by John Lutz
“Snitch is your cat, too.”
“Come off it,” Quinn said. “The cat hardly looks at me. Tries to scratch me if I pick it up.”
“Cats are like that.”
“I don’t see Snitch trying to scratch you or Jody.”
“We pick him up right. He knows we like him.”
“You think I don’t like him?”
“I’m not so sure.”
“Whatever, the job is yours and Jody’s. Feds and I are working the Hoffermuth bracelet case, and Sal and Mishkin are doing field work in Stamford on that truck hijacking.”
A missing bracelet and a truck hijacking, Pearl thought. Times were hard.
And now a missing cat case.
“I thought we were working the Hoffermuth case.”
“We are. How much time can a missing cat case take?”
“Did Boomerang just run away, or was he catna—stolen?” Pearl asked.
“All we know is that he’s missing.”
“A male cat. It figures, name like Boomerang.”
Quinn didn’t know what she meant by that and didn’t want to get into it. “We’re not sure yet. He’s simply missing.”
“Maybe run over by a truck,” Pearl said.
“Damn it, Pearl!”
“Okay. But if the cat doesn’t return in seven years, do we declare it legally dead?”
“Seven times nine,” Quinn said.
“Who’s our client? Other than Renz?”
“A couple. Craig Clairmont and Ida French. They’re the cat’s owners.”
“Usually it’s the other way around,” Pearl said.
Quinn sighed, losing his patience with her, insomuch as he ever really lost his patience. “We’d be wise to keep Renz happy.”
“You can’t keep him happy unless he already is,” Pearl said. “And he isn’t, ever.”
“Except when he’s involved in something unethical, immoral, and contagiously corrupt.”
“You would stand up for him,” Pearl said.
Quinn reached into his top desk drawer, drew out a yellow file folder, and tossed it on the desk near Pearl. “For you and Jody to read.”
“The Boomerang file, no doubt.”
“Treat this like any other missing person case,” Quinn said without smiling.
She rolled the folder into a tight cylinder. “Renz give you this?”
Quinn nodded.
“I’d like to return it to him in a special way.”
“Behave, Pearl. Same goes for Jody.”
“We will,” Pearl said. “How, I won’t promise.”
“This is weird,” Jody said.
She was slouching on the sofa in the living room of Quinn’s brownstone. She and Pearl could have waited until morning, or returned to the office after dinner, to study the Boomerang files, but they didn’t. That was Pearl’s idea, making the Boomerang investigation a home project. Pearl didn’t want to defile the office by using it as headquarters for a cat hunt.
Pearl agreed with Jody—the case was weird. Reading the file made that apparent.
The clients, the married couple—if they actually were married—used different names. The woman kept her maiden name. Ida French. The husband was Craig Clairmont. They lived in the West Eighties with their eight-year-old daughter, Eloise. They had faxed a photo of the errant Boomerang. He was a black cat with long whiskers and a direct stare into the camera that could only be described as haughty.
The clients themselves hadn’t yet visited the office (or faxed photos of themselves). It turned out that Fedderman had interviewed them initially. He’d talked to them in their apartment, then phoned Quinn. Q&A had accepted the case, and just like that they were cat hunters.
Thinking about it, Pearl yawned and absently shook her head. The things a tight economy begot.
May 7, 2:06 a.m.
They were here to search.
Otto Berger and Arthur Shoulders carefully approached the passageway where they’d killed Jack Clairmont. Willard Ord, the fence and their boss, had a nose to smell a rat. He also had a multitude of sources, and years of experience in such transactions. A tongue had wagged; a word had been dropped. He knew Jack was going to try to pass off a paste imitation bracelet to them. In Willard’s line of work, there was only one way to deal with that kind of betrayal.
Betray first.
That had worked out okay, for the most part.
So here were Otto and Arthur, sent to search the passageway to dispose of Jack Clairmont’s body, and to make sure Clairmont’s finger went with it. All under cover of darkness.
Clairmont’s severed right forefinger was important. It might provide a print, which could lead to trouble. Of course the finger might have fallen into the trash truck, where it almost certainly wouldn’t be noticed. But there was no guarantee of that.
Their first problem was Clairmont’s body. It was gone. Someone seemed to have moved it.
They were secretly relieved. They might be killers, but neither man was fond of handling people once they’d been dead for a while. Otto wouldn’t even touch raw hamburger.
There was nothing to do about this state of affairs except find what they’d come for, and let Willard Ord figure out what to do about the missing corpse. Willard would still want the severed finger. Its fingerprint might lead to Craig Clairmont, and then to Willard. It was also possible someone other than the law had taken the body. Like the brother. Craig might do their work for them and dispose of the body permanently. They hoped whoever had taken Jack Clairmont had also found and concealed his finger. It wouldn’t do for it to turn up someplace when least expected.
They went about their task in workmanlike fashion, keeping their hands cupped over the lenses of their flashlights to direct the diffused beams downward.
Arthur happened to lift the lid of the Dumpster and shine his light into it. Still looking for the finger. And he found the rest of Jack Clairmont.
“What do you think, Otto?” he asked.
Otto was staring at the body, lying barely visible among trash bags, an old baby stroller, and some broken-down cardboard cartons someone had tossed in the Dumpster. It was possible—even likely—that Clairmont’s body would be unnoticed and go into the trash truck’s compactor to be dumped in a landfill. Then there would be no reason for Willard Ord to know what happened.
Or so Otto convinced himself.
“I think the brother,” Arthur said. “He musta known where Jack was going for the money-bracelet exchange, then came and found him dead and figured he had to get rid of him or he’d draw cops as well as flies.”
“I have no wish to get in there with all that yuk,” Otto said.
“Nor do I,” Arthur said. “If we cover him up some more, Jack Clairmont might never be seen again. He’ll go unnoticed to a landfill.”
“We might as well wish for the best,” Otto said. “Safest thing would be to leave Jack right where he is. Pretend we never came across him.”
“Willard would accept that only if we find the finger,” Arthur said. “That would prove we came here and searched.”
Otto agreed.
They searched on.
“This is hopeless,” Arthur said, after a while. “If the finger did drop to the ground, some animal could have taken it away.”
“No way to know that for sure,” Otto said.
“Who knows anything for sure, Otto?”
“I do. You should, too. If we slack off on this job and that finger turns up for the cops, Willard will see that we lose some of our fingers. Or worse.”
“Worse?” Arthur didn’t have much of an imagination when it came to subjects other than torture and assassination, but what he did have was working hard.
Both men knew that someone might have to get in the Dumpster and root around for the finger. They could flip a coin. But even that seemed too risky.
“I believe this is impossible,” Arthur said, after a while. “I have a suggestion. Since I thought of it, my belief is that you should do it
.”
“What is it?” Otto asked.
“We satisfy Willard’s wishes by returning with a finger. Jack’s remaining forefinger.”
“Yuk, yuk, yuk,” Otto said, but he knew he was going to do it. Willard wouldn’t know one finger from another. Arthur had come up with a solution to their problem.
“Easier than rooting through trash and garbage for a finger that probably isn’t there,” Arthur said.
So Otto used his knife and did it. Then he let himself down out of the Dumpster with Jack’s newly severed finger. Said, “Yuk!” again—and dropped the finger to the ground.
At the same time, in the corner of his vision, Arthur saw a flitting dark shape, like a moving shadow.
When he reached down for the severed finger, the dark form beat him to it, snatched it up, and whirled. The animal had its teeth and claws bared and looked very possessive. With grave misgivings, Arthur reached for the creature, was hesitant, and got only a brief feel of fur.
The cat shot between his legs and broke toward the far end of the passageway.
Otto was waiting, squatted down like a Sumo wrestler, and his huge, foreboding form caused Boomerang to halt for a moment.
Otto’s right hand darted down, and his fingers closed on fur and loose flesh at the back of Boomerang’s neck. He didn’t like the feel of the animal, but he kept a good grip.
Boomerang thought something like What the hell? Before he could react, all four of his feet were off the ground.
The big human had him by the back of the neck. Boomerang hated to be lifted like that. He snarled, spat, windmilled with his legs, claws extended, tried to bite, to tear.
“Little prick is pissed off,” Arthur said. “I’ll throw him in the Caddie’s trunk and we’ll take him with us so he won’t come back here and hang around the Dumpster.”
Otto kept a strong grip on Boomerang and held him extended well out from his body so the cat couldn’t inflict injury. The animal suddenly became still, but that didn’t fool Otto.
They started back toward where their black Cadillac was parked.
Otto abruptly stopped and pointed.
“What?” Arthur asked.
“The finger,” Otto said. “What we came for. Get it Arthur.”
“Jesus!” Arthur said. “We almost forgot.”
“You almost forgot.”
“Oh, no! Don’t try to hang that one on me.”
While Otto and Boomerang watched, Arthur soon found where the cat had dropped the newly severed forefinger. He stooped and gingerly inserted the finger into a plastic baggie of the sort that held sandwiches.
“It doesn’t matter who almost forgot what, Arthur. Just so we give the finger to Willard.”
“You know, I always wanted to give Willard the—”
“Don’t say it, Arthur. Don’t even think it.”
They walked on toward the street. Mission accomplished. Confident now in attitude and stride.
Boomerang dangled limply in Otto’s iron grip, eyes narrowed, almost shut, biding his time.
May 7, 4:48 p.m.
It hadn’t occurred to Ida and Craig that Alexis Hoffermuth not only regarded the police as public protectors; she saw them as her personal servants. Through taxes and contributions, she paid a large portion of their salaries, and she wanted a return on that investment.
Her call to the police had been prompt, distraught, and demanding. When Alexis Hoffermuth spoke, people listened. When she was upset, they listened extra hard.
The bracelet in the imitation Gucci purse had itself been an imitation. Even though it wasn’t the real Cardell bracelet, it was a pretty good paste facsimile. Some smartass crooks were playing with Alexis Hoffermuth’s mind to keep her off balance and buy time, toying with her, toying with the police, making a fool of her and the police commissioner—Harley Renz.
Renz wouldn’t have that. Absolutely wouldn’t.
Neither would Alexis Hoffermuth.
So here Quinn was with Pearl to see Alexis in her apartment in the exclusive Gladden Tower, an impressive edifice her late husband had constructed.
Rather, paid to have constructed.
An unctuous doorman met them in the marble lobby and interrogated them as if they really didn’t belong in the building, but maybe, just maybe, he would permit their temporary presence. Quinn made a mental note of the fact that the marble desk where the doorman usually sat had a brass plaque on it identifying him as Melman. No first name, unless it was Melman.
Quinn would remember Melman.
After they’d passed inspection in the lobby, they were given the privilege of riding the private, walnut-paneled elevator to the fifty-ninth-floor penthouse. They stood side by side, their bodies touching, as they rocketed up the core of the building. The back wall of the narrow elevator was lined with tufted taupe silk. There was no sound.
“Zoom,” Quinn said.
“Reminds me of a vertical coffin.”
“You can take it with you.”
Quinn had been expecting a butler, but when the elevator finally settled down, rather than enter near space, its paneled door opened, and Alexis Hoffermuth herself met them.
The widow had the immediate commanding presence that sometimes accompanies great wealth. She was in her early fifties, lean, cosmetically enhanced, and attractive. When twenty years younger, she’d probably been stunning. She was wearing a sleek black dress and black high heels, and looked as if she might be ready for a luncheon date to discuss a million-dollar endowment. Society page newspaper photos Quinn had seen came to mind. Alexis was active in the city’s social as well as political life and would usually be on the arm of a younger, handsome escort.
More accurately, he would be on her arm. Alexis was what the current flock of society journalists called a cougar. Quinn thought she looked the part. She even moved like a—
—Cat, Pearl thought. The woman looked and moved more like a cat than any human she’d ever seen. She gave Pearl the creeps.
“Please do sit down,” Alexis said, gracefully gliding to the side. She motioned toward a sitting area defined by a large Persian rug, matching cream-colored sofas, and easy chairs. One wall of the vast penthouse was glass, affording a stunning view of the buildings to the east and then the river. The high, high ceiling was also partly glass. Beyond it clouds floated past like lost souls of the city. All in all, the apartment reminded Pearl of an airport terminal. If dirigibles were still in fashion, surely they would dock here.
Looking as if any second she might pause and arch her back, Alexis moved to a small mirrored table. She opened the drawer and drew out a handful of glitter.
Pearl and Quinn were seated side by side on the soft leather sofa facing the glass wall. Quinn thought they must look like the pilot and copilot of the Enterprise.
Alexis glided over and showed them the two bracelets.
“They’re beautiful,” Pearl said, staring at the glinting clear diamonds and gleaming rubies.
“But they’re imitations.” Alexis pointedly turned her attention to Quinn. He was the power half of the duo that had come to see her. “Good imitations, for sure, but I want the genuine bracelet back.”
“Tell me how it was stolen,” Quinn said.
Alexis recounted how some blond woman had piled into her parked limo, yammering and pretending she’d made a mistake and entered the wrong vehicle. Black limos looked so much alike. Oh, she was always screwing up. “Bad girl! Bad girl!” she had actually said.
During all the apologies and confusion, she’d switched purses.
“She apologized a dozen more times as she clambered out of the car, and left me with an imitation Gucci purse containing an imitation Cardell bracelet,” Alexis said. “Later, my actual purse was returned to me by the postal authorities. Someone had dumped it in a mailbox. Either the person who stole it, or someone who found it after the thief had disposed of it. Miraculously, it still contained all its contents, and something else—what appeared to be the Cardell bracelet. Clos
er inspection revealed it to be almost worthless paste, yet another imitation.”
“Somebody went to a lot of trouble,” Quinn said.
Alexis Hoffermuth nodded sagely. “People will do that,” she said, “for a lot of money.”
“But it’s an odd way of stealing,” Pearl said.
Alexis stared at her as if offended. “Why? It caused confusion and misdirection, bought time, and by now the crooks might be in some other country, toasting their success and each other.”
“Or that might be what they want us to think,” Quinn said.
Alexis looked at him not at all the way she’d looked at Pearl. The handsome-homely Quinn filled his space and could inspire confidence and give hope, sometimes just by being present. He gave the impression he’d wandered down from Mt. Rushmore to become a cop.
Alexis smiled dazzlingly at him. Cougarishly, Pearl thought. “Do you really think, Detective Quinn, that we have a decent chance of recovering the real Cardell bracelet before it’s disassembled and sold by the stone?”
“It’s enough of a chance that it’s worth taking, dear,” Quinn told her.
Bastard! Pearl thought. Dear! Why did women fall for his bullshit?
Why did I?
“Commissioner Renz spoke very highly of you and your agency,” Alexis said. “Of course, he’s as much a politician as he is a policeman. I would go so far as to say he can’t be completely trusted.”
“I would go so far as to say you might be right.”
Alexis favored him with another predatory smile. “I appreciate the restraint of your reply.” She repositioned herself about five feet to her left, slim hips moving like silk, so she was facing Quinn directly and placing Pearl on the periphery. “Shall we talk fee?”
“I appreciate your directness,” Quinn said.
And fee they talked, as if Pearl didn’t exist.
But Pearl listened, and was astounded by how much Alexis Hoffermuth would pay for the return of the genuine Cardell bracelet.
Pearl didn’t look at Quinn as they were shown back to the private elevator, fearing that they both might break out in grins. As the elevator descended she could imagine Alexis Hoffermuth upstairs cleaning herself with her tongue. She decided not to mention that imagery to Quinn. Men and women saw the Alexis Hoffermuths of the world differently.