In Plain Sight

By the end of the day, Alex felt as if he’d walked all the way from Brooklyn to the south-side waterfront. He’d crossed six more names off his list, but that still left five to go and he wasn’t any closer to finding out who killed Jerry Pemberton, or why. His pocket watch told him it was six-thirty. He wanted to stop at the public library and look into Charles Beaumont, alleged thief, but he desperately needed some food and a soft chair. Not necessarily in that order. Between crawler rides, breakfast with Danny, and the Automat, he was down to his last fifteen cents, so he hopped a crawler and headed for the brownstone.

“There you are, my boy,” Iggy called when Alex finally staggered in through the vestibule. “I was hoping I hadn’t missed a call from you needing me to bail you out.”

He found Iggy out behind the kitchen in the attached greenhouse. The brownstone had a very small, walled back yard that opened onto an alley. When Iggy had first moved in, he’d taken up half the space with a glass greenhouse where he grew orchids. Due to the labor-intensive nature of cultivating orchids, Iggy spent many hours a day in his greenhouse. He even had a wicker reading chair in one corner in case he just wanted to enjoy the fruits of his labor.

“Is there anything to eat?” Alex asked, sliding down into one of the carved wooden chairs that surrounded the heavy dining table. Iggy chuckled, pulling the greenhouse’s insulated door closed as he exited.

“Is that all I’m good for anymore?” he asked with a grin. “To be your butler and bring you food?”

“Don’t forget putting a roof over my head,” Alex said. He reached into his pocket for Bert’s pack of smokes, but found it empty. He’d smoked the remaining ones during his steeplechase around the city. He wanted to curse, but Iggy didn’t allow it in his home, so Alex bit back the profanity and wadded up the empty pack, dropping it on the table.

Iggy removed the crumpled pack and replaced it with a bowl of orange soup. Alex was hungry enough that he didn’t ask, he just spooned it into his mouth.

And nearly choked.

“It’s cold,” he said once he got the first mouthful down.

“In the kitchen, as in the field, one must anticipate one’s adversary,” Iggy said.

“Meaning?” Alex was too tired for riddles.

“Meaning if you expect your flat mate to be late, prepare something that’s meant to be eaten cold. That’s gazpacho, you eat it cold.”

It took a minute for Alex to process, but then he just shrugged his shoulders and started eating again.

Iggy sad down beside him at the table and let Alex get halfway through the bowl before interrupting. “Since you seem determined to make me ask, how did it go with the police?”

“Captain Rooney stuck his neck out trying to catch the thief at the customs warehouse,” Alex said, between spoonfuls of the cold vegetable soup. “Now he needs a scapegoat, and if I don’t figure out who killed Jerry Pemberton by Monday morning, he’s going to make it me.”

“That’s dirty pool,” Iggy said.

“You said it,” Alex agreed, even though he had no idea what Iggy meant. “Worse, he’s going to take Danny down with me, so that’s priority number one.”

Alex then told Iggy about his day, searching for whomever had their goods purloined at the warehouse.

“So far everyone seems to be telling the truth,” he said as Iggy set a plate with a slab of cold ham on it in front of him.

“You’re sure one of them is guilty?” Iggy asked.

Alex nodded, slicing the meat into bite-sized chunks. “All the government pouches were sealed and accounted for. That just leaves the businesses.”

“Well,” Iggy said, picking up the newspaper. “It sounds like you had an eventful day.”

“That’s not the half of it,” Alex said, finishing the second bowl and pushing it away. “The Feds came to see me this morning.”

Iggy lowered the paper so he could peer over it. “What did you do to draw their attention?”

“Client of mine’s brother disappeared,” Alex said. “Feds think he was involved in a theft at a government research facility.”

“Was he?”

“I don’t know,” Alex admitted. “He’s an accountant by trade and a runewright on the side. Nothing about him says criminal mastermind.”

Iggy raised the paper back up and continued reading. Alex stood and picked up his bowl and spoon, intending to take it to the sink.

“Hey Iggy,” he said. “You’ve been around a while. Have you ever heard of something called the Archimedean Monograph?”

Iggy nearly ripped the paper in half as he jerked out of his seat. His eyes were as big as saucers, and the color had drained from his face. He recovered quickly, but Alex had been looking right at him and had seen his reaction.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he said, going to the icebox for two cold beers. He opened them with a church key, then put one in front of Iggy, who had retaken his seat, the torn newspaper forgotten in one hand.

“Where did you hear that name?” he asked, his voice nothing more than a whisper.