His voice quivered when he thanked the Grand Master and, striding to the locker room, he quickened his pace in anticipation of finding Robert there. Suddenly the matter of the burned safe was not a burning issue.
But he didn't find him there, nor had Robert arrived at five-fifteen when David decided to validate his suspicion in a different way. He reached for the cellular phone at his hip when he felt its ring.
"Yes?"
"Dr. Brooks?"
"Yes."
"This is Detective Paul Johnson. Kathy Dupre asked me to …"
"Yes, I know. Thanks for your assistance, Paul."
"He just arrived."
"Bernie?"
"He just now walked in. Kathy gave me a photo of him. He didn't spot me, of course. You want me to remain here?"
"Yes, yes, by all means. He may be our murderer, Paul. I'm leaving shortly and should arrive there at-" He pointed at the numbers on his watch and calculated-"at eight, eight-thirty. Keep me posted." David punched the "Off" button and reclipped the phone to his belt.
He felt momentarily cemented to the floor, now torn between following up on Bruno's disclosure or dashing to New York City again. He chose to check out Robert first.
He ripped the cellular from his belt and obtained the home phone number of Hollings' acting chief pathologist from the hospital operator.
"Hello, Jake? Sorry to bother you at home, but where's the body?"
"Whose body?"
"Victor Spritz, who else?"
David arranged to have a portable x-ray machine rolled into Albright's Funeral Home at five-forty-five. The technician was to take front and lateral views of Spritz's cervical spine.
Thirty minutes later, David and Dr. Jake Reed waited in the hospital's Radiology viewing room for the films to develop.
"More than once, I've seen severe injuries with complete dislocations and cord compression," Jake said, "and death or quadriplegia-delivered by so-called karate experts who miscalculated. In this particular case, the satellite bruises above the linear one looked like the result of a karate-chop but I couldn't say for sure. And as you probably remember, the bony column felt in line when I palpated it."
"Maybe we should have taken a picture of it then and there."
Jake continued as if deaf to David's aside. "I can tell you one thing, though. If there was a bona-fide karate-chop, one of those cervical vertebrae is partially dislocated on the other. And, if not, then the bruising was a result of thumb compression or some such thing. Certainly not a chop."
The technician burst into the room with four films. David snapped them onto the viewing box. He read them as negative: no karate-chop.
Chapter 28
Back at the Hole, David called Kathy. "I don't have time to elaborate right now, Kath, but Robert is clean and our man is Bernie Bugles. I'm leaving for New York in a few minutes to bring him back."
"Not so fast, now," Kathy said. "Think of the legalities. What about your authority to bring him back? Have you thought about that?"
"I have, and I've got it."
"You've got it?"
"Yeah, I'm bigger than he is." David left no room for comment. "What I'll do is haul him in and you make the arrest."
"Forget it, we'll issue an arrest warrant. That's simpler."
"Kath, I've come this far and I want to bring him in myself. Play it my way, okay? If he eludes me, God forbid, issue the warrant."
"Then I'm going with you. No-we're going with you. I'm calling Nick."
"I can handle it."
"David, I'll only worry about you. We're coming along," she said, sternly.
He weighed the pros and cons of Kathy's decision. "Okay, you're the law," he groused, like a man complaining that rain was wet. "I'm here at the hospital. How long will it take for you to get here?"
"I'll ring Nick right now-hope he's home. Half an hour?"
"I'll be out front."
In the interim, David sat at his desk, reflecting on Robert's request of Bruno, odd under the circumstances, he thought. Buttressed, however, by Dr. Jake Reed's opinion that no karate-chop had been levied against Spritz, he eventually interpreted the request as Robert's way of asking for a total self-defense package, not realizing how deadly atemiwaza could be.
David was tempted to call Robert not only to inform him he was picking up his brother on suspicion of murder but also because, in so doing, he would be absolving him of culpability. Deep down, David felt a strange sense of relief that final arrows pointed away from Robert. For some time, he believed the box company shipping clerk was the odd man out in a global narcotics enterprise and deserved to be left alone, not subjected to the same scrutiny as Bernie or Spritz.
Yet, he reasoned, the blood of a half brother is still thicker than water. David fretted that Robert would tip off Bernie about his departure. So the dilemma was how to inform him and, at the same time, prevent him from warning Bernie. Solution? Ask him along.
After consulting the phone directory, he called his home. "I have some news for you, Robert. It's not about you personally, I assure you, but it's the kind of thing best handled in person. Any chance of our getting together, say, in your parking lot out back?"
"Right now?"
"Right now. It's that important. I can be there in ten minutes."
David filled the silence with a flash forward of either Kathy's or Nick's car trailing his to Manhattan. They'd better keep up, but I'm not about to help.
Finally, Robert cleared his throat and said, "Sure, Dr. Brooks, if you say so. I'll be out there."
Seven minutes later, on the shiny asphalt, David popped out of his Mercedes and draped one arm over its top as he shook hands with Robert. Familiar barking seemed shriller in the thin night air. David chose his words carefully after stumbling on the first few, "I think … I believe … I owe it to you to inform you I'm leaving for New York to pick up your brother on suspicion of murdering Victor Spritz, and I was wondering whether you'd like to accompany me?"
The sky was black, the lighting economical, and David couldn't read Robert's reaction.
"Bernie?" he said softly, a cigarette caught on his lips, his head shrouded in clouds. He looked around. "Bernie wouldn't hurt a fly. You sure?"
"Yes, Robert, the evidence is overwhelming."
"And you want me to go with you? Why?"
Now, the giant leap. "Because I want to avoid any violence, and having you along will give the situation some stability. You can talk him into cooperating, if it comes to that."
Head bowed, Robert silently moved a pebble around with his foot, and David quickly added, "Plus you probably know the directions better-you know some karate-all those things." Hurry up, man, I don't have all night.
Robert stomped the cigarette into the asphalt and zipped up his tight Flying Tiger jacket. "Yep, I'll go," he said. "But you got the wrong man there, Dr. Brooks."
As he swung back to the hospital, David felt fortunate that Robert hadn't asked why a gun wouldn't be trained on his brother and, therefore, why his assistance was needed. Because David had no answer.
Conversation on the Merritt Parkway was meager as David was caught up in a farrago of loose ends. He tracked the lights of Nick's Buick in his mirror and gave hollow responses to Robert's recurrent but mild rejection of Bernie's guilt. He kept the top up despite the reading of forty-four on the dashboard's digital thermometer.
On the Henry Hudson Parkway in New York City, David twitched at the pulsation of his cellular phone.
"Yes."
"It's me, Paul Johnson. The lights just went out in his apartment. He could be leaving. Shall I tail him if he does?"
"You have a car phone?"
"Yes."
"Tail him-but, wait. Call me back to let me know definitely." David spoke as if he were conversing over a piece of string from tin can to tin can. He clicked off and, after turning on the audible ring, placed the phone on the seat between his legs.
"Tail him?" Robert said. "You mean Bernie?"
"Y
es." For most of the trip, David had included Robert in his glances to check right-hand lanes. And for most of the trip, he saw a wake-me-when-it's-over expression. But the phone call had changed things.
David crushed the accelerator pedal. Nick's lights kept pace.
The phone rang.
"Yes."
"He left all right. Heading north on Amsterdam. I'm right behind him."
"Good. I just pulled into 125th. Now if he comes this far, we're golden. I'll wait at the corner-where Amsterdam comes in. What are you driving?"
"A grey Ford Taurus."
"What's he driving?"
"Looks like a Lincoln. Black. Man, he's got three antennas on the thing! One's as long as the car. Bends in the wind."
"Stay on the line."
"You bet. We're almost there. And-in fact-yes-I can see you. Black Mercedes convertible?"
"That's me. And I see him coming. Slow up at the corner and let me sneak in ahead of you."
"Will do. By the way, did you know there's a white sedan parked right behind you?"
"Yeah, local gendarmes."
"Local?"
"I mean Connecticut. They begged me to come along. Try to wedge in before them and then keep close to my tail. That'll bust their you-know-what."
"As long as I don't have to answer to anyone back home."
"I'll accept full responsibility. I'm signing off now … and, Paul?"
"Yes?"
"Great job. Many thanks."
The four-car motorcade streaked over cracked cobblestone and tar, beneath outrageous neon, past pushcarts and inconsiderate buses trying to horn in. David took down the license number of the lead Lincoln. After rounding the back side of a fruit and vegetable wholesaler's, it swerved up a ramp and spurted onto Riverside Drive. It sliced its way to the far left and, gathering speed, weaved among lanes, with David and the others in its wake. Within seconds, ten to twelve cars separated Bernie's from the rest. But, within minutes, the gap had narrowed to five as David intensified the pursuit north, focusing on the bobbing antenna. At 178th Street, the Lincoln veered to the right. The Mercedes followed, climbing a series of narrow bends, along graffiti-sprinkled walls, in the direction of the George Washington Bridge.
Chapter 29
At a virtual standstill, David drummed on the steering wheel as he inched along the lower deck of the bridge spanning the Hudson, four bumpers behind Bernie. Their starts and stops did little to change their position between George Washington's two massive towers, and for as far as David could see, the line ahead was a packed one. And also for as far as he could see, he counted three closed-down lanes, leaving three open for passage. He hated exhaust fumes at tollbooths, and this was worse.
Robert, whose periodic glances back at the others had fast annoyed David, said, triumphantly, "I think we lost them."
"We're not trying to lose them, Robert, we're trying to gain on the son-of-a-bitch … sorry, I mean, Bernie … ahead of us." David's comment was reflexive because he was lost in a debate over whether or not to abandon his car and rush Bernie on foot. The risk that traffic might unsnarl settled the issue, and David stayed put. He wondered whether Bernie knew he was being followed.
He checked the time. They had been stalled within the towers for twelve minutes. He pretended to scratch his ankle but nudged the snubby there, and then tucked his elbow into the Beretta Minx. He thought about chewing gum. And with time on his hands, he harked back sheepishly to his reference to Robert's brother and, though he felt Bernie was guilty of murder, still he hadn't yet been convicted. David would atone for an insensitive remark.
"It must be tough on you, Robert. First, your father is killed in an awful way. A terrible way. And now your brother's being hunted for murder."
Robert shifted his weight. "Yeah, I know," he said and paused. "One day at a time."
In the honking that began to crescendo, David wasn't sure he caught the last phrase. Still, he felt his body grow taut. He turned and glared at Robert. "What did you just say?" he asked.
Robert hesitated, then answered, "You mean 'I know?' I said, 'Yeah, I know' because you said …"
"No, no, not that. What did you say following that?"
"One day at a time?"
Oh, my God! Him, after all? I'm chasing the wrong man and the killer's along for the ride? David gripped and regripped the wheel as fear welled up and gagged him. Couldn't this have been avoided?
In the silent vacuum that followed, he felt Robert's eyes on him and he struggled with the urge to confront his passenger. About the phrase he used, about his relationship with Victor Spritz, about where he really was Friday night. And, about the red motorcycle with the saying attached to its license plate.
But he looked straight ahead. If Robert had tipped a losing hand-a killer's hand-the middle of a traffic jam on the George Washington Bridge was no place to acknowledge you'd seen it.
David felt the charged circuitry of his mind, coiled lights as bright as those strung along the cables above. Motive. Opportunity. Means. Past conversations. Options. Is Robert armed? But most pressing: Did he get it? Does he realize his giveaway? David wished he could vitiate the suspense once and for all.
He convinced himself, however, not to question further, not to draw his Minx, not to call out to the police officers roaming among the congestion of cars and angry drivers hanging out their windows and doors. It was a combustible situation: there might be gunfire. Get off the bridge first.
Whistles blew. Lanes moved. Officers waved their arms. Finally, on the New Jersey side of the bridge, at the edge of Fort Lee, cars fanned out and resumed the speed of the highway.
"Pull over, Dr. Brooks," Robert said, baring his canines.
In the rush of traffic, David caught only a glimpse of Robert, but it was sufficient to behold a pistol aimed at his head. David's eyes darted about wildly as he tried to maintain the wheel. He felt his foot tremble when he eased up on the accelerator and, changing to the far right lane, his eyes met the glinting pistol head-on. Even in semi-darkness, he recognized the gold grip and stainless steel barrel of a Kimber.45, the same model missing from Spritz's collection and the same model used in his murder.
"Hurry it up," Robert said, menacingly.
"Put the gun away, Robert," David said, galvanizing the same composure he'd shown in medical emergencies.
"Just do like I say, Dr. Brooks."
David slowed further and spotted a boarded up factory set back from the highway, two-hundred yards ahead. He decided he must act swiftly and knew that the maneuver he had in mind hinged on a precise synchrony of reflexes, on certain movements he hoped were engraved in his muscles. The factory's sprawling vacant lot was exactly what was required to execute it.
He coasted into the lot, floored the accelerator for a count of two and slammed on the brakes. Quick as a spark, before Robert's whiplash sequence was completed, David unleashed a karate-chop to his wrist. The pistol squirted to the floor. Robert clutched the wrist, groaning and writhing in his seat.
"You broke my arm!" he screamed.
David's intention had been to stun, not to shatter, and the trick was to deliver the blow with the speed of a chop but without its force. "I didn't break it, Robert, but believe me, if I'd wanted to, I could have."
David used his Minx to wave Robert out of the car and to lean over the hood. As he frisked him, two cars screeched in beside the Mercedes. Nick and Kathy piled out of one, Detective Johnson out of the other.
"Forget Bernie," David said with finality. "Here's your killer."
During the return to Connecticut, David decided to drive with the top down. Robert sat handcuffed in the passenger seat, Kathy in back with her new Beratta Cougar at her side. The others followed close behind.
At the factory lot, David had capsulized what had happened, and Kathy had phoned back to headquarters to have Bernie seized on suspicion of major narcotics trafficking. In a brief verbal exchange out of earshot of Robert, Nick joined her in claiming that jurisdiction of the s
uspect belonged to the state of New Jersey. But David argued that if there were no arrest and Robert agreed, they simply had embarked on a joyride and could then turn around and head home. Robert agreed, and at the border in Greenwich, Connecticut, Kathy arrested him.
Midway on the Merritt, Robert continued to massage his wrist and, for the first time since he'd complained Nick resorted to police brutality in applying handcuffs, he spoke. "Dad would have been proud of me," he said, mawkishly. "I got the guy who cut him up." Neither David nor Kathy responded.
"He was a good dad. He gave me the motorcycle, you know. He was the boss and he was tough, but that was no reason to kill him like that. He was a sick man, too. That there pancreas. Those bastards-they were doin' good but Spritzy wanted more."
David wished he had a tape recorder turned on.
"Bernie!" Robert shouted, "that son-of-bitch, he hated my father."
David had not anticipated such an effusive suspect and decided to milk the opportunity. He began gently.
"Robert, you said your father-who incidentally was a friend of mine at the hospital-you said he gave you the motorcycle. Is that the red one?"
"Yep. It's a 1969 Honda. Only two more like it all over the world. His friend in Japan gave it to him four years ago and Dad gave it to me on my birthday." Robert brushed an eye with his cuffed bands. "He told me not to drive it where people could see me because Japan wouldn't like it. So I only used it out in the country, except when I went back to get Spritzy. He wanted to kill me, you know, but I took care of him."
"So that was you with the rifle at the cemetery?"
"Yep."
"Where did you get it?"
"Spritzy gave it to me. He told me to shoot you with it, but you were looking at me."
"I see. And where did you keep the motorcycle?"
"In my Dodge Caravan." He spoke like a child.
David reached further. "And you say that Victor Spritz killed your father. How do you know that?"
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