by Dan Simmons
“Did anyone ever tell you that you use the F word too much, Tommy?”
Brubaker had given up smoking seven months earlier, but now he took a last drag on his cigarette and flipped the butt out the window of their surveillance van. It was almost 9:00 A.M., and not only was Kurtz’s Volvo not parked in the alley behind his office, but the secretary’s Buick wasn’t there either.
“So now what?”
“How the fuck do I know?” said Brubaker.
“So we just sit on our asses and wait?”
“I sit on my ass,” said Brubaker. “You sit on your fat ass.”
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
It was just 8:00 A.M. when Kurtz knocked on the hotel-room door, but when it opened, John Wellington Frears was dressed in a three-piece suit, tie knotted perfectly. Although Frears’s expression did not change when he saw Kurtz, he took a surprised half step back into the room. “Mr. Kurtz.”
Kurtz stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. “You were expecting someone else.” It was not a question.
“No. Please sit down.” Frears gestured to a chair by the window, but Kurtz remained standing.
“You were expecting James B. Hansen,” continued Kurtz. “With a gun.”
Frears said nothing. His brown eyes, so expressive in the publicity photos Kurtz had seen, now suppressed even more pain than Kurtz had seen the previous week at Blues Franklin. The man was dying.
“That’s one way to flush him out,” said Kurtz. “But you’ll never know if he’s brought to justice for his crimes. You’ll be dead.”
Frears sat on the hard chair by the desk. “What do you want, Mr. Kurtz?”
“I’m here to tell you that your plan won’t work, Mr. Frears. Hansen’s in Buffalo, all right. He’s lived here for about eight months, moving here from Miami with his new family. But he can kill you today and he’ll never be accused of the crime.”
Frears’s eyes literally came alive. “You know where he is? What his name is here?”
Kurtz handed the man the dental bill.
“Captain Robert G. Millworth,” read the violinist. “A police officer?”
“Homicide. I checked.”
Frears’s hands were shaking as he set the bill on the desktop. “How do you know this man is James Hansen? What does the bill—however high—from a Cleveland dentist prove?”
“It proves nothing,” said Kurtz. “But this is the dentist who’s provided dental records to police around the country after a dozen murder-suicides identical to the one in your daughter’s case. Always different names. Always different records. But always involved in murders that Hansen committed.” He handed across the folder.
Frears went through the pages, slowly, tears forming. “So many children.” Looking up at Kurtz, he said, “And you can tie this Captain Millworth to these other names? You have dental records for him?”
“No. I don’t think Conway kept any other records or X-rays on file for this office visit. I think he was going to use the standard X-rays when Millworth’s corpse—whatever corpse Millworth provided—would need identification.”
Frears blinked. “But we can make the dentist testify?”
“The dentist is dead. As of yesterday.”
Frears started to speak, stopped. Perhaps he wondered if Kurtz had killed Conway, but perhaps it was not important to him to know right now. “I can present this folder to the FBI. The bill ties Millworth to the dentist. The payment is obviously extortion. Conway was blackmailing James Hansen.”
“Sure. You can try to make that case. But there’s no official record of Millworth’s payment, just of an office visit.”
“But I don’t understand how the dental X-rays matched the teeth of the bodies Mr. Hansen left behind in these various murder-suicides.”
“It looks as if Dr. Conway, DDS, had a clientele mostly of corpses.”
Frears looked at the forms again. “Conway’s office was in Cleveland. Many of these murder-suicides occurred in cities far away from there. Even if Hansen somehow harvested these other men to be future burned bodies for him, how did he get them to go to Cleveland to have dental X-rays taken?”
Kurtz shrugged. “Hansen is one smart son of a bitch. Maybe he offered these poor bastards dental care as part of an employment package. My guess is that he had Conway fly to whatever city he was living in at the time, X-ray the fall guys’ teeth—maybe when they were already dead—and then have the dentist send the X-rays from Cleveland. It doesn’t really matter, does it? What matters right now is getting you out of here.”
Frears blinked again and a stubborn look appeared on his pain-ravaged face. “Out of Buffalo? I won’t go. I have to—”
“Not out of Buffalo, just out of this hotel. I have a better way for you to nail our Captain Millworth than becoming just another unsolved homicide in the good captain’s case file.”
“I don’t have anyplace to—”
“I’ve got somewhere for you to stay for a couple of days,” said Kurtz. “It’s not one-hundred-percent safe, but then, nowhere in Buffalo is really safe for you right now.” Or for me either, he could have added. “Get packed,” said Kurtz. “You’re checking out.”
Brubaker and Myers trolled the downtown streets, watching for a glimpse of Kurtz’s blue Volvo, checking the sidewalks for a glimpse of him, and driving by the Royal Delaware Arms every orbit.
“Hey,” said Myers, “what about his secretary’s house? Whatshername? Arlene DeMarco.”
“What about it?” said Brubaker. He was on his fifth cigarette.
Myers flipped through his grubby little notebook. “She lives out in Cheektowaga. We’ve got the address here. Her car’s not there today. If she didn’t come in, maybe Kurtz went out to her.”
Brubaker shrugged, but then turned the car and headed for the Expressway. “What the fuck,” he said. “Worth a try.”
Mr. Frears,” said Kurtz, “this is my secretary, Mrs. DeMarco. She won’t mind if you stay here for a day or two.”
Arlene glanced at Kurtz but extended her hand. “A pleasure, Mr. Frears. I’m Arlene.”
“John,” said Frears, taking her hand in his, putting his feet together and bowing slightly in a way that made him look as if he was going to kiss her hand. He did not, but Arlene blushed with pleasure as if he had.
They were in Arlene’s kitchen. When Frears’s back was turned, Kurtz said, “Arlene, you still have your…” He opened his peacoat slightly to expose the pistol on his belt.
She shook her head. “It’s at work, Joe. I don’t keep one here.”
Kurtz said to Frears, “Excuse us a moment,” and led Arlene into her living room. He handed her Angelina Farino’s gun—not the Compact Witness she had a sentimental thing for, but the little .45 he’d taken away from her at the hockey arena. Arlene slid the magazine out of the grip, made sure it was loaded, slapped the magazine back in, checked to make sure the safety was on, and slipped the small but heavy pistol into the pocket of her cardigan sweater. She nodded, and the two of them went back to the kitchen.
“I’m afraid this is going to be a terrible imposition,” began Frears. “I’m perfectly capable of finding—”
“We may find you another place after a day or two,” said Kurtz. “But you saw the situation with Hansen/Millworth. Right now I think you’d be safer here.”
Frears looked at Arlene. “Mrs. DeMarco… Arlene…this will bring danger into your home.”
Arlene lit a cigarette. “Actually, John, it will bring a little much-needed excitement into my life.”
“Call me if anything comes up,” said Kurtz. He went out to his Volvo.
Got him!” said Detective Myers. They had been headed down Union Road in Cheektowaga when they saw Kurtz’s Volvo pull out of a side street and head north toward the Kensington Expressway.
Brubaker made a U-turn through a Dunkin’ Donuts’ parking lot and pulled the floral-delivery van into northbound traffic.
“Keep way back,” said Myers.
“Don’t fucking tell me how to tail someone, Tommy.”
“Well, just don’t fucking get made,” whined Myers. “Kurtz doesn’t know this van. We stay back, we got him.”
Brubaker stayed back. Kurtz got onto the Kensington headed into town and the van followed six vehicles back.
“We should wait until he’s into the city to take him,” said Myers.
Brubaker nodded.
“Maybe near that flophouse hotel of his, if he’s headed there. It would make sense that we’d have probable cause to roust him near there.”
“Yeah,” said Brubaker. “If he’s headed to the hotel.”
Kurtz was headed to the hotel. He parked in the crappy neighborhood nearby, and Brubaker drove the van a block farther and doubled back along side streets in time to see Kurtz locking his car and walking toward the Royal Delaware Arms. Brubaker parked the van in front of a hydrant. They could intercept Kurtz on foot before he got to the hotel. “We’ve fucking got him. You got your club and the throwdown?”
“Yeah, yeah,” said Myers, anxiously patting his pockets. “Let’s do this.”
Kurtz had just turned the corner a block from the hotel. The two detectives jumped out of the van and began quick-walking to catch up. Brubaker pulled his Glock from its holster and carried it in his right hand. He clicked the safety off.
Myers’s phone rang.
“Ignore it,” said Brubaker.
“It might be important.”
“Ignore it.”
Myers ignored Brubaker instead. Answering the phone even as he ran, he said, “Yeah. Yeah? Yes, sir. Yes, but we’re just going to…no…yeah…no…right.” He folded the phone and stopped.
Brubaker whirled at him. “What?”
“It was Captain Mill worth. We’re to drop the surveillance on Kurtz.”
“Too fucking late!”
Myers shook his head. “Uh-uh. The captain says that we’re to drop the surveillance and get the hell over to Elmwood Avenue to help Prdzywsky with a fresh street killing. We’re finished with Kurtz…his words.”
“Fuck!” shouted Brubaker. An old woman in a black coat stopped to stare. Brubaker took three strides, rounded the corner, and looked at Kurtz approaching the hotel across the street. “We have the fucker.”
“We go after him now, Millworth will have our balls for breakfast. He said not to mess with Kurtz. What’s your hard-on for, Fred?”
Tell him about the money from Little Skag Farino? thought Brubaker. No. “That perp killed Jimmy Hathaway. And those Three Stooges from Attica, too.”
“Bullshit,” said Myers. He turned toward the van. “There’s no proof for that and you know it.”
Brubaker looked back toward the hotel and actually lifted his Glock as if he was going to shoot at Kurtz’s retreating back a block away. “Fuck!” he said again.
Someone had been in Kurtz’s room. Two of the tiny telltales on the door had been knocked free. Kurtz pulled his gun, unlocked the door, kicked it open, and went in fast Nothing. He kept the S&W in his hand as he checked both rooms and the fire escape. He didn’t see anything out of place at first inspection, but someone had been in here.
A knife was gone. Just a sharp kitchen knife. Kurtz went over everything else, but except for the fact that his shaving kit and brush had been moved slightly in the bathroom and some books set back on the shelf not quite as he had left them, nothing else was missing or out of place.
Kurtz showered, shaved, combed his hair, and dressed in his best white shirt, conservative tie and dark suit. The black Bally dress shoes in the back of his closet needed only a buffing to be brought up to full shine. His trench coat hanging in the closet was old but well-made and clean. Slipping the .40 S&W into his belt and dropping Angelina’s Compact Witness .45 into his coat pocket, he went out to the Volvo and drove to the Buffalo Athletic Club. On the way, he stopped at a Sees Candy, bought a medium-sized box of chocolates in a heart-shaped box, and tossed away most of the chocolates.
“You’re late,” said Angelina Farino Ferrara as he came into the exercise area. “And out of uniform.” He was still wearing his suit and trench coat.
“No exercise for me today.” He handed her the box of chocolates. The Boys looked over curiously from where they had just finished their work in the weight room.
Angelina untied the ribbon, opened the heart-shaped box, and looked at the Compact Witness nestled under the few loose chocolates. “My favorite,” she said, eating a pecan cluster and closing the lid. “Did you still want to do lunch?”
“Yes.”
“You’re sure that today’s the right day?”
“Yes.”
“But nothing dramatic is going to happen there, right?”
Kurtz remained silent.
“We’ll talk about this out at my penthouse,” said Angelina. “I have to change before lunch. You can ride out with me. I’ll have to introduce you to the Boys and anyone else who’s interested. So far, you’ve just been the Man Hitting on Me at the Athletic Club. What did you say your name was?”
“Dr. Howard Conway.”
Angelina raised an eyebrow and mopped her sweaty face. “Dr. Conway. How nice for you. Surgeon?”
“Dentist.”
“Oh, too bad. I understand that dentists suffer from depression and suicide at an alarming rate. Are you armed today, Dr. Conway?”
“Yes.”
“You know the Boys are going to relieve you of it as soon as we get in the car?”
“Yes.”
Angelina Farino Ferrara’s smile was predatory.
CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
They rode out to the marina in silence. Marco and Leo had shaken his hand in the parking garage and then searched him well.
“Why does a dentist need a gun?” asked Leo, slipping the S&W into his cashmere coat.
“I’m paranoid,” said Kurtz.
“Aren’t we all?” said Angelina.
Marina Towers rose twelve stories above an expanse of snowy lawn that overlooked the Buffalo Marina and the frozen Niagara River. From the parking garage beneath the complex, the four of them rode a private elevator to the eleventh floor, where the Boys lived—Kurtz caught a glimpse of desks, computers, teletypes, a few accountant types, and knew that this was where the Farino offices had been moved—and then Angelina took him up the final flight on a separate elevator. They stepped out into a marble-lined foyer, where she produced a key and let them into her penthouse.
The series of open rooms ran the full length of the building and filled the entire floor so that Kurtz could look northeast to downtown Buffalo and southwest toward the marina and the river. Even with low clouds on a gray day, the view was impressive.
“Very nice—” began Kurtz and stopped as he turned. Angelina was aiming the Compact Witness .45 at him and had pulled a second, larger automatic from a drawer.
“Can you think of any reason I shouldn’t gut-shoot you right now, Joe Kurtz?”
Kurtz did not move his hands. “It might ruin your plan to surprise Mr. Gonzaga.”
The woman’s lips looked very thin and bloodless. “I can make other plans.”
Kurtz had no argument for that.
“You humiliated me twice,” said Angelina. “Threatened to kill me.”
Kurtz could have mentioned the four men she had hired to kill him, but he didn’t think that would be the best argument to make in these circumstances. If she shot him now, she’d earn points with her brother.
“Tell me why I shouldn’t get rid of you and get someone else to go after Gonzaga,” said Angelina Farino Ferrara. “Give me one good reason.”
“I’m thinking… I’m thinking,” said Kurtz in his best Jack Benny voice.
Maybe Angelina was too young to get the joke. Her finger curled on the trigger. “Time’s up.”
“Can I reach slowly into my suit pocket?”
Angelina nodded. She was holding the larger .45 aimed steadily at his midsection and had set the Compact W
itness on the maple table under a painting.
Kurtz took the cassette tape out of his pocket and tossed it to her.
“What is it?”
“Play it.”
“I hate games,” said Angelina, but she walked five paces to a stack of stereo components built into a bookcase, slipped the cassette in, and punched “Play.”
Her voice came from the speakers. “Oh, but I did. I did. A boy. A beautiful baby boy with Emilio’s fat, rubbery lips, lovely brown eyes, and the Gonzaga chin and forehead. I drowned him in the Belice River in Sicily.” Her voice went on for a minute, explaining how hard it would be to get to Emilio Gonzaga in his compound, and men came Kurtz’s voice: “How did you plan to kill him?”
“Well, I sort of hoped you’d take care of that detail for me now that you know what you know,” came Angelina’s voice.
Angelina shut off the player and pocketed the cassette. She was actually smiling. “You miserable son of a bitch. You were wired that night out in Williamsville.”
Kurtz said nothing.
“So,” said Angelina, “in the event of your disappearance here, who gets copies of me tape? Emilio, of course.”
“And your brother,” said Kurtz.
“Not the cops?”
Kurtz shrugged.
“I should shoot you just on general principles,” said Angelina. But she put the .45 back in its drawer. Then she hefted the smaller Compact Witness. “You gave it back to me loaded?”
“Yeah.”
“You take chances, Joe Kurtz. Stay here. There’s fruit juice in the refrigerator over there, liquor at the bar. I’m going to shower again and get dressed. Emilio’s car will be here to pick me up in thirty minutes. I hope to God you have a plan.”
Kurtz looked at his watch.
Fifteen minutes later, Angelina phoned down for the Boys to come up. She met them in the foyer and led them into the penthouse, where Kurtz was waiting with his S&W, now sporting a silencer she had loaned him. Angelina closed the door behind the Boys.
“What the fuck…” began Leo. Marco, the bigger man, simply raised his hands and watched both Kurtz and Angelina.