"You can come in this time, you know," David whispered back.
"What, and go around with my eyes closed? Dr. David, like I told you, I don't want to know nothin'."
David walked through the entrance and into a narrow antechamber with a large window on his right and, to his left, double doors as high as the ceiling, as wide as the span of his arms. He yanked out his Beretta Minx and used Friday to nudge open the doors, all the while calling out Bernie's name.
The apartment was enormous, extending as far back as the elevator, and laterally a similar distance. It was a "Master Quarters" space he had read about but had never seen during his study of Japanese culture through the years. In the center there was one main room containing a raised platform covered by a mat and pillows and surrounded by panels of antique lace and netting. Sitting and storage rooms encircled the apparent bedroom. A kitchen and dining area were located in a far corner and what appeared to be a study was adorned-or unadorned-with simple furniture pieces of lacquered wood: small desk, cabinets with grapevine designs, two straight chairs with single vertical splats forming their backs. There were no interior walls per se: the rooms were divided by hanging bamboo screens, sliding paper screens or draperies. Scattered about were bronze mirrors, wind chimes, ewers and goblets of hammered gold and silver and dishes made of porcelain and blown glass. The dominant colors of the quarters and its contents were those that David recognized as the colors of the finest jade: white, pale blue and green.
Stalking from room to room to ensure he was alone, he cleared his throat of a smell he finally pinpointed as an admixture of cooking oil and spices. He banged his head on a wind chime as he gravitated toward the platform bed and stood looking down at it, puzzled over something that seemed strange, or out of place-something inconsistent with what he had learned about Japanese furnishings.
He walked around the bed before tensing to a halt. It was too high! It should be a simple slab on the floor, not raised on two-foot sideboards. He pushed aside the netting as he would cobwebs and lifted a white skirt at the foot of the platform. The slab was attached to the footboard with hinges.
He circled to the head of the bed and, swatting the pillows to the floor, lifted the skirt and raised the slab. David gaped in disbelief at a king-size compartment stuffed with batches of four-by-four bags at one end, and at the other end, tiny glassine bags with "HORNET" stamps. All bulged with white powder.
David took several Polaroids of the cache and lowered the slab, having documented what he had suspected all along: first, there was papa Bugles; then, Victor Spritz; and now, we discover, Bernie Bugles, U.S. citizen but devotee of Japan and probable narcotics operative there.
He took stock of the rest of the apartment and photographed each room. In the study, he ran his hand along the over-lacquered desktop and, instead of searching each drawer, followed his usual hunch and pulled open the one on the bottom right. Inside was a metal box containing a ledger book. He riffled through its pages; it was the exact ledger he had seen and photographed at Charlie Bugles' condo.
David made several entries in his notepad as he sauntered out of the study and toward a side stationary wall dotted sparingly with colored photographs. He focused on three; they were captioned in Japanese characters, some of which David identified. One photo depicted The National Stadium of Tokyo. Another was a much smaller version of the stadium, though still immense. It sat on a lush hillside beyond a stone driveway that snaked to an unattached garage. Bernie's Nipponese hangout? The third, an interior shot, was a facsimile of Manhattan's "Master Quarters," but with one exception. The elevated platform was longer, wider and higher.
He snapped pictures of the photographs and, feeling like a gourmet who had overindulged, packed his camera in Friday and headed for the entrance. Pulling back one of the double doors which he had left open, his knees quaked at the sight before him. Twin leather sheathes hung from the wall. One was empty. The other contained a pearl-handled dagger.
Chapter 24
On the drive back to Connecticut shortly after noon, Musco closed his eyes and David wrestled with the idea of rounding up Bernie in Boston because he had found the twin dagger in his apartment. Why go any further? Call a halt to the investigation. Wrap this up.
But, hold on, pal. Wasn't it concluded that Spritz murdered the others, and wasn't it he, therefore, who must have plunged the dagger into Cortez? Therefore, also, what's its twin got to do with the Spritz killing? In fact, what's it doing down there in New York City?
He reminded himself of the lessons he had learned in the instance of the red motorcycle: don't rush to conclusions; don't succumb to surface evidence. No, there were other members of "Suspect-6" to query, other components of the Tactical Plan. Carry on.
One of the components-number four-was to comb Hollings' North End for druggie belchers who might rat on their sources. He visualized seedy characters nodding yes to a newspaper photo of Spritz, or pointing to Bernie in the photo he'd swiped at Charlie Bugles' place. But he already had the goods on Spritz and Bernie. What about Robert and Foster and Corliss and Sparky, though? And Nick? If any one of them could be brought into the drugs equation, would that strengthen the likelihood he was the killer? Were they known in the North End? He needed their pictures. Robert's was no problem; his was in the one with Bernie. David would have Kathy supply Nick's and Sparky's, and Belle would supply Foster's and Corliss'.
And he needed one other thing for his foray into the seamy end of the city where he hoped to rub elbows with hookers, pimps, winos and other denizens of a local sub-culture whose infrastructure was a steady stream of illicit drugs. Once again, he needed Musco's assistance.
"You awake, Musc?" he said.
"Your thoughts are keeping me awake. I can almost hear them."
"Mind if I ask you a personal question?"
"Don't ask, I don't have one."
"One what?"
"A sex life."
David had a ready supply for the opening he'd been given but he was too preoccupied even to fake a smile. "I realize you never stopped hacking even though you own the business. What do you normally take in on a busy Monday when you handle some fares yourself?"
Musco arched up and replied, "You mean in money?"
"Yes, and you don't have to answer if you don't want to. I could probably figure it out myself."
"Oh … maybe two hundred clams, give or take a few."
"I'll double that if you can help me a couple more hours-say till about four."
"Doing what?"
"I want you to show me around the North End."
"Double? You're in a doubling mood today, but I gotta say no."
David felt the start of a facial contortion when Musco added, "That's too much dough to shell out."
David relaxed his face, "Okay, then, you buy lunch when we're halfway home."
"Forget what I said," Musco retorted, joining David in a raucous laugh.
David had two phone calls to make. He was not concerned about Musco's listening in and, moreover, he knew no questions would be asked. Besides, the talk of narcotics would save explaining about their upcoming visit to the North End.
He called Kathy at police headquarters and informed her of the drug find and dagger sheaths. After expressing an emotion of equal parts of shock and joy, she said, "Do you think we should go ahead and nab him?"
"No, not yet." David never conceived of advising her on police procedural matters. He referred to the Tactical Plan and elaborated on getting burnt on the red motorcycle issue.
"Speaking of motorcycles," he said, "did you ever ask Nick whether it had been confiscated?"
"Yes, and you were right-no one ever did. He said it just disappeared."
"He didn't take it, did he?"
"David, let's not go into that again."
He hadn't totally dismissed Nick as a suspect. "Okay, I won't just now, but I'll tell you one thing. Whoever has that red cycle is our killer. I'd swear to it."
"I'd go along with that
," Kathy said, unconvincingly. David sensed she didn't want to spar.
"Next question, Kath. What's with your geologist friend?"
"I was waiting for you to finish before I told you. He called and you were right again-and on both counts. The stuff you vacuumed from the car matched the material from the construction site, and the powder on the gloves is definitely fireclay."
"Figured." David was less satisfied with the news from a forensic point of view as he was from deducing it as another reason why Kathy sounded so deferential. He had had no doubt about the match but had hoped the powder didn't prove to be fireclay. Great, that means Spritz was tinkering with someone's safe. Whose, and why?
"Now back to Bernie's apartment before I forget," he said. "He's in Boston, remember, and is due back late tomorrow. Can you have his Manhattan place staked out beginning-let's see-say about two tomorrow? And give your man … sorry … person … my cellular number and have him … that person … call me soon as Bernie arrives."
"Got it. That's outside our jurisdiction but I can arrange for one of our off-duty people to run down. And, darling …"
"What?"
"Oh, never mind."
No sparring, more deference. David then requested photos of Nick and Sparky from the department's administrative files. He explained why he needed them and held his breath.
Without editorializing, she agreed to provide them, and also added, "But how strange. Nick said he's going up there, too. He asked for directions to Townsey Street. Said he might mosey around after work today."
David didn't comment vocally. Strange, indeed! But why announce it, if there were something clandestine going on?
Kathy continued. "You be careful, David. There's more crime up there than you can shake a stick at. And that includes drive-by shootings."
"And drugs."
"Of course, and drugs."
"And," David said, "I think, more than ever now, that drugs-drug trafficking on a big scale-were behind all the killings. Know what I'm saying? Not an illicit love affair, or not having a contract terminated, or not getting a Chief of Staff position. They could have figured in, depending on who we're talking about. But it's the goddamned drugs. That's why I'm checking out the North End-I've got to exhaust every possible drug angle."
"Is Musco going with you?"
"Yes."
"That'll help. But still watch your flanks."
"You bet. And if I'm not back in a week, send out a search posse." There was no response, so he tried again. "But don't worry. When I stop by there to pick up the photos, I'll bid you my last farewell."
"Very funny," Kathy said.
David hung up the phone and Musco leaped to say, "You know, I couldn't help hearing what you said."
"No kidding."
"Yeah, about drugs. I don't care about them other things like the red bike, but drugs kill people, or people kill for drugs. Either way, it's bad business. Real bad. That's why I thank my god I was never zonked out or hooked. And I was never a connection. Even after all the time I spent up on Townsey Street and King Street. Booze was my thing. But man, I saw plenty up there."
David had placed a call to Belle at the Hole as Musco wound down his commentary. He learned that the hospital was phasing out services except for the Emergency Room and a skeleton crew in Radiology and the lab. And that Victor Spritz's funeral was scheduled for Wednesday morning. Belle stated she would arrange for Foster's and Corliss' photos to be delivered to police headquarters in time for his arrival there.
Hollings' North End was a twelve-square block enclave of junkies, hookers, pimps, alcoholics, vagrants and other assorted skid row types-a kernel of humanity the crime busters couldn't bust. The area's only stability centered around mom-and-pop businesses whose native proprietors felt they could survive nowhere else, much like over-institutionalized criminals or patients. Its destructive social dynamics had been on autopilot for as long as David could remember.
The late afternoon was hazy, the kind of day normally reserved for springtime when it was about to rain and you could see the air. And smell everything that hung in it.
David and Musco drove past an old African-American woman on a corner. She was arranging red and white flowers in burlap bags which were tied together and slung over a bicycle.
"She's still around," David said. He knew that "Rose Lady" marked the beginning of the North End district.
"She'll always be around," Musco said. "She was around when I was growing up in these here parts. Taught me a lot, too."
"Like what?" David drove slowly, leaning forward on the wheel, taking in both sides of the street. The Mercedes' top was up.
"Like stay out of other people's business. You live longer-especially up here."
At Musco's suggestion, they veered up a hill past, in turn, a medical clinic, a bar, a soup kitchen and shelter, a bar, a cheap-looking hotel and another bar. David glanced down side alleys strewn with faceless bodies already bedded down beneath newspapers or ragged blankets. He shook his head, touched by the realization that each lay alone with his pneumonia, too weak to cough effectively, destined before winter's end to be replaced by others on the way down. Musco pointed to a graffiti-wrapped warehouse where he had often slept, describing with sober disgust its empty rooms with rotted floorboards.
They reached the leveling-off point of the district, the center park, the hub from which all cracked, ice-heaved roads radiated. It was a container for broken benches, bottles and cement walkways submerged in dirt and yellow grass, compressed weeds that no one had bothered trimming. Peeling tenement houses with open stairwells cluttered the corners and back edges beyond a ring of storefronts, half of them vacant. David saw few people, fewer cars and no patrol cops.
"Where is everybody?" he asked, pulling over to a curb and turning off the ignition.
"They're around. In the bars. In their rooms-sleeping, or shooting up or turning tricks. And the street dealers are here, too. I don't know who they are any more but you can bet they're here, crawling the back alleys, counting their bread. So are their suppliers. Little higher up, but they're here, more out in the open though-maybe running the butcher shop or the cleaners, or something like that."
"Shouldn't they be the ones we show the pictures to?" David knew enough about drug hierarchies to understand that the individuals of "Suspect-6" wouldn't deal directly with lowlifes or street peddlers, but with the mid-levelers.
"We could do it that way, but my buddy over at that first bar we passed? He's the guy who'd be just as good as all of `em put together. Get my drift?"
"How reliable is he?"
"Meaning?"
David reached around to the back seat for Friday. He removed an envelope of photos he had picked up at Kathy's office: Foster, Corliss, Sparky, Nick. He shuffled through them. "If we ask him if he's seen any of these people and he says 'no,' how valid is that answer on a scale of one-to-ten?"
"Minus one."
David crossed his arms and looked down at Musco. "Then what are we doing here?"
"Hey, it's your show, not mine." Musco paused. "But you didn't say it the other way around."
"You lost me," David said, bewildered.
"What if he says 'yes'?"
"Okay, what if he does say 'yes'? How valid is that?"
"Eleven."
David doubted a bartender or anyone else in the depraved North End would embrace the truth, but he had to plow on, to run the gamut.
"So you'd expect your friend to cooperate?" David asked.
Musco waved his hand to start up the car and proceed, "Let's try and see," he said. "Willie used to be my closest friend when I was down and out in these parts. And you know how I know? I don't remember much from those days-but he refused to serve me drinks. That I do remember. Probably saved my life."
They retraced their route to the Blue Rock Cafe where Willie Daniels, its proprietor/bouncer, struck a black Bunyanesque pose behind the bar. David thought Willie's plastic bow tie was an insult to Bow-tiers International
but he wasn't in a North End barroom-wearing his floppy hand-tied version-to make a fashion statement.
"Well, look what the wind blew in," Willie said, "the man who made Red Checker famous." He put down the glass he was shining. Musco's hand disappeared in Willie's.
"Willie Daniels, this here's Dr. David Brooks from over at Hollings General-you know-where they been having all those … ah … accidents." The room smelled of beer and vulcanized rubber. Chitchat dwindled.
David and Willie shook hands, a standoff.
"Pleasure to meet you," David said. "You know you've got a lifetime friend and admirer here?" He grabbed Musco's shoulder and pleated his upper body against his own flank. Musco struggled to cough.
"No way a friend if I have to pay full fares in his hack," Willie said, winking.
"Shit, man, I should charge you double for the over-weight," Musco cracked.
The Blue Rock was a favorite watering hole for the after work crowd from the region's rubber factory. The bar was lined with men caught between ardent discussion and a game of "Chicago." Several drained their beers and left, leering back at David as they headed for the door.
"Two Buds," he said, nodding to Willie.
"No, no, none for me. I'll stay pat," Musco said.
They drifted to the end of the bar, near the cash register. David remained standing and Musco climbed onto a stool. Willie joined them after sliding down a tall glass of beer, its foamy head intact. David snatched it off the bar as if they had rehearsed the maneuver.
"So, Dr. Brooks, I hear you're helping the cops on those murders. How's it going?"
David knew that Willie knew he wasn't paying Blue Rock a visit simply to down a few suds. "We're making progress," he answered. "And that's why we're here. Wonder if you could help us?"
"Sure, if I can. Always glad to oblige the law." Willie looked at Musco and mocked, "But I don't know about that millionaire cabby you dragged in with you." Musco, his mouth crammed with peanuts, delivered a scathing salvo with his eyes.
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