The Talbot Odyssey

by Nelson DeMille

  Abrams shook his head. “One O’Brien function a weekend is enough.”

  “Well, think it over. All right? You can go out with Peter and me—by speedboat.” She shook her head. “Oh, that sounds like I’m trying to bribe a child. What I mean is, it only takes about forty minutes by boat. You can take the train home if you’re bored. . . . There will be people you know. . . . Why do I sound so patronizing?”

  He walked across the living room and put his paper cup on the sink. She didn’t sound patronizing, he thought. She sounded flustered. He said, “Actually, I have another engagement.”

  “Oh . . . well, I’d better get moving.” She went into the bedroom and closed the door behind her, then reopened it again. “Where’s my head this morning? Do you need to use the bathroom?”

  “No,” he answered, “go ahead. I’m fine for the next fifteen minutes or so. I can warm up for the run. Uphill, downhill.”

  She glanced at the uneven floor, gave him a look of mock annoyance, then disappeared again into the bedroom.

  Abrams heard the shower go on. He picked up the telephone and dialed. “Spinelli. Abrams.”

  Captain Spinelli’s voice came on the line, groggy and hoarse. “Well, the Wandering Jew. Where the fuck are you, Abrams? Why weren’t you at your place?”

  “I slept at Thirty-sixth Street.”

  “Like hell you did. Where are you?”

  “Down in the West Village.”

  “Where in the West Village?”

  “Apartment 4B. Listen, what did the ME determine as Arnold Brin’s cause of death?”

  “Accidental choking.” Spinelli cleared his throat. “No evidence of foul play.”

  “There were files missing.”

  “Impossible to prove or to tie it in. What difference does it make? We know it was murder. How come you’re not murdered yet?”

  “The weekend’s not over. Anything on the Thirty-sixth Street jumper?”

  “Yeah. There was a scuffle on the roof. Three men. But I guess you know that. We got your prints on the fire escape, fella.”

  “Well, I had sense enough to climb down. How about the body?”

  “Foreigner. Probably East European, though the clothes were all American brands. What happened up there? Who would want to kill you? Except me?”

  “I’ll tell you about it later. Meanwhile, keep an eye on Claudia Lepescu.”

  “We’re keeping an eye on everyone—everyone we can find. I’m trying to get a line on this Kimberly broad. Would you believe we can’t even find an address for her? Even Ma Bell has nothing on her. Everybody has a phone. Right? So she’s using an alias. Can you believe a classy lawyer has an alias? We tried to run down a few other characters in this script, but there’s nothing on them. Everyone must have an alias. Friggin’ lawyers. But it’s more than that. Right? Who are these people you’re working for, Abrams? Where do they live?”

  “O’Brien lives on Sutton Place, but I’m not sure of the address. Van Dorn has an estate in Glen Cove. The Grenvilles mentioned Scarsdale. Thorpe is at the Lombardy. Kimberly is at 39 Carmine Street. Check the Bar Association.”

  “They’re shut down for the weekend. But I’m going to be at O’Brien’s office bright and early Tuesday morning and I want everyone there. Including you, ace.”

  “Listen, did you call the CIA about Thorpe?”

  “Yeah. They’re stonewalling. Wait until they need a favor. Assholes. The FBI is cooperative, but they seem a little jumpy about this. Anyway, I checked Thorpe out through normal channels on the off chance he made a police file. . . .”

  Abrams could hear the sounds of Spinelli lighting up one of his deadly black panatelas, followed by a coughing fit. “Draw deep,” he said.

  “Fuck you.” He got the cough under control, then said, “Nassau County DA file. About seven years ago. Thorpe and his wife, Carol, boating on Long Island Sound. She was lost at sea. There was a Coast Guard report also.”

  “Conclusions?”

  “What the hell could they conclude? Accident. Boating accidents are near-perfect murders. According to something I read, the CIA has disposed of at least three people in Chesapeake Bay that way. Christ, they’ve taken out a trademark, copyright, and patent on it.”

  “Still, it could have been an accident.”

  “Absolutely. Only Peter and Carol knew for sure. Peter testified at the Coast Guard hearing. Carol was never found. They had a ceremony at sea for her. The husband was visibly upset. No indictment.”

  Abrams stayed silent for some time, then said, “I guess you can’t use that one too often.”

  “No. You’re allowed one every seven years or so. One wife, one business partner, one brother-in-law. Law of averages. So I did check Coast Guard reports for about twenty years back. Nothing. Then I realized that not all waterways come under Coast Guard jurisdiction. So I checked with some state governments. Maryland had what I wanted. Chesapeake Bay inlet, 1971. Man overboard. Captain Peter at the helm. He comes about to rescue the unfortunate man and . . . oh, no, he runs over the guy’s head. But all is not lost. The man is still alive. Captain Peter reverses the screws, as they say, and accidently backs into the poor bastard, giving him a shave, a haircut, and a lobotomy. Anyway, this accident looked a lot like Company business. There were no legal proceedings.” Spinelli paused, then said, “This man is a cold-blooded killer.”

  “Don’t jump to conclusions.”

  “Yeah. Anyway, how is James Allerton involved in this? That’s one reason everyone seems so jumpy. That’s the James Allerton, right?”

  “Right. Allerton is actually Thorpe’s adoptive father.”

  “No kidding?”

  “No kidding. Allerton is also a friend of the missing Colonel Carbury. Did you find any trace of Carbury?”

  “No, but I know how he disappeared. It was a double.”

  “You found the double?”

  “Sure did.”

  “Who hired him?”

  “I asked him, but he’s not talking.”

  “Dead?”

  “Bingo. Tugboat found him as a floater. Lower harbor, heading for France. It came through homicide as an apparent suicide, but I’m real sharp, Abrams. All unidentified stiffs and suspicious deaths were going through me. Long story, but the prints were on file for a cabaret license. I checked with Actors Equity, and someone who knew him came down and made a positive ID. The stiff is a guy named Larson.”

  “How did you connect him to Carbury?”

  “Well, he’s an actor, for one thing. Also, we got a wire photo of Carbury from England and a description—height, weight, age. This guy Larson could pass for him. Larson wasn’t wearing Carbury’s clothes, though. On the other hand, the ME feels that Larson was dressed after he was dead. He was probably drowned in a bathtub or a bucket of water, stripped, dressed in his own clothes, and tossed in the river.” Spinelli paused. “We’re dealing with very foxy people here. Serious people.”

  “Right.” Yet, he thought, for all this cleverness and all this cloak-and-dagger nonsense, it all boiled down to a city homicide squad doing their job. “Nice work, Spinelli.”

  “Oh, thank you, Mr. Abrams. Maybe that’s why I’m a captain and you’re still in school.”

  “Maybe. Listen, did you speak to the bartender again? Donald?”

  “We had an appointment for this morning at nine, but Donald came in early. Around one A.M. He’s on the slab next to the actor. Mugged up in The Bronx. Pelham Bay, IRT station. Ice pick through the top of his head.”

  “Jesus Christ—”

  “Right. Hey, the ice pick was a nice touch, though—get it? Bartender . . . ice pick . . . Well, anyway, how come you’re still alive? How we gonna find you, Abrams? Crushed to death under a mountain of subpoenas?” Spinelli laughed loudly.

  Abrams trailed the telephone cord to the refrigerator and poured another cup of juice. He took a long drink, then said, “Nicholas West. You watching him?”

  “Yeah. Everybody’s watching that sucker. Who t
he hell is he?”

  “A man with lots of answers.”

  “Yeah, well, we’re not even allowed to talk to him. Anyway, he’s tucked in at the Princeton Club.”

  “Okay, how about—”

  “Hold on. Now it’s your turn, Abrams. Fill me in on what you know. What’s this with the O’Brien firm, for instance? Why is all this shit going down on my turf? Why not Newark, or Berlin or someplace?”

  “This phone may not be secure.”

  “Oh, cut the shit.”

  Abrams realized he wasn’t going to tell Spinelli anything about O’Brien and the OSS Veterans, and this surprised him, but not completely. He heard the shower shut off. “I have to run—”

  “Your place is staked out, you know. So is Thirty-sixth Street.”

  “I know. Stake out 39 Carmine, too. Thanks.”

  “Yeah. Thanks my ass. As soon as you go home to get your socks, I’m pulling you in. I have a warrant for your arrest. You’ll be better off in the slammer anyway.”

  Abrams finished the orange juice. “Look, cancel the warrant and I’ll be in your office at nine tomorrow morning.”

  “I had an appointment with the bartender at nine this morning. You people keep turning up early in the morgue.”

  “I have things to do today. I’ll know more tomorrow.”

  Spinelli let a long time go by before responding. “Okay. Tomorrow at nine.” He hesitated, then said, “Hey . . . Tony . . . watch yourself. Okay?”

  “Okay.” Abrams hung up and stood in the middle of the living room. He heard Katherine’s hair dryer go on. He figured he should put his pants on to walk through her bedroom to the shower. On the other hand, she’d already seen him in his shorts, and he didn’t want to appear unduly modest or shy. The logistics of these things got sort of muddled.

  The hair dryer went off and she came to the door wearing the kimono. “Are you going to shower? I’ll dry my hair in the bedroom. There are shaving things in the bathroom . . . I have disposable razors and toothbrushes.”

  “Does one have my name on the handle?”

  “Possibly. Look under T.” She went back into the bedroom and he heard the dryer go on again.

  Abrams hung his holster over his shoulder and went into her bedroom. She was sitting at the vanity with brush and dryer and took no notice of him. He saw the bathroom door and went in, closing it behind him. The bathroom at least was modern, which was to say circa 1955.

  He slipped off his shorts and stood in front of the mirror. Neatly laid out on the sink top were the disposable razor and toothbrush along with a can of aerosol shaving cream. There was a bottle of aftershave lotion sporting a little man playing polo. A haberdasher had tried to explain to him once why the little polo player was worth about twenty to thirty dollars more than, say, an alligator or a penguin. He sniffed the bottle. It was definitely Thorpe’s scent.

  Abrams shaved, then showered. He dried himself, passed on the aftershave lotion in favor of some witch hazel, then wrapped himself in the bath towel. Boxer shorts in one hand, gun and holster in the other, he opened the door and stepped into the bedroom.

  She was standing in front of her dresser wearing only a pair of running shorts and holding a T-shirt in her hands. They held eye contact without speaking for what seemed like a long time, then Abrams turned and walked out of the bedroom.

  Abrams sat on the couch and lit a cigarette. He had, he reflected, come a long way since Friday morning when he’d arrived at work to find a small stack of terse memos and notes on his desk, all signed Kimberly.

  There was a knock on the bedroom door and Katherine called out, “May I come in?”

  “Sure.”

  She entered the living room, dressed in white cotton shorts and the blue T-shirt, carrying her shoes and socks. She looked him up and down, dressed in the green bath towel. “You won’t get far in that.” She smiled, then sat in the armchair and pulled on her sweat socks. Abrams found himself looking at her legs.

  After a few seconds of silence, they both said simultaneously, “I’m sorry—” then both smiled.

  Abrams said, “I should have knocked.”

  “Well, I should have . . . dressed when I heard the shower running.”

  “We’ll get it together next time.”

  She tied her running shoes. “I see you hung your clothes neatly on my kitchen table. Why don’t you get dressed behind me while we talk?”

  “Right.” Abrams walked to the small round table in the corner and began dressing.

  She said, “We can’t both hide out here forever.”

  “No, but there is a certain safety in numbers.” He tucked his shirt in and slipped his shoulder holster on. “I suggest that whoever is still alive by tonight stay at the house on Thirty-sixth Street. The police are watching it.”

  She nodded. “That sounds sensible. Claudia will enjoy the company.”

  Abrams didn’t respond. He walked around the armchair and sat on the couch across from her. He put on his socks and shoes.

  She stood, stretched, and touched her toes. “Well, this will be a good run. I’ll meet you at your place in about an hour.”

  “Fine.” He stood and slipped on his jacket. “Is there a group that meets at City Hall?”

  “Yes. People leave in groups between seven and eight. I’ll be all right.”

  He unbolted the door and looked into the small hallway, then turned back to Katherine. “Take a taxi to City Hall.”

  “Of course.” She stood and looked at him. “Tony . . . you know, I’m starting to feel guilty about dragging you into this.”

  He smiled. “I had no plans for the long weekend anyway.”

  She didn’t respond.

  Abrams looked at her. “Where do you think we might meet Peter Thorpe?”

  She stared back at him, then replied, “Anywhere along the route.”

  “Well, we’ll keep a sharp eye out for him.”

  She nodded.

  Abrams pulled the door closed behind him, drew his revolver, and began walking down the four flights of stairs.

  32

  Peter Thorpe walked the length of the long, dimly lit garret and stood beside the hospital gurney. He looked down at Nicholas West, who lay naked on the table, bathed in bright light, a black strap securing his legs, another across his chest and arms.

  Beside the table were two intravenous stands, a heart monitor, a rolling cabinet that held medical instruments, and two electrical consoles. There were tubes and wires running from West’s body. Anyone coming onto the scene would think they were seeing a terminal patient; in fact, they were.

  Thorpe put on a pair of black wraparound sunglasses and regarded West for a few seconds, then asked, “How are you, Nicko?”

  West managed to nod his head as he squinted into the blinding spotlight.

  “Good.” Thorpe bent closer to West. “Could be worse, you know.”

  Thorpe’s head cast a shadow over West, and West was able to open his eyes for the first time in many hours. He stared up at the face hovering over him and focused on the black, curved sunglasses, trying to recall, in his drug-clouded mind, the name of an animal, then mumbled, “A mole . . . you’re a mole. . . .”

  Thorpe laughed, then said, “When I was a boy, Nick, I used to follow those raised mole tunnels across the lawn. Sometimes I’d be rewarded at the end of a tunnel. I would see some slight movement. . . . I’d carry a spade with me, and I’d drive that spade into the sod where the mole was burrowed, and cut the little guy in half.”

  West said nothing.

  Thorpe smiled. “The image of that blind, stupid mole, thinking he was safe in his pathetic tunnel, eating his grubs, but leaving an unmistakable trail, always stayed with me, Nick. And when that spade severed him in half, I wondered what passed through his feeble brain. Why did nature provide so inadequately for his survival? Is there a spade poised above my head? We’ll discuss that.”

  Thorpe moved back, and the blinding spotlight fell full on West’s face again,
forcing him to shut his eyes. Thorpe smiled, then turned to Eva. “How are his vital signs?”

  The big Polish woman nodded. “He is a healthy man. Good blood pressure, heart rate, breathing.” Eva checked the catheter inserted in West’s penis, then stooped down and pointed to the urine-holding bag. “His water is clear.”

  Thorpe glanced at the lower shelf of the gurney. There was also a jar for collecting aspirated fluids from the lungs, and a rectal tube running through a hole in the gurney. Eva said, “There is no more solid waste.”

  Thorpe reached up and snapped off the spotlight. West opened his eyes and the two men stared at each other for some time. Finally, Thorpe spoke. “Poor Nick. But you always knew, didn’t you, that you were doomed to wind up naked on a table like this?”

  West nodded. “. . . knew . . .”

  Thorpe leaned closer to West. “Did you ever think it would be my table?”

  West opened his mouth and his words came out in slow, labored syllables. “Peter . . . please . . . don’t do this to me. . . .”

  “Why not?” snapped Thorpe. “I’ve done it to people who deserved it less than you.” Thorpe added, “To people I’ve respected more than you.”

  “Peter . . . for God’s sake . . . I’ll tell you whatever you want to know . . . please, this is not necessary. . . .”

  Thorpe looked at the red digital LCD readout. “The voice-stress analyzer says that was a lie, Nick.” He looked at the polygraph paper. “And the lie detector says the same thing. You know what happens when you fib.”

  West shook his head violently. “No! No! No!”

  “Yes, yes yes.” Thorpe nodded to Eva, who was waiting expectantly with two alligator clips in her hands. She attached the clips to West’s scrotum.

  Thorpe moved the dial of the direct-current transformer.

  “No! No! N—” West’s face suddenly contorted into an agonized grimace and he screamed as his body convulsed. “Ahhh . . . Ahhh!”

  Thorpe turned off the transformer. He said to West, “You know, Nick, it was I who perfected this method of interrogation. It’s unofficially called the Thorpe Method. I always wanted something sinister named after me. Like Monsieur Guillotine’s little gadget, or Lynch’s law. . . .”