CHAPTER 3Mike Murphy lived in the Livermore Arms, an expensive pile of mortar and plate glass overlooking the East River at Beekman Place. Johnny Liddell parked his car out front, plowed across the deep pile rug in the ornate lobby to the desk. A white-haired man in an oxford grey suit with a wing collar made a half-hearted attempt to wipe the boredom out of his eyes as Liddell approached, but didn’t quite make it. His teeth were too shiny and too even to be real and Liddell had a passing suspicion about the color in his cheeks.
“Can I help you?” His fingers toyed with the triangle of white linen that peeped from his breast pocket.
“Will you ring Mike Murphy’s apartment? Tell him Johnny Liddell must see him immediately.”
“Certainly, sir.” The white-haired man sat down at a small switch-
