"Hello, Nora. Nipping in the bud-I mean after the bud?"
"Oh, Dr. Brooks. Welcome again. This is getting to be a habit."
Her husband, now at their side, retorted, "Getting to be? I can't take her to a flower show. We'd get thrown out."
She countered, icily, "Alton, dearest, I was referring to funeral receptions, not blossom cleansing."
She deposited a fistful of petals into a plastic sandwich bag and, shaking a finger at David, said, "Now don't forget the blood drive tomorrow. It's the staff's chance to do its duty. Remember, you missed in July."
"Yes, ma'am," he replied, in the manner of a schoolboy caught playing hooky. That's all she's got to think about at a time like this?
David excused himself when he spotted Betty Tanarlde sagging on a window seat at the far end of the living room. Several guests appeared to be offering her their condolences. He walked over, waited his turn and said, "Betty, I'm terribly sorry and I suppose it's no comfort to say he lived a full life." He took her hands and leaned over to kiss her.
"Thank you, David. Ted was one in a million," she said, her voice, wooden.
David thought it odd that whereas he remembered she had worn black at Bugles' funeral, now she was in emerald green. At least she yielded on her neckline this time, he mused.
He moved on to allow others their expressions of sympathy. Just then, he detected the scent of his favorite perfume and felt a gentle tap on his shoulder from behind. Without turning, he said softly, "Darling, I've been waiting for you."
Kathy walked around to face him and said, "It's a good thing it's me."
"Hmm, excellent point. Listen, before I forget, how come Nick's here?"
"He told me he called Foster and asked if he could come."
"Well I'll bet Foster's sorry he said `yes.' Apparently Nick's forcing himself on people. Think you ought to call him off?"
"Hey, I couldn't do what he's doing. Here, I mean. If he picks up anything, so much the better."
"Just thought I'd raise the question," David said with resignation. "By the way, you look nice."
"You mean uncop-like?" Kathy was dressed in navy blue: turtleneck blouse, opened fanny sweater, snug skirt and stiletto shoes that elevated her to the level of David's bowtie. She added, "You noticed. Thanks. I left the badge off, though."
"You look naked without it."
"I always look naked to you."
"Complaining?"
"No." She quickly shifted to a different gear. "David!" she said, "This is a funeral reception."
"So? Life goes on."
"Well, I hope it does around these parts. At the rate it's going …"
David shifted to his own gear. "Wait here," he said, "I think they're getting ready to leave." He made himself thinner as he sidestepped through a dense wall of guests toward Bernie Bugles and Marsha Gittings.
He reached down to lift up Bernie's limp hand, and shook it with all the force he would have liked to use on his narrow shoulders.
When David released the hand, Bernie looked at it as he might a fallen sparrow and, addressing Marsha, said, "What are we doing here?" He poured a contemptuous look around. "Let's go."
"Wait," David said. "May I ask you a few questions?"
"You already did," Bernie snapped.
David plowed ahead. "You know Victor Spritz?" Bernie hesitated, then answered, "The ambulance guy? Sure, why?"
"Do you know where he is?"
"No, where is he?"
"That's what I'm asking." David knew he had framed the question wrong and his own response was the best he could do. He decided to press on.
"Are you still living in Manhattan?"
"That's none of your business."
"Bernard!" Marsha shrieked. Heads turned their way. "Yes, he is, Dr. Brooks."
"Thanks," David said, not so much to be polite as to distinguish her answers from Bernie's. "And, oh, before you leave, Marsh, let me ask you something. Who's stepped into Ted's position? Jake?"
"Yes, and I'd guess Dr. Reed has the inside track to become Chief. He's been with us for more than fifteen years. Came just after I did."
While David and Marsha spoke, Bernie gravitated toward the foyer and waved for her to follow.
"One last question, and you don't have to answer," David said. "How long have you known that guy?"
"Who, Jake Reed?"
"No, Bernie, over there."
Marsha nodded yes to Bernie and then, addressing David, said, "I met him at a party his father had many years ago. What? Twelve, thirteen years?"
David decided to take a chance on something he realized was out of bounds. "You and he serious?"
"I'm not sure what you'd call it. I have to go now. Good luck, Dr. Brooks."
He watched as she and Bernie stole off. What a strange answer! Didn't deny a relationship. "Good luck?" Murders on her mind.
As David looked around for Kathy, he noticed Nick in a cluster of long faces, notepad in hand. David thought there was nothing to be gained by speaking to him so he headed off in the opposite direction, finally locating Kathy finishing a cup of coffee.
"How did that go?" she asked.
"You learn some things, you don't learn some things. I'll explain later. We're out of here. You going to headquarters?"
"I have to run home first." She spread her arms. "These aren't my work clothes."
"Tonight?" David said.
"Tonight, except let's make it at my place." "Like in `your place or mine'?"
Nostrils flaring, Kathy responded, "Please, I hate that expression."
"Why?"
"Because of the insinuation."
"Okay, I understand. Then shall we insinuate at your place or mine?"
"You're incorrigible!" Kathy growled. "Bye."
She began to strut off when David took three steps to catch up to her, and, following her ear, whispered, "Don't forget to say hello to Betty Tanarkle."
Without breaking stride, Kathy swerved off at a right angle as if she had thought of the courtesy herself.
From one o'clock on, two thoughts nagged David's subconscious like an inflamed toe: the Bernie/Marsha alliance and the CARCAN/CANCAN conundrum. Beyond those, he was determined to tackle several loose ends among many; the pearl-handled dagger and past flights to Istanbul, Cartagena and Tokyo headed the list.
He settled in at the Hole, informed Belle he didn't want to be disturbed except for an urgent message-"like from someone claiming he committed all four murders"-and started calling pawnshops other than Razbit's, museums, historical societies, Army-Navy stores and any other place that might sell, collect, trade or otherwise deal in daggers. In an hour, he knew no more than he did when he first sat down. So much for Operation Dagger Hunt, he grumbled.
Next, after consulting with a travel agent friend, he contacted every airline that had planes flying into Turkey, Colombia and Japan. The response was uniform: they could not release past flight manifests except to a bona-fide law enforcement agency. Sometimes, as in a disaster, to the media.
David sat ruminating as he tossed a paper wad of phone numbers from hand to hand. Belle slid a cup of coffee on his desk, startling him.
"I thought I said no disturbances," he said.
"Oh, right," she said, cowering. "Well, let's say this was brewed by someone claiming he committed all four murders." He threw the wad of paper at her.
Cuddling the cup, he took a sip, then another, and cleared his mind as if to make room for ideas to germinate. Travel ideas. Commercial flying ideas.
There was a case he had six years ago when he first started sleuthing. It dealt with an embezzler trying to flee the country, and he vaguely recollected the criminal may also have done drugs. It conjured up a litany of federal agencies he had to deal with: the Immigration and Naturalization Service, the Drug Enforcement Agency, the U.S. Customs Service. He remembered how sympathetic they were to the plight of amateur detectives but also how slowly the answers filtered back.
Finally, bingo! Kathy. Le
gitimate, legal, authentic. Professional police detectives have the full resources of the local, state and federal law enforcement communities. Have her find out. He contacted her.
It was two-thirty. By four, he had his information. Kathy phoned to say that over the past five years, Victor Spritz had flown to Colombia twelve times; Charlie Bugles had traveled to Turkey ten times; and his son, Bernie, had landed in Tokyo twenty-one times. She added that she couldn't wait to discuss the implications at her place later that night. Neither could David.
At precisely four-thirty, he pulled into the driveway of a yellow Victorian house set back slightly from a thoroughfare of fast-food restaurants, chain stores and discount houses. Out front, an ice-crusted sign with faded green letters spanned two posts stuck in the ground. The letters spelled: READINGS.
David thought the house looked as if it had been wheeled to a sliver of land left over from commercial development. And he was certain it violated side lot zoning regulations.
He obeyed the WALK-IN command on an index card thumbtacked to the doorjamb. The far end of a foyer as expansive as the four rooms at 10 Oak Lane contained a ponderous glass door trimmed in carved oak figurines. He followed the instructions there to RING BELL AND ENTER. Inside, there was an echo to his steps in a room with no carpeting and circumscribed by chairs and tables of all sizes, shapes and hardwoods. Its floor dimensions were double those of the foyer and its ceiling was higher than either dimension. He sank into an easy chair that elevated his kneecaps to eye level and picked up a tattered copy of Life magazine from an end table. He remembered being told once that mirrors tend to enlarge a room and he wondered whether they were wasted on all four walls.
In ten seconds, a door directly opposite David opened and a tall women swanned into the room. She had symmetrical facial wrinkles and titian hair. She subdued the billow of her floral-print skirt with one hand and offered the other to David, but he didn't have a chance to shake it as she reached for the convexity of her black silk blouse and withdrew a card from a pocket.
"I believe you are Dr. Brooks. So nice to meet you," she said. Her voice was firm, resonant and coordinated with the style of the house.
"Yes, Musco sent me. You know, from the Red Checker Cab Company."
"Ah, yes. Mr. Diller. I've spoken to both of you about your request. Do you have something for me?" She descended into a chair next to David and moved a table lamp to the side.
"Yes, one's a piece of tape; the other's a sign. Can you tell me if the writing was done by the same person?" He opened Friday, pulled out the tape and cardboard sign, and placed them on the table.
At the same time, Madame Alice brandished a round magnifying glass the size of a coffee saucer. David assumed she took it from the table drawer but he never saw or heard it open.
"Yes … hmm … yes … nice," she said, examining the articles with her naked eye. "I don't need this." She put down the magnifying glass. "I can tell you, straight away, that they match. Whoever wrote the sign also wrote on the tape."
David tossed her a how-do-you-know look.
"See here," she said, "notice the spacing between letters, and the same buckle on these letters over here, and especially how short the upper loop is on the `S' in both specimens. I have no doubt, Dr. Brooks."
But David did. Or at least he wasn't convinced her comments were not boilerplate.
Madame Alice leaned back and, searching the air for words, lapsed into a monologue that included historical data on manuscript writing, cursive writing, calligraphy, Gothic writing, hieroglyphics, Spencerian writing, and what she called, English Round Hand.
David was now convinced. He thanked the lady, forked over a fifty-dollar bill, and considered asking her the cost of a palm reading or, better still, of naming Victor Spritz's whereabouts.
Halfway to Kathy's, he glanced at the persistent lights in his mirror. Well, if it isn't Kermit. Where's he been? He missed a night.
Chapter 18
Kathy's condominium complex-Hollings Hollow-was only a few blocks from police headquarters but insulated from noise and neon by beige baffling on three sides. The fourth side was an elongated cluster of shade trees. One time, David jested that if he had been awarded the contract for the baffles, he could have opened a plush Medical and Detective Bureau somewhere and never drawn a salary for life. "Baffle money" would suffice.
Her corner unit comprised one of the smallest there: kitchen, living/dining room combination, single bedroom with bath. It opened directly on an interior roadway and, to the side and rear, a one-car garage, wooden deck and intervening slice of yard occupied more space than the rooms inside. She and David liked to barbecue year-round on the deck which, attached to the kitchen, bedroom and garage, formed a secluded horseshoe. A rock ledge, half as high as the unit, ran along the driveway and garage, defining her property line on the right. More than once, he had said, "This deck right here is the Hollow, not the whole damned place." They would position chairs and a small table not an arm's length from the gas-fired grill and edge even closer in freezing weather.
That evening, he sipped on a second drink and flipped steaks while she shuttled dishes, silverware and seasonings between kitchen and table. A pie plate thermometer on the garage's cedarwood registered thirty-six degrees, and the air smelled fresh as if everything could start over. They chose not to turn on the mushroom lamps, preferring the glow of the fire and slender threads of moonlight.
David wore a burgundy flannel shirt, tan sleeveless sweater, corduroys and his black stocking cap. He forgot the scarf. Kathy was in stirrup pants and a ginger duffle coat whose fleece lining showed at the collar. They flexed and unflexed their fingers as if trying to unfuse them.
He was about to begin discussions of the Bernie/ Marsha alliance and the excursions of Victor Spritz and both Bugles when Kathy sat down and, gripping her hands together, said, "Nick wants you off the case."
He put down a spatula and said calmly, "He what?" David believed she was joshing for she, too, had consumed a generous drink, yet he looked at her as if sizing up an abstract painting and added, "Now run that by me again."
"He wants you to withdraw from the investigation." David now felt his pulse pounding in his ears but stood there, mute, waiting to hear more.
"I asked him why and he said, `What's he getting done? Nothing.'"
"`That's not fair,' I said. `Neither are we when you come right down to it. He's working full-time on the murders.'" Kathy's face turned placatory.
"Then he seemed to lose it. I was at my desk and he stomped around the office, mumbling to himself. So I just expressed what I believe: `Well, we can't stop him.' And David, he gave me such a keep-your-mouth-shut stare that I was frightened for a second."
"Oh, he did, did he? Then what happened?" David kept his lips pursed with suppressed but building fury.
"He said … said? … he almost shouted … `We can't? Well, let me tell you something: for starters, we can sure stop helping him.' Then he leaned over my desk and said, `And I can sure charge him with interfering with a criminal investigation. Do you know what that means? It means obstruction of justice. Plus, he's making us look bad.' That's when I lost it a little myself. I said something like, `And how will that make us look?' Then, he stormed out."
David pulled a chair next to hers, resisting the urge to drive his knuckles into the table. "That son-of-a-bitching carpetbagger! It wouldn't surprise me if he had something to do with the killings."
Kathy dipped her head as if peering over reading glasses. "You're kidding, of course."
David stiffened. "Kathleen, what do you definitely know about him?" He had a million questions about Nick on his mind but waited for an answer.
"Only what came through official channels. He applied for the job. They said he had good recommendations. We checked with San Diego-that I know."
"Ever see him at one of your conventions?"
"No."
"He ever talk about any of his cases?"
The questioning seemed t
o settle David down. He rose and checked the steaks with a knife and fork, returned to his seat and covered both Kathy's hands with one of his. "Level with me, Kath, don't you think he acts … well … weird at times? Like now?"
"I can't disagree, but I think you're jumping to conclusions."
"Then, you know, he's friggin' stupid. What's he gain by alienating me? There could be times where he might need me more than I need him."
"There's no doubt about it. And no matter what he says, don't ever think of taking yourself off the case. He'll never file a complaint because it wouldn't stand up. You're too well-liked by the rest of the department and he knows it. The only reason I mentioned his ranting and raving is because you should know where you stand with him."
David pulled his hand back. "Another thing," he said. "How come you and he get along so well?"
"That's hardly the case, believe me."
"Well, you're always defending him … "
"Oh, we've had our battles."
"Like over what?"
"You name it." Kathy got up, circled around David and put her hands on his shoulders. "It seems they always end the same way, too. I say, `Whose side are you on, anyway'?"
"What's he say?"
" `And whose side are you on'?"
"What a jerk." David twisted in his chair and, facing Kathy, said, "And, come to think about it, I can do without Sparky, if that's the help he's talking about."
"Why do without Sparky? Who says you have to deal directly with him? I'm eventually privy to anything he comes up with. And sooner if you need it. "
Kathy's revelation had reinforced David's distrust, if not suspicion, of Chief Detective Nick Medicore. For the rest of the cookout, he tried to put a tolerable spin on a stressful development, but deep down he felt like one possessed because Nick had dared to act up at a time when his own head was still churning over other problems. Once again, he ran the words CARCAN and CANCAN slowly through his mind, trying to pin down a meaning for all four syllables. The last three letters in each word are short for something, right? Maybe not. Maybe they're complete words that start a phrase. Like, for example, "Can do."
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