The coroner raised his hands in mock defeat and smiled. “You’re the police. Do whatever you want.”
“Oh, if only,” she muttered as she picked up the piece of fabric. “Thank you for your time.”
She got up and left quickly, not understanding just how much his attitude had bothered her until she was out of the office. Pawlowski caught up with her as she came to the end of the hallway.
“What was that?” Pawlowski asked. “Did you piece something together?”
“Maybe. But more than that, the whole approach to this man’s death has seemed lazy. Yes, I understand it looks like a suicide. But it took you and I all of…what? Maybe three hours to find at least one moving piece that suggested there might be something else to it?”
Pawlowski nodded her understanding. “So the fabric...do you have any ideas?”
“I do. And on the way to maybe get some answers, I guess you’ll get a quick history lesson on Ava Gold.”
Smiling as she held the door open for Ava, Pawlowski said: “Sounds like fun.”
They stepped back out into the street and started looking for another cab. Ava fingered the fabric in her pocket, knowing that what she had in mind might be a long shot. But she had to at least try. It was now 12:10, and they were quickly running out of time.
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
“For a period of about two years, I was pretty deep into the local jazz scene,” Ava said.
“What?” Pawlowski asked, seemingly astounded. “You?”
“Yes. And while it might seem like I’m bragging, I had started to get popular with some of the local bands. I’d get calls from clubs to lead certain groups here and there.”
“You? Jazz?” Pawlowski chuckled, apparently unable to see it.
They were in the back of a cab, the driver taking them a bit out of their original way, in the direction of Harlem.
“Yes. Me.”
“But hold on. I’d heard you used to screw around at a boxing gym…that you were pretty good in the ring.”
“Yeah, I did that, too. When your father is a fairly well-known boxer, it sort of comes with the territory.”
“Jazz singer. Boxer. Detective. Ava Gold, you’re one mixed-up dame, you know that?”
“So I’ve been told. Anyway, as you might imagine, being somewhat familiar with the jazz scene has given me certain connections. Here and there, those connections have come in handy when I needed information about seedier places and characters in regard to cases.”
“Okay. So are you telling me you’ve got some sort of connection that is going to have answers about how Alfred Perkins was killed?”
“Nothing that direct, no. But this,” she said, taking the piece of fabric out of her pocket, “does sort of lead me in that direction.”
“Yeah, what is it, anyway? Silk?”
“No, it’s some sort of fake silk. I mean, you can even feel it and know it’s not the real thing. I could spot it pretty easily because there are a lot of singers on the jazz circuit that wear it. From a distance, it looks like the real deal and gives you that glamorous look. And based on the simple, but elegant stitching design, it looks like it might have come from a man’s shirt. Like right along the lapel, maybe.”
“Okay…”
“If you recall, one of the people on that list we took from Perkins’s office was a guy named Isaac O’Hare. I thought I’d heard the name before when I saw it, but seeing this fabric at the coroner’s office brought it all back to me.”
“Brought what back to you?”
“O’Hare used to work with small tailors in the area to create dresses and gowns for jazz singers. He made shirts for the men, too, but they were really too expensive for jazz musicians to wear. If you’re in a jazz band, it’s really the singer—the one that’s up front and center—that gets the nicer look.”
“Why would Perkins have the name of a fabric manufacturer on his list? Seems a little small-time, doesn’t it?”
“Well, O’Hare had a larger network behind him, I think. I obviously never looked deep into it because why would I? I was just interested in the clothes. But I’m fairly certain he had a textile mill, or was running one cooperatively with a partner. I just don’t know.”