Free A Cat in the Wings: (InterMix) by Lydia Adamson Page B

person.”
    “Quite. And so?”
    “So?”
    “So it appears, Miss Nestleton, that the best course might be to search out his derelict acquaintances.”
    “That’s not as easy as it sounds, Mr. Brodsky. I mean, homeless populations are constantly shifting. Many of those people are addicts, criminals, released mental patients.”
    “Yes,” he answered simply.
    “And I don’t know that I’m really equipped to conduct that kind of investigation.”
    “Why not? If I may ask.”
    “For all kinds of reasons, Mr. Brodsky.”
    “The potential danger, for instance?”
    “There is that. But that isn’t the only reason I’d prefer to go about the investigation in my own way.”
    Brodsky gave me another patronizing smile, but this time I saw the glint of steel behind it. “I think, Miss Nestleton, that if you are not presently ‘equipped,’ as you put it, then you should become so. Don’t you agree that, given Lucia’s predicament, any other course would be frivolous?”
    I was stung by his criticisms and his manner. So much for the leeway he had claimed he would give me, the trusted professional.
    “One other thing,” he continued.
    “Yes, of course, Mr. Brodsky.”
    “I’ve set up an expense account for you and your associate, Mr. . . . Mr. . . .”
    “Basillio,” interjected Tony, who had been circling the room up to now, paying not the slightest attention to what was going on. I had a most compelling urge to slap him across the face. But if Brodsky thought I had botched things before, I could imagine how he’d respond to my attacking my own colleague.
    “Yes. Mr. Basillio, of course. As I was saying, a special fund has been set up to enable you to buy information from people on the street who knew Dobrynin—
if
you can locate them.”
    Another barbed comment, I thought.
    “I am certain Mr. Basillio can guarantee your safety, Miss Nestleton. As I’m sure he must have done countless times in the past.”
    Tony chuckled appreciatively. I glared at him, but he didn’t notice.
    The problem was, I just wasn’t ready for the kind of enterprise Frank Brodsky wanted to launch me on. Yes, certainly time was of the essence. He was right about that. And yes, I had accepted a huge fee for my services—five thousand dollars. But mine was a more intensive, cerebral style of investigation. Searching out arcane facts . . . making connections no one else seemed to recognize . . . unraveling knots . . . unearthing supposedly irrelevant tidbits of data . . . extracting the truth from among the ambiguities. Yes, it was that kind of inquiry that played to my particular strengths. It was not easy to see myself acting like an undercover street cop. But that was what Brodsky expected of me, apparently.
    I looked over at him. He was waiting patiently. Waiting for my decision. Clearly, it was going to be his way or no way.
    Tony was standing up very close to one particular painting—a magnificent rendition of a mountain gorge and waterfall, set in a festival of jagged cliffs.
    Then he limped happily over to the two of us, exclaiming, “I’ve actually been there!” He pointed back excitedly at the painting. “That’s Lookout Mountain! In the Catskills!”
    Brodsky and I both regarded him dumbly. I felt my face go hot. When the attorney made eye contact with me again, I noticed for the first time that he had lovely blue-green eyes. And they seemed like the eyes of a young man.
    Basillio continued, oblivious to our lack of response, “I’ve always loved this kind of stuff. It almost makes you dizzy—like good brandy.”
    “Well,” Brodsky replied, this time looking searchingly at Tony, “perhaps one day you will have the good fortune to own one, Mr. Basillio.”
    Tony laughed heartily and hobbled back to his chair.
    “No, Tony,” I said. “Don’t sit down. I think we have our instructions now. We can let Mr. Brodsky get back to work.” And then I said directly to the lawyer, “I will do my