Passing through the laundry room, he noticed a pair of black leather gloves, palms down on the washing machine. They reminded him to squeeze into latex gloves which he removed from Friday, along with a flashlight. He flexed and unflexed his fingers like a pianist about to embark on a concerto and, picking up the gloves, reflected on the meaning of grey powdery smudges on the inner aspect of its fingers and palms. He concluded the markings lacked even a suggestion of a bluish cast before placing the gloves in his case, palm surfaces together.
David opened the garage door with less stealth than before, cleared his throat of hydrocarbon and approached the Toyota's tires. Although he had turned on the lights, he shined the flashlight over the treads of all four tires: they were clean. He didn't know whether to wring his hands or clap them. But he did have an alternative idea.
He hurried to the carton of equipment he had packed in the trunk of the Mercedes and brought back his evidence vacuum. He vacuumed a thin layer of gritty material off the floor of the Toyota on the driver's side, bagged it and held it up to the overhead light bulb. Blue? Maybe, maybe not. But he was happy to have the material for analysis and would confer with Kathy about who the analyst should be.
Through the corner of an eye blurred by the bare bulb above, the oil-stained cardboard came into focus. He folded it in a plastic sheet and, along with the bag of vacuumed matter, compressed it atop the gloves in Friday. He then knelt and, beaming the light on the floor below the car's crankcase, saw no oil droppings.
David's sweat felt heavy at his neck and along his spine. And he hadn't yet entered the room he was anxious to enter. He unbuttoned his raincoat and opened the rear door to Spritz's gun collection and war memorabilia. The splash of lights and martial music startled him even though he knew what to expect. He marched straight for the case marked "MISCELLANEOUS-90's." Its middle shelf contained a tray of pistols labeled, "KIMBER.45 ACP's." Within the tray, four guns lay spread out in a row. Corresponding cards beneath them read, "CUSTOM"-"TARGET"-"POLYMER"-"COMPACT." In the center, a fifth card was labeled, "GOLD MATCH STAINLESS." The space above the card was empty.
Hallelujah! Sparky's words about the Kimber series thundered in his ears. One more thing to do, but not here.
He changed his mind, entered the house itself and checked the front door and all the downstairs windows. On the way out, he examined the back door closely, blocking out the damage he had created to the jamb minutes before. Other than his own, there had been no forced entry into the Spritz house.
David had fulfilled his twin objectives: to collect particulate evidence that might be there, and to determine if another evidentiary item might or might not be there. Two bonuses were the powder-stained gloves he happened upon and the oily cardboard he had kicked against the garage wall forty-eight hours before.
On the ride back to the hospital grounds, he decided not to fine-tune the meaning of his discoveries until Kathy returned from church. Some pieces were beginning to fit, but he wanted her input.
The overnight rain and rising temperatures had melted the snow into dirty water on and around the red Honda. David's single purpose in returning to the parking lot was to compare the black oil stains beneath the cycle with the ones on the piece of cardboard. They matched. Another hallelujah. He rubbed his decision scar. But wait, isn't an oil stain an oil stain? Sure, but one's color could have been golden. For good measure, he checked the footrests and found no particulate matter stuck to them.
At eleven-thirty he arrived at Kathy's condo.
Chapter 22
David asked Kathy why raincoats are hot and winters don't stay cold and how does anybody know what to wear? He ripped off his dark blue London Fog, a lighter blue sweater and, exhaling a full morning's breath, spread out stiffly in an easy chair like a dental patient awaiting root canal surgery.
Kathy ignored the questions and said, "You want coffee, or some lunch?" She had just returned to her condo from church and wore a pink cowlneck sweater and black pants. He got up and followed her into the kitchen.
"Just coffee. I'm not hungry." He wiped his brow with a handkerchief, sat at the small table before a bay window, and placed Friday in front of him.
The kitchen was airy with pastel-colored appliances. Scant white curtains hung over double windows facing the driveway and on the bay window of the opposite wall.
"So what did you start with?" she asked, flicking on the coffeemaker and joining David at the table.
"Come again?"
"The plan. Your strategic plan."
"Tactical."
"All right, tactical," she said, derisively.
"The Coughlin site."
"And?"
David was not being unattentive but realized that once he got started, the findings of the day-and his interpretation of them-could flow nonstop. He evened the attache case with the near edge of the table as he arranged his thoughts.
"David, are you sharing with me or not?"
"Of course. I just don't know where to start." He snapped Friday open, removed one of the bags of bluish particles and the bag of vacuumed material from Spritz's car, and laid them aside. "Okay, let's do it this way. First off, I think the evidence is overwhelming that Spritz wasn't set up and that he murdered the others. His was the rifle used to kill Coughlin, the writing samples match, he had the opportunities and plenty of motive and besides … "
"Wait now," Kathy said, "motive for which killing?"
"All of them." He counted on his fingers, "Tanarkle-Coughlin-Foster-Bugles. They were the EMS committee that turned him down. Remember, we're dealing with a paranoid schiz here. So he kills the first two, lets Foster go because he was a supporter, and as far as Bugles goes, that was a special case. And forget Dr. Cortez-he had to be eliminated in order for Spritz to get to Bugles."
"Why's Bugles a special case-except for the brutality?"
"Precisely." David underscored the word by slamming two fingers against the table. "The brutality. There had to be something more to kill like that, and it's obvious: the drug connection. Something went sour between Bugles and Spritz, and Spritz handled it his way. His psychopathic way. He'd been around hospitals for years and undoubtedly understood some anatomy and had observed O.R. procedures, and he had the balls to pull off … as we say … the brutality."
Kathy looked as though she didn't want to get up to get the coffee, but did. "Hold up a minute," she said. She poured two cups and cut two squares from an apple Danish. David would never have guessed his charged moment might allow an appreciation of coffee aroma. He took a long swallow, felt the burn on his palate, and followed with two cautious sips.
He held up for not much more than her requested minute, then raised the bags to the light and, after describing their origin, received Kathy's concurrence that a match was indefinite to the naked eye.
"Is Sparky any good in forensic geology?" he asked.
"I thought he was a suspect," she responded, biting into the pastry.
"He is." David twisted his mouth. "Hmm-yes, of course. Anyone else around?"
"Sure. Joe Bangor. He's a geology professor over at the university. We've used him in the past. Good with the microscope."
"If I leave these specimens with you, can you arrange for him to examine them?"
"It'll be done tomorrow."
"Good." He eyed her suspiciously. "Is it okay if I dip a corner of this?" he asked, dangling the Danish over his coffee.
She skewed her lips and said, "Yes, certainly. Anyone who lives in a pad is entitled to dip a Danish."
"Hey, that's clever," he said, buoyed by the way his evaluation was proceeding. "Now then, there's the matter of these gloves." He pointed to the pair in Friday. "I found them in Spritz's laundry room. I don't feel like putting on latex when I'm having coffee so take my word for it-on their undersurface, there's a powder which I'm quite sure is fireclay."
"Fireclay, like in safes?"
"Like from the lining in safes. I learned all about that from Musco. I'll wrap them in plast
ic before I leave. Can you give them to your professor friend?"
"Yes."
"See if he agrees it's fireclay. And don't bother asking me-I have no idea yet where it fits in. All I know is these gloves weren't at Spritz's when I was there on Thursday."
"Do you think they belong to Spritz?" "Absolutely-if we've ruled out evidence planting …."
"And we haven't."
"Kath, let's just say we have. I can't imagine someone sprinkling blue mortar powder around the floor of a car. But, regardless …" He let the sentence trail because he was anxious to speak of the missing pistol and the Spritz murder.
"Now, moving on," he said, "I think I have a reasonable explanation of the events leading up to Spritz's death. Sparky said the murder weapon was probably a handgun from the Kimber series, right?"
"Right. You found it?"
"No. Spritz had the series in his collection and one of them is gone. I would have noticed it was missing Thursday-I'm sure of it-and there was no forced entry to the house."
"Maybe the perp has a Musco pal, too."
"C'mon, next thing you'll be saying Musco did it." David finished his coffee and Danish before continuing. "Here's what I believe happened. The motorcycle you saw in the parking lot belonged to Spritz. He drove to his EMS place armed with the pistol, and either invited the killer there under some pretext-therefore, they knew each other-or was surprised by the killer. No doubt the murder was drug-related. They had some kind of struggle, and Spritz was disarmed and done in by his own gun. The murderer fled, taking the gun with him. Which, by the way, could possibly eliminate organized crime. It's not a hard and fast rule, but they usually drop the gun before they scram." David noticed Kathy's half-smile. "I'm sure I'm not telling you anything on that score," he added.
"They'd have their own gun or guns anyway," she cut in.
"Exactly."
"There's one other possibility, David." She licked her middle finger of frosting.
"Go ahead, I'm listening." He was beginning to wrap the gloves in a plastic sheet he took from Friday.
"Maybe the cancellation of the EMS contract had nothing to do with it and Spritz didn't act alone in the killings."
David elevated his eyes. "Are you saying two people collaborated for the same drug motive?"
"Why not? It's possible."
"Because I can't see Tanarkle or Coughlin involved in a drug operation."
"Not involved per se, but maybe they stumbled onto it."
David turned his head aside and looked at Kathy with one eye. "You really think that could have happened? Or did happen?"
She shrugged and answered, "Could have?Yes. Did? No."
"Well, let me say this: the most common things occur most commonly and I think there was just one killer for the first murders, and he was Spritz. In any event, the Spritz saga is over and now we have a brand new ball game." He made the last statement with the assurance of an umpire's call.
Kathy responded timidly, "We'll see. Which reminds me-you should know that Nick's stepping up the investigation."
"I thought you were short-handed."
"We are. He's asked for state assistance. And he made the point of saying he's glad you're still involved."
"That's a switch. Did he hope to butter me up because he's worried about being a suspect?"
"David, for heaven's sake! A suspect for all those murders?"
"No. For Spritz's."
"But why?"
"Some drug business? I don't know."
Kathy got up and paced, something he had never seen her do. She turned and said, "Besides the whole premise being ludicrous, think about it. Nick carries his own gun, so if you can say the Mafia has its own hardware and therefore can be ruled out, why can't you apply the same reasoning to Nick?"
David came close to stepping on her last words. `Because I'm not ruling anything out. Or in for that matter. If I had done that in medicine, I'd have been run out of town years ago. So let's just see what the final diagnosis is."
Kathy gave him a comprehensive look and finally said, "Yes, doctor."
David closed the attache case, leaving the bags and protected gloves on the table. "I'm curious," he said, rising. "Who claimed Spritz's body? Do you know?"
"No, I don't know about `claimed,' but I understand Bernie Bugles is making burial arrangements."
Squares of dull light had brightened and crossed the table to the foot of the twin windows. David was about to kiss Kathy before leaving when, with the suddenness of a crack of lightning, a percussive shot and simultaneous shattering of glass reverberated behind them.
"Down!" David screamed, pouncing on Kathy and rolling with her on the floor. Instinctively, his eyes swept over her and what he could see of himself. He was looking for blood and detected none. His breathing felt unimpeded but deep and rapid, as deep and rapid as hers sounded and, as he pushed her against the wall beneath the windows, he blurted, "You okay?"
"I'm-I'm okay. Are you?" she said, her voice constricted.
"Yeah, now stay where you are," he said as he withdrew the Smith and Wesson snubby from his ankle rig. He crawled to the side of the left sash, avoiding several slivers of glass on the floor and, glancing up at the windowpane, noticed a stellate hole immediately above a cracked mullion and twisted lock. He looked over his shoulder at the bay window on the other side of the kitchen and saw a smooth-edged hole in its left lateral border. Alternating a studied gaze between windows, he detected no movement through either one.
"That lock up there probably saved our lives," David said. "I'm sure it diverted the bullet. It went clear out the other side. See, over there." He spoke breathlessly.
Kathy nodded as she rolled her neck. David swung his head around and peered out the near window at an elevated rock ledge beyond the driveway. The ledge separated her property from her neighbor's, some forty feet away. "That's where he pulled the trigger, the son-of-a-bitch. No doubt a pistol; that's what it sounded like, anyway. If he'd used a rifle, we'd have been goners. Even without a telescopic sight." He began easing to a standing position.
"David, careful," Kathy said, appearing ready to elaborate.
But David clamped his hand on her shoulder and said, "Shh … wait … listen." He cocked his head toward the front of the condo unit, toward a repetitive blast and final roar. He knew it had come from a two-stroke, internal combustion engine, and he jerked himself up and scampered out the kitchen, through the living room, out the front door and onto the lawn. He stood straight, feet spread, arms hanging, snubby pointed toward the ground. Through barren trees lining the road parallel to Kathy's, he followed the blur of a red motorcycle.
He returned the pistol to its rig as Kathy arrived, and, with an edge of impatience creeping into his voice, he said, "What the hell's going on, anyway?"
"What? What was it?"
"A motorcycle. A red one." David felt the lines of his face grow pensive. "Didn't your men confiscate the Honda?"
"I'm not sure. You think this is that one?"
"Unless there are two floating around, which would be a helluva stretch."
He put his arm around her waist and pulled her toward his hip as they walked back in. For the first time, he didn't like how fragile his detective felt in his grasp.
"Do you pack your gun when you're home?" he said.
"Not usually."
"Pack it."
They returned to the kitchen and, after a superficial inspection, David said, "I'll be right back. There's got to be a shell casing out there."
He hurried out the front door as if the casing might soon evaporate, and, reaching the forward extent of rock near the beginning of the driveway, climbed the slope back toward the unit, to a point above and opposite the kitchen windows. He shuddered as he looked through the shattered one, able to distinguish almost everything inside.
David scoured the area and, finding no casing, guessed it had disappeared down one of many deep crevices in the rock surface. Or else it wasn't a semiautomatic. The ledge was
filthy and damp but he didn't care; he sat on it, legs over the side, fingers wrapped around the edge, unaware of the moisture he'd normally feel.
He asked himself whether the biker was the killer. The potshot here was not target practice.
He ran through his list of suspects, wondering who among them would-or even could-ride a motorcycle. Bernie-Robert-even Nick? Possibly. But Foster, Sparky, the psychiatrist? One more stretch.
And while we're on the subject, pal-if you can be so far off on who owned the red cycle, how far off are you on everything else? He thought of calling it a day but convinced himself it was much too early. Does the killer quit plotting his dirty deeds this early?
Before rejoining Kathy, he examined the opposite side of the unit-a courtyard of underbrush and trees adjacent to the kitchen's bay window-and he recovered no bullet.
David checked his watch. Only twelve minutes had passed since the gunfire and, back inside, he and Kathy took turns trying to locate the suspects, she on her home phone, he on his cellular. No contacts were made but Nora Foster believed her husband would return from a round of errands in a half-hour-one o'clock-and was certain he wouldn't mind talking with David at that time.
"You'll be all right?" David asked.
"I'll be all right," Kathy replied.
"Remember, pack the gun, and I mean it. "
On the way to Alton and Nora Foster's, David detoured to the hospital's parking lot, making a simple U-turn before heading back out. The area behind the vine covered wall was cordoned off and a uniformed police officer waved as he drove by. The red motorcycle was not there. He would later check on whether the police had confiscated it, secretly hoping that if there had indeed been a foul-up, it was Nick's.
David took the usual hilly route to the Foster estate, the Mercedes barely qualifying for DRIVE, its top up and tapes quiet. He felt like a circus aerialist who yesterday had a new routine down pat and today woke up as the clown.
"David, welcome," Nora said in the foyer. "No scarf or gloves today?"
Where's she been? It's like summer out. "No, it's too mild-for a change."
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