He didn't bother to look around. "And that's a clue of sorts," he said.
"A clue?"
"Sure," he said, already half through his second Canadian Club. "If psycho Spritz had been here, my guess is the place would have been destroyed. I'd be interested in the shrink's take on this. Besides, I just left Spritz's garage and his car is there. Not him but his car, which is another puzzle."
David put down his drink, repositioned her legs on his thighs and leaned back, hands clasped behind his head. "You know, Kath, if I smoked cigars, I'd blow a smoke ring right about now."
"I wouldn't let you smoke cigars."
David liked her catch of stubbornness. He sat forward and said, "That's not the point. What I mean is … "
"I know what you mean, Dr. Dramatic. Let's have out with the great unveiling."
David's expression hardened. "Well", he said, "I think the culprit here is Bernie Bugles and he had something specific in mind. Something about his father's records."
Kathy drew back and asked, "What records?"
"Okay, are you ready for all this, or shall I refill your glass first?" She had taken only one sip.
"My glass is fine, and what are you talking about?"
Without warning, engine noises sprung from the direction of the driveway, now gunning, now purring amidst a series of beeps. Kathy recoiled.
In two steps, David was at the window. "No problem," he said. "Fitzy and his plow are back. He must have felt guilty."
David returned and sat next to Kathy, extending his legs over the table again, and lifting hers atop his with one hand. He drained the last of his drink and then told her of Charlie Bugles' references to possible drug shipments; of Alton Foster's surgical training and Victor Spritz's hospitalization in Cartagena, Colombia; of the circumstances surrounding Robert Bugles' beating; of what he labeled "the motorcycle caper in Cannon Cemetery"; of the CARCAN and CANCAN enigmas; and of the arsenal in Victor Spritz's garage and the Japanese rifle that matched the slug found in Bugles' head. He felt short of breath, but he thought Kathy looked worse.
The racket outside continued like a background chorus as he identified the calling card in the envelope he had handed her two days before-the adhesive strip from the elevator control room-and mentioned the paper on his windshield and, nodding toward the front of the house, the stone that had been hurled his way.
"David, my God!" she cried, as the motor noises disappeared.
"You said that before. It's okay."
"Okay? Why hadn't you told me about the calling cards?"
He crunched down on an ice cube. "I didn't want you to worry."
"I worried anyway. But now I'm ticked." Kathy reached up and, grabbing his chin, twisted his head toward her. "Listen, darling," she said, "murders, drugs, threats. You sure you don't want out?"
"Are you kidding?" David replied, "I'm just warming up. And what's this `ticked' business?"
"I thought we'd be sharing evidence." Any tenderness in her voice was gone. He could tell she wanted him to elaborate on everything he had discovered at Bugles', at Foster's and at Spritz's.
"Kathy, my dear," he said, with a sarcastic firmness, "I just covered less than seventy-two hours. A big, important investigator like me can't be running to the cops every few hours."
"You're big," she fired back and looked as if she had already reloaded.
"Thanks a lot."
She pinched an ice cube from his glass to hers and said, "Let's get back to Spritz's garage. It was a gun collection?"
"That's no gun collection. It's a museum." David described the designations by wars, the flags, the music, the newspaper article, the Army rejection letter and the scrawl in the margin.
"The man's insane!" Kathy said.
David clapped his hands. "Bravo. That's why he was committed."
"He could have shot Coughlin-most likely he did-but that doesn't mean he butchered Bugles or pushed Tanarkle down the shaft." She had been running her fingers to-and-fro over the back of David's hand but then stopped. "In fact," she continued, "maybe we have two killers. Maybe Foster's the butcher. He had the training." "Possible. But, Spritz certainly had motives, opportunities and means, even without insanity."
"I can think of one motive. What else?"
David counted on his fingers. "First, the obvious: not getting the EMS contract renewed. Then, I don't know, something about the report in Foster's files. Not his medical history per se, but why get hospitalized in Cartagena? I mean, I've heard of psychiatric secrecy, but why Colombia, South America, for Christ's sake? No, it's got to be related to drugs. Cocaine. And, how about a tie-in with Charlie Bugles and his Istanbul roots?" He had begun reasoning out loud.
"Sure," he continued, "heroin and Istanbul. Cocaine and Cartagena." David massaged his decision scar while Kathy finished her wine but never took her eyes off him.
"Wait a minute!" David leaped up, sending her sprawling on the sofa like a marionette. "Let me think," he said. He snapped his fingers. "That's it!"
"What?" Kathy gathered herself and stood. She tugged on his arm. "What?"
"Cartagena. The `CAR' in `CARCAN.'"
"Say that again."
"The `CAR' in `CARCAN' could be short for Cartagena. Jesus!"
He ran to the den and, on his knees, foraged in a heap of books on the floor, tossing them aside until he reached an atlas near the bottom. Kathy knelt beside him.
"That means," he said, "if there's a connection between Spritz and Charlie Bugles, and if my hunch is right that the `CAR' refers to Cartagena, then maybe the first `CAN' in the second word refers to a city in Turkey."
"Sorry, you lost me."
David opened the atlas to a map of Turkey and took out a pen. "See?" he said, printing "CARCAN" and "CANCAN" in the margin. "This is what we're looking for." He circled the first three letters of the second word. Without waiting for a response, he ran his finger up and down the country, confining himself to the Istanbul region.
"Kathy, there! Bull's-eye! Wait. And there. Damn, there're two of them." She strained to read the names of the two cities he had checked with his pen. They were about two-hundred miles equidistant from Istanbul: Canakkale, on the western coast, across the Sea of Marmare, and Cankin, inland and to the east.
He wrote the cities on an index card which he folded into his wallet, dog-eared the page and closed the book."So conceivably," he said, as they arose, "the first part of each word represents a city, and the second part represents something else. But what?"
Kathy squared her body to his and said, "You're thinking `CAR' is an abbreviation for Cartagena and the first `CAN' an abbreviation for one of those Turkish cities?"
"Yep," David said, smugly.
"Hmm, and the second half of each word stands for something common to both? Like a code name?"
"That's one way of putting it. " He stroked his mustache. "Yeah, like a code name. I like that."
They had wandered back to the living room and Kathy sat on the sofa, pulling David down beside her. "But what if CANCAN is simply shorthand for both Turkish cities?" she asked.
As the possibility sunk in, David raised one eyebrow in a questioning slant and said, "C'mon, Kath, why go and complicate things?"
Chapter 17
When David awoke early Friday morning, he was cold in bed and couldn't understand why he had slept so soundly until he recalled adding sweet vermouth to another double Canadian Club the night before. There was a misty remembrance, too, of poking at some kind of goulash, and, afterward, of admonishing Kathy that she would freeze in the nude. Everything else that may or may not have transpired was a blank.
Feeling dumb that he wore only shorts, he lifted the blankets and saw Kathy curled up and still nude. He kissed her awake and neither spoke as they did what he later referred to as "The thing they did or didn't do last night." He also called it, "Filling in the blank," and received Kathy's stoneface and sharp elbow.
After breakfast, David said, "I'm behind in my computer entries and look
outside because there go the tire tracks."
Kathy regarded him critically. "Now that's a sentence for posterity. I hope your mind isn't as scrambled."
"Right now? Yes. Sorry, what I meant was … you know I like to keep a diary of sorts … who knows? It might come in handy someday … and I think I'll bring it up-to-date now. Second, more snow fell, maybe two inches, so now we can forget tire impressions from yesterday."
"That's better. I know your mind's awhirl, David darling, but you have to slow down. And while you're trying to figure out how, I'm calling headquarters to change Spritz's APB to an arrest warrant."
David went to his computer and Kathy to the phone. After making his entries, he called Musco at the cab company.
"I have a strange request," David said. "Do you know of anyone who's a handwriting expert?"
"Sure. She reads everything: handwriting, palms, faces. Name's Madame Alicenova over there in Center City. We call her Madame Alice for short or sometimes just Alice."
"It sounds like she does handwriting analysis. I need handwriting identification."
"What's the difference? You'll get your money's worth."
"One's a science. The other isn't. I don't want some guess about personality traits. I want a positive identification of something."
"Believe me, David, my boy, this gal knows her potatoes. Even the FBI uses her."
Reluctantly, David took down her address and phone number and said, "Musco, thanks much for referring me to a goddamn fortuneteller."
"You wait. You'll see."
David called and scheduled an appointment for later, at four-thirty. He had expected Madame Alicenova to ask for details but she didn't. He had expected to hear an accent but there was none.
At eight-thirty, he and Kathy decided she would skip Ted Tanarkle's funeral later that morning but would attend the noon reception at Alton and Nora Foster's. He would go to both.
As he motored to St. Xavier's Roman Catholic Church, David pictured a lighted sign swinging in a cavity of his brain. It read, "CARCAN and CANCAN." He concentrated on what the last three letters of each word could possibly stand for and whether they stood for the same thing. He said them aloud-"Canada? Canvas? Canal? Candy? Candidate?" — and thought that once they hauled Spitz in, he would throttle the answer out of him.
He also thought he was becoming most proficient in two things: whipping out his Minx semiautomatic and attending funerals. Even luncheon receptions after funerals. He had not gone to Tanarkle's wake, and, flashing back to the rifle barrel on the hillside, decided to forgo the cemetery scene as well. He wanted, however, to pay his respects to an old friend and mentor at the funeral mass and, of more importance, to see who was there, a sleuthing necessity that he was sure Tanarlde would understand.
It was a summery morning in January and David found the downtown church's parking lot stuffed with cars in uneven rows and with mourners he knew: white-clad residents, nurses in uniform, department heads, an administrative contingent, and every doctor and pathology employee he had ever met. He wondered who was minding the hospital as he pulled to a stop on a crusty side street.
By the time he arrived at the church steps, the crowd had thinned, and inside, he was given one of only two or three remaining seats in the largest and most ornate church in the city. It was a middle seat in the last row which David thought was just as well, for he would have felt embarrassed if he sat up close and blocked the view of not only the officiating priest but also the statues above the altar.
The air was thick with incense, and organ music was so loud, it drowned out its own echoes. David could see clear to the front and, as he eyed each row, was not surprised by anybody's attendance: the Tanarkle family, the Fosters, Belle, Sparky, Dr. Castleman from the E.R. But then, two rows ahead of his: Bernie Bugles and Marsha Gittings from Pathology. They sat side by side. Coincidence?
The attache case, Friday, grew heavy on David's lap. He had discovered all he could and was tempted to leave but reasoned it was too early for the luncheon anyway. He stayed seated until the casket was rolled out past him and he had bowed his head and whispered, "Bye, old buddy. I wish you peace." He miscalculated, thinking his would be the first row to be guided out. Instead, others preceded him and it was a full ten minutes before his turn, but only ten seconds since the unlikely couple left in a hurry. As they passed by, Bernie had Marsha by the arm and had glanced back at David.
David blasted out, hoping to intercept them before they arrived in the parking lot. But it was too late. He spotted them though and gained on them, reaching the early model Ford he recognized as Marsha's. Bernie was in the driver's seat and was about to close the door when David held it back with the full length of his body.
"Hi there," David said.
"Why, Dr. Brooks, hello," Marsha said from the passenger side.
David looked at one, then the other. "I didn't realize you two knew each other."
Bernie made a feeble attempt to close the door. "May I?" he said.
David didn't answer, nor did he move. Bernie slouched and exaggerated a stare out the windshield.
Finally, Bernie turned slowly and said, "I understand you sneaked into my father's place." He pulled up the collar of a patterned windbreaker.
"I didn't sneak in. Robert let me in."
"My brother's an idiot."
"That's not my fault. At least I didn't break in. On the other hand, did my brother let you in my place yesterday?" David was an only child.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Bernie said, arching his back.
David glared at Bernie and had difficulty disregarding the possibility he had broken into his home. He wanted to drag him from the car and shake him into admission. Instead, he said, "Then how about this? Where do you keep your motorcycle?"
"I don't have a motorcycle, and what's with the third degree?" Bernie tried the door again.
David stood as solid as a nearby stanchion. "Okay," he said, "you don't have a motorcycle." He grinned at Marsha. "You're going to the reception, I assume?"
"Yes," she said.
"Good, I'll see you there." He released the door.
At Nora and Alton Foster's, David had left Friday in the car and, inside, swayed from foot to foot, itching to have the man in the ascot take his scarf and gloves. Barely in the door, he had to wait in one of three lines this time, and while he waited, harked back to the reception for Charlie Bugles when he thought the music, the noise, the liquor, the ostensible merriment were more suited to a political fundraiser. Not now, he observed, casting his eyes into the living room, over still heads and touching shoulders. Wagner replaced Gershwin, it was church quiet and there was no bartender. Even the sweet cakes he sampled from the table in the foyer tasted bland.
"David," Alton Foster said solemnly, "glad you could make it." He had swum through the lines and he shook David's hand. David knew he hurt men when he shook hands, and that the only way to prevent it was to slacken his wrist. He reserved that for women. Kathy had called it a double standard.
"Hi, Alton, it's pretty grim in here."
"Yes, I know. It's a sad occasion. They don't … I mean didn't … come any finer than Ted."
"For sure."
"Let me take those, please," Foster said. One of David's gloves dropped to the floor and they both started to bend for it. "No, no," Foster said, "I'll get it." He picked up the glove and puffed, "It's a shorter distance for me, right?"
They made their way to a row of closets where Foster said, "Here, Boris, these belong to Dr. Brooks."
David didn't quite know why he found that amusing.
The administrator steered him into a side room. "David," he said, searching his eyes, "what's happening? Has any headway been made on the killings?"
"We're still working on it." Foster was another one David wanted to extract more information from-like why he kept his surgical training a secret. He wanted to question him, not shake as in the case of Bernie Bugles, or throttle as in the case of Victor Spritz. Ju
st start questioning right now. But, once again, he congratulated himself for not allowing Foster's guard to be raised any higher than he thought it might be.
Foster pointed in the direction of the living room fireplace. "That Detective … Med-i-core, is it? Kathy's new boss. He's here, you know."
"He's here?"
"Yes. He's questioning people like there's no tomorrow, and I sort of resent it. It's an inappropriate time and place, really. Some of them have come up to me and complained. He hasn't gotten to me yet-I sure hope I can stay civil."
There we have it. Nick's no passive observer. Or is it a sham?
Foster went on. "I received a letter from the bunch at the Joint Commission on Accreditation office. They want a full accounting of … how'd they put it? … `the murder spree at your hospital.' Murder spree. What a shit-eating way to put it. They asked how we're coming along with our in-service educational efforts. Can you believe it? An in-service on how to outguess a murderer. And, do you know what? Our census is the lowest in our history. The bottom's fallen out. How can a backlash happen so fast?"
David was still assessing Nick's conduct but suspected he had heard the correct question and said, "Pardon me for saying so, but what do you expect? We've had four high profile murders, the killer's still at large, and there could be more."
"More?"
"Think about it. Don't just think about the census."
"But it's ruining us!"
David wondered why Foster's body language didn't match his emotion. "Look, Alton, patients are concerned, the Joint Commission's concerned, the police are concerned and, frankly, I'm concerned. Now, we can talk more later, but I must chat with some people before they leave." He wanted to range about and, eventually, to corner Bernie again. Besides, lately he felt listening to Foster was like moving a refrigerator and then having to strip floors.
"Yes, yes, of course. Go right ahead. I'll see you later. Oh, there's my wife. Go say hello."
They had edged back toward the foyer which was drained of early arrivals. David saw Nora Foster by a planter near the step to the living room and heard the click of fingernails. He moseyed over and caught the sweet fragrance of flowers he couldn't identify and had never seen in the winter except at funerals. She nipped at dead petals and placed them in the pocket of her striped bouffant skirt.
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