Ghost of a Chance

Leslie gave him an Inner-Ring address and he wrote it in his notebook.

“What do I do if Detweiler sends cops here?” Leslie asked.

“Just don’t let them answer the phone.”

* * *

Duane King’s address turned out to be for an elegant brick home a block from the park. If he could afford to live here, he had the money to pay off the taxes on the land he inherited. As Alex stood looking at the tidy home, he wondered if he might be wrong about who was killing former members of North Shore Development.

Steeling himself for disappointment, Alex opened the gate and walked up to the heavy door. It was stained dark and had polished brass hardware and an enormous knocker to match. Alex rapped smartly with the knocker, then took a step back from the door.

“Yes?” An older woman said as she pulled the heavy door open. She had brown hair and thick glasses, and peered at him through the lenses.

“I’m sorry to bother you, ma’am,” Alex said, quickly taking off his hat. “But does Duane King live here?”

She smiled and shook her head.

“No,” she said. “I’ve lived here for thirty years.”

That would have meant she moved in around the time King let the land go to the tax sale. Maybe he was having money problems after all.

“Mr. King lived here about thirty years ago,” Alex said.

The woman’s face brightened and she smiled.

“Oh, yes,” she said. “King was the name of the man we bought the house from, my husband and I.”

“You don’t happen to know where he went after he sold you the house, do you?”

“He moved to Florida,” she said. “A town called Boca Raton, there was a doctor there.”

“He was sick?”

“His wife,” the woman said. “Poor thing, she had tuberculosis.”

Alex had never heard of Boca Raton but if there was a doctor there who specialized in treating TB, it shouldn’t be too hard to track them down. The doctor would undoubtedly have more information on the Kings.

“Anything else you can remember about Mr. King or his wife?”

“I’m sorry,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s been a long time since I thought about them. I hope she got better.”

Alex thanked her and headed back to the street. TB wasn’t always fatal; there was a good chance that if the mysterious doctor helped her, then Mrs. King might still be in Boca Raton.

The problem was that in order to find out, he would have to go home. Since he didn’t have a fist-full of nickels, Iggy had the only phone he could use to call long distance. It was a risk, with Detweiler looking for him. Alex wouldn’t put it past the man to have a few cops staking out the brownstone.

He sighed and put his hat back on. If he wanted to get Detweiler off his back, it was a risk he was going to have to take.

* * *

When Alex reached the brownstone that afternoon he didn’t see anyone staking out the place, but he went around to the alley behind the house just in case. The door to the tiny, walled back yard was protected just like the front door, but Alex’s pocketwatch let him pass without any trouble.

Once inside, he found that Iggy was still out. One of the lessons the old man had taught him about being a detective was that it was often better to ask for forgiveness rather than permission. With that in mind, Alex crossed the kitchen and picked up the telephone receiver.

“Get me Boca Raton, Florida,” he said once the operator came on. Five minutes later he was connected with the operator in Boca Raton.

“I’m looking for a doctor who lives in town,” he told her.

“That would be Dr. Harrison, sugar,” the operator said in a thick Georgia accent. “Would yew like me to connect ya?”

“Is he the only doctor in town?”

“Only doctor for miles and miles.”

“Then go ahead and connect me, please,” Alex said.

Alex wondered how big Boca Raton really was, especially when, a moment later, the doctor answered his own phone.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” Alex said. “I’m calling from New York. Are you the doctor who specializes in tuberculosis?”

There was a long pause on the line and Alex thought maybe the doctor couldn’t hear him. He was just about to shout his question when the man spoke.

“I’m sorry, but I think you mean Doctor Gardner.”

“Is he available?” Alex wondered. “It’s kind of important.”

“Doctor Karen Gardener was an alchemist who lived here. She was the doctor before I moved in. I seem to remember she had a treatment for TB,” Dr. Harrison said. “But she died twenty-five years ago.”

It was all Alex could do not to swear. If he didn’t have bad luck, he wouldn’t have any luck at all.

“Did you pick up her patients?” he asked, grasping at straws.

“Most of them, yes.”

“Can you tell me if you’re treating a woman named King for TB?” he asked.

“What’s this about?” Dr. Harrison said, his tone suddenly suspicious.

“I’m with the assessor’s office here in New York,” Alex lied. “It’s come to our attention that a man named Duane King may be the legal owner of some land up here and I was told that he moved down there to get care for his wife. She had TB.”