said.
"I'm here. When are you coming?"
"Next week. I'll call you a day ahead."
I was glad Benny needed something from me; lately the flow of favors
had been unidirectional. I know Benny never kept an accounting, but still.
I then called Helen Lipinsky again at her home.
"Mr. Gordon? Any news?" She sounded worse than she had during our
meeting. Her voice broke.
"Not yet. We pushed the New York police to look for your husband.
Have they contacted you yet?"
"Yes, that's the reason I called earlier, to thank you. Three detectives
came over, interviewed me for two hours, and searched my husband's
home office."
"Did you agree to the search?"
"Of course, what do I have to hide?"
"Did they find anything?"
"I don't know. They lifted his fingerprints from his cup, took hair samples from his comb, and a few of his recent photographs from our family
album."
"Is that all they took?"
"I think so. Maybe a few more papers from his desk."
"All right. I'll call you if I hear anything, but I suspect you'll be the first
to know of any developments in the police investigation."
Fingerprints and hair samples. That sounded like they needed an identification. Had they found a body? I thought of my one meeting with
Helen Lipinsky; she had seemed so fragile, and now it sounded as though
she would be getting bad news, the worst.
I called Detective Mahoney at the station. "I heard you paid a visit to
Helen Lipinsky. Did you find the messages?"
"What messages?"
"I think I mentioned them in our earlier conversation. Lipinsky had
gotten some garbled messages and -"
"Right. Let me check, I just walked into my office." He put me on
hold.
When he came back on, he sounded somber. "Dan? We have a body
and it meets the description of Lipinsky, but the coroner will have to
make a final determination."
"Homicide or suicide?"
"You can't commit suicide by putting two bullets to your head and two
in your back," Mahoney said drily.
"Where was he found?"
"In a Dumpster in the South Bronx."
"The wife knows?"
"A squad car is on its way to her."
"Any suspects?"
"Still working on it."
"And did you come up with the messages?"
"We took a bunch of papers from Lipinsky's apartment. They could be
among them."
"Would you mind if I came over and had a look?"
"Not at all."
Twenty minutes later I was in the Midtown South Precinct at 357 West
Thirty-fifth Street. Police cars, including a few unmarked, were parked
perpendicularly in front of the building.
Mahoney - a skinny mustached fellow in his early forties - was
wearing a blue T-shirt, jeans, and sneakers. His service revolver was
tucked in his jeans, and his NYPD badge was hanging from his neck on
a thin chain. "These are all the papers we took from the premises." He
pushed a thick envelope toward me across his desk.
I opened the envelope and emptied its contents on Mahoney's desk. I
sifted through the papers. Each was sealed separately in a plastic bag to
prevent contamination of the evidence. I immediately saw what I was
looking for: three standard yellow-paper, continuous-form computer
printouts with perforated holes at the edges. I pulled the three bagged printouts out from the pile and looked at them through the bag. They
were poor-quality carbon copies, probably the bottom ones. The top edge
contained the preprinted standard identification details of Eagle Bank of
New York with its logo. Below was the date and then forty blocks of letters, each with five letters, without any obvious meaning.
"Can I have copies of these?" I asked Mahoney, as if I didn't know the
answer already.
"Sure, but let me do the copying."
I nodded, continuing to rummage through the bagged papers. Nothing
else seemed to be connected to the bank, or to have any meaning other
than routine. There were personal letters from Lipinsky's sister, a few
utility bills, a to-do list with instructions to take the car for inspection, to
renew the subscription to a women's magazine, and to
"I'm here. When are you coming?"
"Next week. I'll call you a day ahead."
I was glad Benny needed something from me; lately the flow of favors
had been unidirectional. I know Benny never kept an accounting, but still.
I then called Helen Lipinsky again at her home.
"Mr. Gordon? Any news?" She sounded worse than she had during our
meeting. Her voice broke.
"Not yet. We pushed the New York police to look for your husband.
Have they contacted you yet?"
"Yes, that's the reason I called earlier, to thank you. Three detectives
came over, interviewed me for two hours, and searched my husband's
home office."
"Did you agree to the search?"
"Of course, what do I have to hide?"
"Did they find anything?"
"I don't know. They lifted his fingerprints from his cup, took hair samples from his comb, and a few of his recent photographs from our family
album."
"Is that all they took?"
"I think so. Maybe a few more papers from his desk."
"All right. I'll call you if I hear anything, but I suspect you'll be the first
to know of any developments in the police investigation."
Fingerprints and hair samples. That sounded like they needed an identification. Had they found a body? I thought of my one meeting with
Helen Lipinsky; she had seemed so fragile, and now it sounded as though
she would be getting bad news, the worst.
I called Detective Mahoney at the station. "I heard you paid a visit to
Helen Lipinsky. Did you find the messages?"
"What messages?"
"I think I mentioned them in our earlier conversation. Lipinsky had
gotten some garbled messages and -"
"Right. Let me check, I just walked into my office." He put me on
hold.
When he came back on, he sounded somber. "Dan? We have a body
and it meets the description of Lipinsky, but the coroner will have to
make a final determination."
"Homicide or suicide?"
"You can't commit suicide by putting two bullets to your head and two
in your back," Mahoney said drily.
"Where was he found?"
"In a Dumpster in the South Bronx."
"The wife knows?"
"A squad car is on its way to her."
"Any suspects?"
"Still working on it."
"And did you come up with the messages?"
"We took a bunch of papers from Lipinsky's apartment. They could be
among them."
"Would you mind if I came over and had a look?"
"Not at all."
Twenty minutes later I was in the Midtown South Precinct at 357 West
Thirty-fifth Street. Police cars, including a few unmarked, were parked
perpendicularly in front of the building.
Mahoney - a skinny mustached fellow in his early forties - was
wearing a blue T-shirt, jeans, and sneakers. His service revolver was
tucked in his jeans, and his NYPD badge was hanging from his neck on
a thin chain. "These are all the papers we took from the premises." He
pushed a thick envelope toward me across his desk.
I opened the envelope and emptied its contents on Mahoney's desk. I
sifted through the papers. Each was sealed separately in a plastic bag to
prevent contamination of the evidence. I immediately saw what I was
looking for: three standard yellow-paper, continuous-form computer
printouts with perforated holes at the edges. I pulled the three bagged printouts out from the pile and looked at them through the bag. They
were poor-quality carbon copies, probably the bottom ones. The top edge
contained the preprinted standard identification details of Eagle Bank of
New York with its logo. Below was the date and then forty blocks of letters, each with five letters, without any obvious meaning.
"Can I have copies of these?" I asked Mahoney, as if I didn't know the
answer already.
"Sure, but let me do the copying."
I nodded, continuing to rummage through the bagged papers. Nothing
else seemed to be connected to the bank, or to have any meaning other
than routine. There were personal letters from Lipinsky's sister, a few
utility bills, a to-do list with instructions to take the car for inspection, to
renew the subscription to a women's magazine, and to
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