The Hollow-Eyed Angel
( Amsterdam cops - 13 )
Janwillem Van De Wetering
Janwillem Van De Wetering
The Hollow-Eyed Angel
Chapter 1
"Yes," the gentleman whose name the commissaris hadn't quite caught said, "it's about my uncle, who is dead, murdered. And about my serving with the Police Reserve, for quite a few years now, serving the queen, and serving you too in a way. And that a thing like that can happen, in New York, that's terrible, don't you think so, sir?"
The commissaris, chief of detectives, municipal police, Amsterdam, Holland's capital, sighed. Because the gendeman (whose name-he said it again-was Johan Termeer) had added a question mark to his summing-up, an answer would be expected.
The commissaris could just say yes, that it was indeed terrible. That the world is not getting any better. That an uncle goes out for a quiet walk, in Central Park of all places, in New York, richest city in the most powerful country-God help us!-Sunday morning-the sun is shining-kids at play-music-balloons-and, inexplicably, the dear old man dies between the azalea bushes? That's terrible, yessir.
Not a witness anywhere to tell what caused his death. And, 'when his remains are finally found the next day, the entire lower part of uncle's torso has been consumed by beasts or birds or something. The dead body of your Uncle Bert, your only relative on earth, turns up in a goddamn park. Discarded. Robbed. Dismembered. Two loose legs and only the top part of the rest. The loved one's final breath ratded while, on the nearby freshly mown lawn, the Park Stompers struck up their next tune. Complainant Johan Termeer whistled, not unmusically, "When the Saints Go Marching In."
The commissaris frowned. "And the police?"
"The New York Police Department?" complainant asked. Well, the NYPD ignored the matter. They filed away the whole thing-the murder or manslaughter- under "heart attack," if you please.
"Now," complainant said, "if you are police yourself-okay, a Reserve, an unpaid volunteer, auxiliary, even so, that's some sort of cop, right?-does it help? Especially if you are in a faraway country?"
It had taken some time before complainant even learned that Uncle Bert was dead. Complainant heard it later, early the next day. Because of the time difference of six hours. It took a while before it occurred to Charlie, his uncle's neighbor, that he might inform the dead man's only relative that Bert Termeer was no longer with us. Okay, so that relative lived across an ocean but, jeez, what with modern phone connections, satellites and answering machines and so forth, it's no big deal to cross an ocean by voice. "Is it?"
The commissaris put in another frown, indicating that people's proverbial thoughtlessness is, indeed, despicable.
So what do you do? complainant continued.
You hand over your elegant hair-care establishment in Amsterdam's luxury suburb Outfield to partner Peter.
You yourself travel to New York, by the next Royal Dutch Airlines flight. You find the Central Park Precinct and you talk to the desk-sergeant. Okay. You try to talk. Your English could be better.
Does anything happen?
Nothing happens.
You're told this was an accident. Uncle Bert, out for a stroll in Central Park, got hit by a falling branch or something, or a ball, or a rock, right smack in his chest. This didn't kill him, but the heart attack did. Shock or something. That's Mr. Park Cop's verdict.
Jeez!
So what comes next? Flying home comes next.
And in the 707 you begin to think.
You are – right?-yourself Mr. Cop. And America- right?-and Holland, the Netherlands, are friendly countries. Aren't there all kinds of police connections between the two, re drug trafficking and bank fraud and whatnot? So why can't you get some justice going if you now think of the highest office you can reach-reach-ability, that's a factor-and you go and actually see that powerful godlike figure?
Who to use as go-between? How about Adjutant* Grijpstra? Grijpstra is a professional cop, a good guy, he taught you for a year at Police Reserve Evening School where you got your official police diploma.
And so, through the good offices of "Master Steel-brush," as Murder Brigade Detective Grijpstra is known, because of his silver-gray cropped hair, you do manage to enter the antique-looking command post of Amsterdam's chief-detective, and there sits "Mr. Little Old Gentleman," as the commissaris is affectionately referred to within the force, and you are requested to state your case.
So you do that.
"Yes," the commissaris said, trying to enjoy the rare sunlight (Holland being an overcast country) that made the Oriental carpet between him and Johan Termeer glow mysteriously, especially where the orange designs almost touched the carpet's red border. He would have preferred the protection of his sculptured desk, which he had forfeited, because of the supplicant's being a policeman, not a bothersome civilian. The situation, between colleagues so to speak-he agreed with that-required an immediate face-to-face interview. The commissaris's and his visitor's identical leather-upholstered chairs were only separated by an old Chinese table, made from ironwood, a fine colonial piece from the former Dutch East Indies, on loan from the Netherlands Office of State-Owned Art.
The commissaris offered Verkade Assortie cookies from a tin, poured Egberts Gold Label coffee from a silver pot. This was Class A treatment. The visitor should take note.
Be easily approachable, even to lower rank and file, the commissaris instructed himself. An executive officer behaves "like a good father of the family."
In fact, he told himself, he had no time for all this nonsense. He had to go home, to his nice Queens Avenue residence where his wife, Katrien, would have lunch ready, to be served in the back garden: an open-faced beef sandwich, perhaps, a bowl of broth. At his advanced age chicken broth seemed to restore his frail body. He never used to go home for lunch but approaching retirement had weakened his discipline. A few more weeks and he was all done.
Chief-detective, personally in charge of Serious Crime. Renowned master of the famous Murder Brigade. Nice sounds, little substance. A drab little gent in a suit from yesteryear, bought in another epoch, in an expensive Baerle Street Store, where salesmen bowed, might even scrape.
Did anyone still know what bowing and scraping meant?
You had to make your own selection from the racks these days and hearty salesmen slapped your shoulders, even tweaked your buttocks if you gave them half a chance.
"Commissaris?"
He looked up. "Yes, dear boy?"
"Could I have your comments?"
After Reserve Constable Termeer had said he wanted to be addressed as "Jo," the commissaris restated the complaint. "In Central Park, your uncle, Bert Termeer, was found dead last Sunday. Your uncle's neighbor Charlie telephoned to say that something bad had happened. Hearing that your uncle had died of an alleged heart attack in the park, you considered the situation suspicious and took the first plane to Kennedy Airport…"
The commissaris nodded helpfully, his inviting smile showing long yellow mousy teeth. "Is that correct?"
"That's correct, sir."
"Your English was good enough to enable you to understand Charlie's message?"
"Sumzing bat, Unkel det," Jo Termeer said in his best Amsterdam accent. "I watch lots of movies. Det means 'It's all over.'"
"Right," the commissaris said. "So neighbor Charlie knew your telephone number?"
"He found it in Uncle's desk," Jo Termeer said, remembering he was a policeman now, that he had to be precise. "Uncle Bert rented both his work and living space; Charlie was his landlord as well as his neighbor. Charlie had Uncle's keys. There were only the two of them in the whole big building. They needed each other. Uncle r
an a mail-order business and Charlie sometimes helped him. Uncle Bert sold books. The building is on Watts Street, Tribeca, New York City."
"They weren't roommates?"
Termeer shook his head. "Charlie lives on the top floor. Uncle had the rest of the building. Separate households."
The commissaris switched tactics. He wanted to get to know complainant. "You flew out straightaway. Expensive?"
The ticket was cheap enough, Jo said, even at short notice. It pays to have friends.
"Friends?"
Termeer meant Marilijn, from the travel agency. Whoever was in with Marilijn traveled practically for free. He and Peter knew her.
"A personal friend?"
"Business. My partner, Peter, gives her free haircuts."
Marilijn threw in a New York hotel room too, with a view of an airshaft, but hey, sixty dollars.
"One moment," the commissaris said. His tape recorder's red eye no longer gleamed between milk jug and sugar bowl. He changed the battery. "Continue, dear boy. What did you do on arrival?"
"Found the police precinct that dealt with the incident, right there in the park, sir. I made inquiries, first of the desk-sergeant, then of a detective-sergeant, a man called Hurrell. Hurrell knew all about the case but wasn't sharing his information." Jo growled. "Goddamn asshole."
He was taken aback by his own profanity.
"I beg your pardon, sir."
Termeer blushed as he looked straight ahead, over the commissaris's shoulder.
Jo's features were flawless, the commissaris thought. Termeer would do well as an actor in commercials. A hero. The driver who stops for an old lady at a crossing. He who returns lost valuables. The magazine mannequin who brushes his teeth with the latest fresh-tasting soda and salt toothpaste.
Straight nose, firm mouth, nicely rounded chin, the commissaris thought grimly. The large sea blue eyes would be clearer if Termeer wasn't suffering, or, perhaps, frustrated. There might be some shyness here too, because he was a mere reserve constable who had penetrated police headquarters' superspheres. There might also be regret, after the use of bad language just now.
"You will inherit everything?" the commissaris asked pleasantly.
Termeer shrugged. "I'm the only relative but I'm not in need of money. Me and Peter own the hair-care. The shop generates piles of cash."
"Tax free?"
Termeer winked. "Right, sir. Me and Peter used to be socialists until we saw that we were supporting the silly people."
"You refer to the unemployed?"
"You know the big sign on the East Highway Homeless Shelter?" Termeer asked, worried that the commissaris might misunderstand. "Ever see that sign on your way home, sir? After working all day?"
The commissaris knew the sign well. It had been made and put up by the shelter's inmates.
"HEY SUCKERS!" the sign shouted. "DID YOU HAVE A NICE DAY ON THE JOB?"
Sixty percent of the Amsterdam population collected national assistance.
"You're no socialist, are you, sir?" Termeer was asking.
The commissaris reminded himself that he was in charge. Not to be distracted. One dead uncle. Was he dealing with a serious complaint here?
"What party do you vote for, Jo?"
"I don't vote, sir."
"Gave up hope?"
Since Year Zero. Jo explained the term. The year he realized that ever-multiplying humanity would strip the planet's surface was when he started rethinking his attitudes. He had come to see that "this will not get any better," that "hope leads to disappointment." Jo explained that he hadn't come to Year Zero on his own; he had to thank his partner. Peter was the wise one. Nature people were, by nature, wise. Peter, back in the former Dutch South American colony of Surinam, had seen the rain forest being cut down. It had to be cut down to feed the desire of a relendessly growing world population.
"Give up all hope," nature person Peter would say wisely. "Enjoy what is still left. Practice detachment!"
The commissaris smiled.
Jo Termeer looked hurt. "You don't agree, sir?"
"Dear boy," the commissaris said, "what's so detached about demanding justice? Aren't you here to avenge your uncle's murder?"
His uncle was a free soaring spirit brought down by self-serving desire. Jo tried to formulate that insight. How the detached should defend the detached. Make an exception. Idealism, pure and clear. "The last hurrah, sir."
"More nature people wisdom? You're quoting your partner, Peter?"
When two men live together the spark of illumination could jump across. "Wouldn't you say so, sir?"
The commissaris thought about being illuminated by sparks coming from Katrien or Turtle. He nodded. "You and Peter live together?"
"Above the shop, sir. In Outfield, in a large apart-t ment. The mortgage is paid off."
"Gay?"
"Yessir," Termeer said clearly.
"Quite," the commissaris said. Being gay was hardly a delicate matter these days, even in his own generation, now mostly out of commission, due to advanced age. Consenting adults, of course. Even so, the police are reactionary. Outmoded rules tend to be maintained. Within the police the Reserve was most old-fashioned. Volunteers were screened. Gay candidates, if they made a point of mentioning their preference, would not be admitted, not because of their homosexuality but for some other reason. The committee was manned by older dignitaries, retired staff officers, of the same useless type he-the commissaris looked grim-would soon belong to: conservative, senile…
He mumbled. "Old fogeys."
"Beg pardon, sir?" Termeer asked.
Nothing, the commissaris was just thinking. A Police Reserve screening would mean coffee, offering of cigarettes, a word of welcome. Candidates enter one by one. The chief fogey asks why the volunteer feels he has to "serve and protect" on his own time, without pay.
Any fascist inclination?
A power problem? A need to arrest prostitutes and feel them up in the cop car?
No?
Well, that's just fine then.
"Fellow committee members-I, as chairman, propose that this fine fellow be allowed to study at police school, evenings only, as he has a job to do during the day.
"I say let's have him learn how to fire a handgun. Let's put him in uniform. Let him pass all the required exams.
"He may wear the police shield pinned to his chest if he passes all hurdles. He will help guard the Olympic soccer games, prevent racists from throwing bananas at nonwhite opposition players, forestall Neo-Nazis from making hissing sounds to imitate gas faucets when Jewish players score. At Christmas time he can take care that no youngsters are trampled when St. Nick rides into the city.
"Haha. Right you are, son, you can go, you have been accepted. You're a Patriot. With the big P of pooplah. We thank you for wanting to serve the state. Please tell the next peon to step right up, will you?"
The commissaris didn't imagine that the Reserve Screening Committee would pass effeminate types, with earrings or embroidered waistcoats, but this Johan Termeer showed none of those symptoms.
The commissaris himself did not particularly dislike gay people. He did not particularly like them either. "Just like liking goldfish," he had said once, during happy hour. He had wanted to impress some high-ranking colleagues. Katrien wasn't impressed. Katrien thought her spouse was being stupid again. Rightly so. The commissaris nodded.
"Right, eh, Termeer. So, this Peter who you mentioned just now. You live together. For some time, I presume?"
"Twelve years." Termeer straightened his back proudly.
The commissaris observed that complainant also, apart from being handsome, looked neat. He quickly noted Jo's bleached linen pants, tan tweed sports coat, cream cotton shirt, silk necktie with a batik design. His boots were suede, recently steelbrushed to straighten the little hairs.
"Will there be a considerable inheritance?" the commissaris asked. "Uncle Bert owned a mail-order business?"
Termeer shrugged his right shoulder
disdainfully. "Money, but who needs it? I'm doing okay."
"Tell me about your uncle's business."
"He sold books," Termeer said. "Via a catalogue. Spiritual books mostly. Used. He bought the product in secondhand stores, catalogued it in his mail-order publication and sent it out widely."
"A good business?" the commissaris asked.
Termeer held his head to the side. "A sizable list, and he sold at about three times cost, but he also had expenses." Termeer's head dipped. "Bad debts maybe. Dud checks."
The commissaris thought of his dead brother, Therus. Therus operated a mail-order business once, distributing a catalogue of automotive products and gadgets. A profitable line. Brother Therus died in his early sixties, in gridlocked traffic near the fashionable suburb of Laren, hooting and hollering, in his new silver-gray Mercedes Sport, behind a shaking fist. Therus had spent his profits on Swiss mountaintops, with young escorts.
"Your uncle was profit-motivated?"
Jo Termeer didn't think so.
"Uncle Bert was childless?"
"Never married," said Termeer.
"Gay?"
"Uncle used to be friendly with his landlady, Caro-lien, when he lived in Amsterdam."
"And he rented space in a New York building?"
"On Watts Street," Termeer said. "That's in Tribeca, in Manhattan, near the river. Used to be a warehouse, where women filled jars with Russian caviar. Charlie lived on top, Uncle had the basement and the first two stories. Huge spaces, huge. The basement is where the books are kept."
Charlie, Jo said, sometimes helped out in the book business, updating the computer, packing up orders. The Watts Street building looked dilapidated on the outside and the elevators resembled the big predator's cages in the zoo, but inside, in the living and work areas, everything was kept up nicely.
"You visited your uncle in New York City?"
"I went on a tour once," Termeer said. "A supervised outing, like the Japanese here in Amsterdam: guide up front, guide in the back and everybody waves colored plastic tulips. Hard to get lost that way. We saw bridges and museums. There was a day off and I called on Uncle Bert. And just now I went again, because he was dead." Termeer nodded and sighed. He said the word in his own English. "Det."
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