"Wait a minute," O'Connor said, without looking up. Dean dutifully paused a few moments until Fred took off his glasses, slammed down the book on a table and said with a broad smile, "I knew it! The cousin had to be the illegitimate daughter of the old man. That was the only way it would work!"
"The cousin is always the illegitimate daughter of the old man," Dean answered. "Any mail?"
"Only your bicycling magazine, a few circulars and a couple of bills. I pitched out the junk mail and paid the bills." He paused, "You just have to sign the checks."
"You don't have to do that," Dean said, meaning every word of it.
"Glad to help. Don't the place look great? Me and Mrs. Porter cleaned it up today." Mrs. Porter, the housekeeper, came in weekly and Dean could guess the percentage of work performed by each. "You got a phone call too," Fred added, "The guy said it was important."
"Who was he?" Dean asked.
"Don't know. He wouldn't leave his name. He sounded kinda wacky. He's going to call back tomorrow night, at exactly 9:00."
"Tomorrow's Thursday."
Fred snapped his fingers. "I forgot," he said sarcastically. "Thursday's your night for sex." Dean simply ignored him.
Fred O'Connor had a sharp mind and a sharp tongue to match it. He was remarkably spry, healthy for his age, and had broken the hearts of half the widows in Parkside. Fred possessed a full head of snow-white hair, carried himself ramrod straight and was a familiar sight and well-liked figure about town.
Dean went to the kitchen and poured beers for himself and Fred. When he returned, he opened the compact disc player, a recent indulgence they both enjoyed, and checked the selections before turning it on. He and Fred did not enjoy the same music so when both were home the five-disc machine usually contained two jazz selections for Dean, two country and western for Fred, and a pop group neither liked but both could tolerate. The machine was set for "random selection" so no one was cheated. The right mix was in so Dean turned on the machine. He'd lucked out. It was Gerry Mulligan with a nineteen-fifties piece that filled the room with familiar strains. He returned to his rocker, sipped his beer and began to patiently answer the barrage of Fred's questions about his day's activities. Fred's level of interest was sky-high when he learned Dean had been assigned the Byrne disappearance.
"I was hoping we'd get that caper soon as I read it in the paper," Fred said as he reached for a pad and pencil to take notes. Dean ignored the pronoun we. "Give me all the details. Finally you've got something interesting-a case we can really sink our teeth into."