“That’s what I told him, but he found it hard to believe that your father would take time out to call you on a day like today.”

“What does today have to do with it?”

“Where’ve you been? It’s the worst-kept secret since the atom bomb. When the time comes, they’re going to move everything over to your father’s precinct. They don’t want trouble and the Eleventh is far enough from the scene to take the energy out of the people who want to stand around outside. They’ve had crowds off and on all through the weekend at the Fifth Precinct. Your father has the job of setting everything up. I guess they’re running the usual weirdos through the Eleventh now.”

“There you are,” Leland said. “I don’t even know that.”

“Well, the next time your father wants to talk about police work, you answer the phone,” Warren Johnson said. He knew Leland’s parents. “I saw the Herald-Press today. Let me ask you a question. After Leikman’s uncle threatened to sue you, did you hear from him again?”

Leland laughed. “No, he knew I had him by the short hairs.”

“I thought it was something like that. I thought that maybe he wrote some letters. Okay. What did you have on your mind?”

“I have a client, Warren, whose husband jumped, fell, or was thrown from the roof of Flatlands Racetrack last August. The verdict was suicide. No notes, no business difficulties. He was very well off. He was born and raised here and he lived here off and on with his first wife. I want to know all I can about him.”

“If you get anything that concerns me, Joe, I want it right away, personally,” Warren Johnson said. “Give me the stuff. I’ll shoot it back to you within a half hour.”

When Leland had begun to talk about the case, Florence had asked Mrs. MacIver for a picture of her husband. Now Leland reached over the desk to take a large color print. “Here we go,” he said to Warren Johnson. “Colin—” He looked to Mrs. MacIver for the middle name, and she whispered it. “—William MacIver, capital M, a, c, capital I, v, e, r. W.M.A. Deceased August twelfth, this year. Age at death, thirty-two. About six feet tall, one hundred and seventy pounds, light brown hair, brown eyes, small white scar, size of a nickel, under the left ear. Last address—” He read it from Florence’s notebook. “And could you check out the traffic court, Warren?” he asked. “It’s just a flyer, but I want to know my man.”

“Sure. Say hello to Charlie Scott for me. How’s he doing on that job, by the way?”

“Oh, having his ups and downs.”

“Sometimes you disappoint me, Joe. I’ll have somebody call you back.”

“Half an hour,” Leland said to Florence as he hung up.