Flesh and Blood by Thomas H. Cook

ruthless?”
    â€œSome people think so.”
    â€œAnd are they ever right?”
    â€œSometimes.”
    â€œThen you know that it cannot be an act,” Farouk said. “When you tell a man that you will harm him, he must know that you will do it.” He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms over his chest. “They are not so smart, the ones who work the streets, but there is one thing they can recognize very quickly, a coward in their midst, a man who will not act as he speaks.”
    For a moment, Frank watched Farouk’s face silently. He knew that he had been disturbingly right about a few things, especially one of them, the most critical at the moment, his disinclination to follow paper trails. It was a problem that had plagued him in the past, causing him to overlook obvious motives and connections while pursuing more obscure and darkly passionate ones. He had never liked cases where money was involved, insurance claims or business dealings, and throughout his career, he had avoided as many such cases as he could. But as he sat in the dark bar, he realized that to find a lost or distant relative might require exactly the sort of work he did not want to do. And yet, something in the case drew him irresistibly toward it, and he knew that he wanted to do it right, to overlook nothing, no trail that might lead him further in.
    He took a quick drink, then returned the cup to the table. “Do you have any more questions about me?” he asked.
    Farouk shook his head. “No.”
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œYou work in Hell’s Kitchen, but it is not the low rent that draws you there.”
    â€œHow do you know?”
    â€œYou come to this bar, even though the drinks cost the same as any other bar,” Farouk said. “And you work in Hell’s Kitchen even though you don’t have to.” He smiled. “That is all I need to know about you.”
    For a moment, the two men looked at each other silently.
    In his mind, Frank searched for some final reason to work alone, as he preferred, but the nature of the case argued for an assistant, one who knew the ins and outs of the vast bureaucracies that kept track of births and deaths, money, travel, property, the cleaner lines of life.
    â€œAll right,” he said finally. “I could probably use a little help here and there.”
    Farouk smiled broadly. “You will not regret it.”
    â€œWhat do you need to begin?”
    â€œThe woman’s name,” Farouk replied immediately. “Ido not remember it from the papers.”
    â€œHannah Karlsberg,” Frank said.
    â€œAnd her address?” Farouk asked.
    â€œThree fifty-seven Central Park West.”
    â€œAnd the apartment number?”
    â€œFourteen-A.”
    â€œYes, yes,” Farouk said, “that would be on the front, facing the park.”
    â€œYes, it is.”
    Farouk looked at him pointedly. “So you have been to the apartment?”
    â€œYes,” Frank said. “Earlier today.”
    â€œAnd the death,” Farouk said. “It was with a knife, I believe.”
    â€œYes, it was.” Frank told him. “But I’m not looking for the killer.”
    Farouk looked surprised. “What then?”
    â€œThe police won’t release the body until a relative asks for it.”
    Farouk nodded. “Then you’re looking for a brother, sister, child?”
    â€œYes.”
    Farouk smiled broadly. “Ah, then I can be of great assistance,” he said confidently. “I will start with birth certificates, then deeds.” His eyes narrowed in concentration. “Property is a great betrayer.”
    â€œI don’t have much to go on,” Frank said. “Right now, the only thing I know about Hannah Karlsberg is that she’s dead, and that the police won’t release her body.”
    â€œBut that is not routine,” Farouk said. “This holding of the body. Do you know why