally from Boston. One guy
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