Memory Man (Amos Decker 1)

“No, I don’t. Did you try looking them up in the phone book? Well, I guess online these days.”

“I did. There was no listing.”

“Oh, well, I’m sorry.”

Decker said, “Thank you anyway.” He started to turn away.

She said, “But there is old Dr. Rabinowitz.”

Decker turned back. “Harold Rabinowitz?”

“Yes, how’d you know his first name?”

“I did some research before I came,” he said quickly.

“Oh, well, yes. He’s still around, and if you can believe it, he still orders flowers from us. You know, the Coggers—that’s what we used to call them—were some of our best customers. My mother used to tell me, fresh flowers every week they ordered. And they sent a lot of flowers to folks, too. It was really nice. Nice for them, nice for our bottom line.”

“So you have his address?”

Her expression changed. “I’m really not supposed to give that sort of information out,” she said doubtfully.

“Can you give me his phone number?”

“I’m really uncomfortable with that too. You seem nice enough, but it’s against our policy.”

Decker said, “How about you call Dr. Rabinowitz and tell him that Amos Decker would like to see him. If he says it’s okay you can give me his address. If not, no harm done.”

“Well, I guess that makes sense. So you know him? I saw on your card that you’re Amos Decker.”

“Yes, I know him.”

“Well, why didn’t you say so? Hold on.”

She went to a phone, looked up the number on her computer, and punched it in. She turned her back to them as she spoke. A minute later she put down the phone and came back to them. She wrote something down on a slip of paper and handed it to Decker.

“Bingo. He said he would be delighted to see you.”

Decker looked down at the paper and then back up at her. “Are your parents still alive?”

Daisy looked mildly surprised by the query. “My mom is at an assisted living center and loving it. Big surprise, she does all their flower arrangements.”

“Well, tell her that Amos Decker remembers her flowers. And…that they helped a lot.”

“I sure will. She’ll be glad to hear that. The way Mother sees it, the more flowers we have the better world we’d have.”

Outside, Jamison looked at Decker. “Nicely done.”

He didn’t respond.

“So the flowers helped, huh?”

He shot her a glance. “Yeah, they did actually. So?”

“So maybe you haven’t changed as much as you think.”

Chapter

42

ON THE DRIVE over to Rabinowitz’s, Jamison glanced at Decker in the rear of her car. “One question,” she said.

“Just one?”

“Maybe not. So to be straight about this, it wasn’t Leopold you dissed. It was his partner. The waitress. Leopold simply delivered the message.”

“Right.”

“Presumably because you would have recognized this person?”

“I’m sure I would have.”

“And that person was with you at the institute?”

“It would be the only reason for the Mallard2000 reference. I don’t believe in coincidences, especially ones that large.”

“Okay. So our shooter was a male. Well, at least the probabilities lie there. Although the barman very crudely called the person an ‘it.’ He seemed to think she was a man dressed up as a woman. Or maybe a transsexual. Given that sort of radical change, you might not recognize the person.”

“Maybe not.”

“And she might have been a man at the institute and is a woman now. Or vice versa.”

“Could be.”

“So you dissed that person while you were at the institute?”

Decker’s phone buzzed. It was Lancaster.

She said, “We found a lot of usable prints and DNA in the restroom at the bar. We did basic eliminations and then ran them through the perp databases. FBI did the same.”

“And nothing?”

“Couple of druggies and a convicted rapist. They’re all doing time now, but at some point they used that restroom.”

“So not our waitress?”

“No. How goes it on your end?”

“I’ll let you know in a couple hours. Following a lead.”

He clicked off and settled back in the rear of the Suzuki.

Jamison gave him a searching glance. “Nothing?”

“Nothing. Let’s hope Rabinowitz proves more helpful.”

* * *

Dr. Harold Rabinowitz lived in an apartment in an old building on the other side of town. When Decker knocked on the door he heard footfalls heading his way.

A voice said, “Who is it?”

“Amos Decker.”

The door opened and Decker was looking down at a small, balding man with a gray beard and wearing dark glasses. He was well into his seventies. He had on a worn cardigan, dress slacks, and a collared white shirt.

“Hello, Amos.” The man gazed at Decker’s belly.

It took Decker a moment to process it.

“When did you lose your eyesight, Dr. Rabinowitz?”

“Fully? Seven years ago. Macular degeneration. A very nasty disease. You’re not alone. I can hear someone else.”

“My friend, Alex Jamison.”

“Hello, Dr. Rabinowitz. Please call me Alex.”

“I like your perfume. Vanilla and coconut, very nice. Am I right?”

“You are. Very good.”

He smiled, satisfied. “Other senses are heightened to compensate, you know. Please come in.”

They settled down in chairs in the small living room. Decker looked around and took in the neat surroundings, the carefully constructed walking paths. He also saw the guide stick for the visually impaired hanging from a peg next to the door.

“I was surprised to hear that you wanted to see me,” began Rabinowitz.

“I won’t take up too much of your time.”