But now the heir to the Colby throne was in, behind his desk, while a figure that I was pretty sure was William Owens, managing director of the firm, stood with his back to me, getting the Riot Act read to him. Vincent’s angry voice, though muffled, was booming behind the glass, what he was saying unclear, but his rage unmistakable.

The little blonde Red Riding Hood in big-framed glasses was goggling from behind her receptionist desk, looking alarmed. I raised a hand to calm her and headed toward that office, but I hadn’t made much progress before Owens, flushed and tearful, came bounding out.

Owens saw me and our eyes locked. Still moving, he said in a breathy rush, “I don’t know what he was going on about! He just went off!”

Vincent came charging up behind Owens, and turned him around like a naughty child and shook him like such children once were shaken, in what I’m told were less enlightened times.

“Screw up like that again,” Vincent was snarling, “and your ass is gone from here. Understand? Gone!”

Vincent, still holding onto this supposed friend by a shoulder, drew his other hand back in a fist, poised to punch. I got between them and the fist froze long enough for me to grab the wrist brandishing it.

“Go,” I said to Owens, who scurried, muttering, “Thank you,” heading out into the boiler room in a blur of striped shirt and orange suspenders.

Vincent’s face was damn near scarlet, his eyes big and bulging, his nostrils flaring, like a rearing horse. The musky smell of his cologne—Obsession?—came off him like steam.

“You let go of me, Hammer! Let go of me or—”

I let go of him.

Then I slapped him.

The Ice Lady must have called her boss, because Colby was there in seconds, moving faster than a man his age really should.

“What are you doing, Mike?” my client demanded.

Vincent was standing there, dazed, weaving, rubbing his cheek, blinking like somebody who got soap in his eyes.

“What you should have,” I said, “when he was a lot younger.”

I glanced back like Lot’s wife and saw the father walking his shaken son into the nearby glassed-in office. As I made my way through the boiler room, all eyes were on me, even the ones in headsets engaged in the latest cold calls.

I saw a lot of smiles.

CHAPTER NINE

Velda and I caught an early dinner at P.J. Moriarty’s on Sixth and 52nd at Radio City before the mahogany-paneled steak-and-chophouse got really busy.

It wouldn’t take long for that endless parade of bar stools to fill up, and for the conversation to build to a friendly din, punctuated by the occasional popped cork or dropped dish or clatter of silverware. Soon the red-leather banquettes—one of which we’d easily snagged—would become prime real estate.

I had the corned beef and cabbage while Velda got a small chef’s salad with turkey, which is probably all you need to know about either of us. The only business we discussed had to do with an arson investigation for one of our best insurance clients. We didn’t go over the Colby job until the coffee had arrived and I was done with the cheesecake. Velda had two petite bites – the kind of cheesecake she embodied taking discipline.