by John Lutz
“We’re going to have to do some more digging on Simms,” he told the profiler. “That address was no good.”
“Okay,” Addleman said, “I’ll see what I can find. How are you doing with Arthur and Markman?”
Harper related what Hayden had told him. Addleman listened in silence.
When Harper was finished, Addleman said, “Grudge against celebrities. Mechanical ability. This guy would fit the profile.”
“So would a lot of other people, I’ll bet. Anyway, a profile isn’t proof. We have nothing to take to Frances yet.”
“No. But do me a favor, Will, and keep after this Markman guy.”
“It won’t be easy to locate him. After all he’s been through, I’d expect to find out he’s a wino living on the streets of L.A.”
“Why would he do that, when he owns a house in St. Louis?”
Harper could tell from the sound of the voice that Addleman was smiling, pleased with this surprise he’d sprung on Harper. And it was a surprise. Harper said, “St. Louis is the last place I’d expect him to be living. He had nothing to come back to here.”
“Well, I can’t be sure where he lives, but his credit report indicates he’s been paying a mortgage to Mercantile Bank for the last eight years, secured by a property in St. Louis.”
“You can get people’s credit reports, Addleman? I thought they were confidential.”
“Harper, grow up. You want the address?”
Getting out his notebook, Harper took it down. “What else did you find out about him?”
“His credit rating is good. He has no criminal record. There’s not much else. Guy seems to lead a quiet life. But after what you’ve told me, I’m going to dig deeper.”
“Don’t forget Simms. He does have a criminal record.”
“I’m disappointed in you, Will. That’s conventional cop thinking.”
“Conventional cops are the people we have to convince,” Harper said. “In fact, the sooner we get some conventional cops into this, the happier I’ll be.”
Addleman was quiet for a moment. “You okay, Will? You sound a little jumpy.”
“I guess I am. Something kind of strange happened this morning. I’ve been thinking about it ever since.”
“Something strange?”
“I saw a giant neon eagle.” He described the advertising sign to Addleman.
“You don’t really think the Aquila pattern comes from a beer ad, do you?” Addleman asked.
“No. But what bothers me is, we don’t have any idea where it does come from. We think the Bureau’s wrong with the astrology angles they’re trying, but we don’t have any other ideas.”
Addleman was silent for a long moment. Harper imagined his lined, worn face in the soft glow of the computer screen. Addleman didn’t use a telephone anymore. Too old-fashioned. Harper had seen him taking calls right on his computer.
He said at length, “When I say it’s not astrology, Will, what I mean is that I don’t think there’s any mystical significance to it. He doesn’t believe that following the Aquila pattern brings him luck or anything like that. This guy is too cold, too rational, for that.”
“So what significance do you think it has for him? If it has any?”
“Oh, it’s significant all right,” Addleman said. “I think it’s his signature.”
“His signature?”
“Remember, the bomber’s original plan called for him to go undetected until he made his last strike on Washington, completing the pattern. At that point, he’s finished. Whether he’s intending to commit suicide or simply disappear I don’t know. But he wants the investigators who’ll be picking up the pieces to be able to figure out who he was, how he did it, what message he wanted to send to the world. I think Aquila is his way of putting his signature on his handiwork. It means something to him, all right. But there’s no telling what the meaning is.”
“Maybe it’s a joke.”
“A joke?”
“Assuming for the moment that the bomber is Markman or Simms. Both of them are failed comics. The world didn’t appreciate them. They get the last laugh on the world.”
“Interesting, Will. Very interesting.”
“But not very useful.”
“No. Sorry. Call me again this evening. I may have something more for you. Maybe even a good address for Simms. What’ll you do in the meantime?”
“I was planning to drive over to that quarry where Amy Arthur works.”
“Do me a favor, Will. Go by Anthony Markman’s house first. The guy intrigues me.”
Harper looked at the slip of paper on which he’d written the address. The house probably wasn’t very far away. Closer than the quarry, for sure.
“Okay,” he told Addleman. “Markman first.”
29
In South St. Louis, they take literally the saying that a man’s home is his castle. Or so it seemed to Harper, as he drove around looking for Anthony Markman’s address.
The houses were small, but their architects had dreamed big, furnishing them with crenellations, turrets, bartizans. They were built of brick or stone and most had heavy tile roofs. First-floor windows were usually covered with bars or grilles. A few houses were surrounded by wrought-iron fences with tops like spearheads. Harper wasn’t sure they were ornamental. He wondered who was supposed to be kept out by all these fortifications. To him this seemed a quiet, safe, middle-class neighborhood, unlikely to be invaded by barbarians.
Markman’s house had no fence, but otherwise it looked much like its neighbors. Harper parked in front of it and climbed out of the car to take a better look. The house would be about fifty years old, he judged, and it was well kept up. No paint was peeling, no bricks needed tuck-pointing. Markman’s lawn was even, dense, and weedless as Astroturf. He had no shrubs or flowers, though. All along the block, the daffodils were blooming, and the forsythia and dogwood were in bud, but this house had only a green carpet out front. Maybe Markman was one of those fastidious householders who didn’t want nature making a mess on his property.
A narrow drainage channel with sloping concrete walls and a chain-link fence ran along the edge of the property. The driveway ran next to it. No car was parked in the drive. There was a garage, though, and its overhead door was closed. No telling if anyone was home.
Harper began to walk up the drive, looking at the windows of the house. It would have been interesting to see a telescope in one of them, but he didn’t. Now that the rain had stopped, the day had turned muggy, but all the windows were closed. The central air-conditioning unit at the side of the house was silent. Harper was willing to bet that there was no one here. He decided to do a little poking around.
First, the garage. It was a sturdy brick structure in the same style as the house. The windows in the overhead door had a heavy coat of paint on them. Curious, he thought. He bent and gave an experimental tug to the door handle. It wouldn’t budge. He got the feeling the door was permanently sealed shut. This was even odder.
He walked around to the side of the garage. There was another door here. He was grasping the knob when he heard a car approaching, far down the quiet street. He moved closer to the wall of the building, where he wouldn’t be seen. He’d wait until the car went by before he went in.
But the car didn’t go by. It turned into the drive.
Harper snatched his hand away from the knob as if it had suddenly become hot. Oh, great! he thought. There was no hope of getting back to the sidewalk unseen. And this looked like the kind of neighborhood where the householders treated trespassing as a capital offense. What would he do if Mr. Markman called the police? Run for it? Try to make up some explanation that wouldn’t get him in as much trouble as the truth? In any case, delay would only make matters worse.
With an uneasy smile on his face, Harper walked around to the front of the garage.
Markman was getting out of his car. His head was turned as he looked at the unfamiliar car parked in front of his house. He was tall, about Harper’s height, but slender
and narrow-shouldered. Hearing Harper’s footsteps on the driveway, he swung around.
“Mr. Markman?” said Harper quickly. “I was just looking for you. Do you have a minute?”
Markman didn’t answer. His gaze had passed right over Harper’s face to fasten on his crippled hand. For a long moment, Markman stood frozen, wide-eyed, staring at that hand.
Harper had to fight against an impulse to put his hand in his pocket. He’d gotten such reactions before, usually from children, but sometimes from adults. He tried not to let them bother him.
“My name’s Will Harper, Mr. Markman. I’d like to ask you a few questions, if you have a moment.” Still smiling, Harper walked closer to the man.
Markman kept silent.
Suddenly Harper became suspicious. The other man’s reaction wasn’t just surprise or disgust. There was fear in his eyes. Maybe he wasn’t staring at Harper’s hand because cripples revolted him, but because he recognized Harper. He’d seen him on television or in the newspapers. He was terrified to find Harper here. Because he was the bomber.
But the next moment, Markman recovered. He blinked and shifted his gaze to meet Harper’s. There was no fear in his eyes now. In fact, his expression was perfectly bland. Harper remembered Bill Oates’s description of Markman as an unfunny Bob Newhart. It was apt. Markman had the high forehead, the ingenuous blue eyes, the thin, pursed lips.
“What do you want to ask me about?”
There was no alarm or hostility in the voice, only mild curiosity. But Harper did not relax. He didn’t know what to make of this man yet, and he intended to be as cautious and alert as he’d ever been while disarming a live bomb. He said, “Jake Blake. Remember him?”
Markman looked blank for a moment. Then he smiled and said, “Jake. Of course. Have you seen him? How’s he doing?”
No sign of a guilty start there, Harper thought. If Markman was acting, he was very good. “Could we go inside?” Harper asked. “This’ll only take a few minutes.”
“All right,” said Markman, with every appearance of casualness.
As they walked across the front yard, be continued, “Are you a friend of Jake’s, Mr. Harper?”
“I’m a retired policeman, looking into the attack on Jake.”
“The mail bombing, you mean? That was a terrible thing. But I thought they’d caught the guy.”
“I don’t think it was the right guy.” Harper looked sideways at Markman. His heavy eyebrows were raised. He seemed to be intrigued, but nothing more than that.
After unlocking the front door, he led Harper into a rather cramped living room dominated by a huge television set. There was an armchair facing the screen that looked moderately comfortable, but guests would have to perch on a hard banquette off to the side. Harper guessed that there were seldom any guests in this house. Anthony Markman lived very much alone.
Or maybe not entirely alone, Harper thought the next moment, as he spotted a framed photograph near the television. It showed a woman, a pretty blonde, whom he judged to be a good deal younger than Markman. A girlfriend? A niece? Maybe just a favorite TV actress.
“Have a seat,” Markman said, indicating the banquette. “And tell me about Jake. We haven’t seen each other in a long time.”
The tone was so natural that again Harper doubted his earlier suspicion. Maybe Anthony’s fearful expression had only been what you would expect from a solitary man who led a quiet life.
“Jake’s doing okay,” Harper said as he perched on the banquette. “Runs a coffee shop in Encino.”
“I’m glad to hear that. Jake and I used to be good friends, when we were both in the business.”
“Would you say that you and he were rivals, Mr. Markman?”
“Oh yes. For girls and for jobs. It was a pretty wild life we were living. But always friendly rivals.”
“Jake had the impression you were envious when he got his big break.”
Markman blinked in surprise, as if this hurt his feelings. “No, I was happy for him. Figured I’d be joining him in L.A. before long. Jake’s memory is at fault there. It was a long time ago, after all.”
Harper wasn’t getting anywhere. He decided to change the subject. “Well, Jake’s made a pretty good life for himself, even though he didn’t make it in show business. And I guess the same could be said for you, Mr. Markman.”
Markman made no answer. He simply looked at Harper. There was something disturbing in his gaze, but maybe it was just the contrast between his dark, heavy brows and his pallid eyes. Harper had thought outside that they were blue. Now he’d have said hazel, or gray. Really they had hardly any color at all.
“You’ve got a nice house here. Nice, safe neighborhood,” Harper went on, with a wave of his hand. “What line of work are you in?”
Markman hesitated, then said, “I’m an independent investor.”
“Nice work if you can get it,” replied Harper, smiling. If this was true, he was wondering where Markman had gotten his start-up capital. He hadn’t made it doing comedy, and his family hadn’t given it to him. But Harper didn’t ask the question. He didn’t want to tell Markman about his visit to the former family business. At least, not yet.
“It takes a lot more time than you would think to do the research,” Markman was saying. “I don’t live a life of leisure by any means.”
Harper nodded. “And I expect an old house like this requires a lot of upkeep. You do the work yourself ?”
“Yes,” Markman said. “I’m good with my hands.”
Harper figured he’d given himself a good enough excuse to poke around a bit. “I’m involved in rehabbing a house even older than this one,” he said, rising and walking into the front hall, glancing up the stairs. If only he could get up to the second floor, see if there was a telescope or a star chart lying around.
He wandered back into the living room. Markman’s pale eyes followed him as he went over to the front window, which was framed with stained-glass panels in a grapes-and-leaves motif.
“I’ve got a stained-glass window in my house,” Harper said. This happened to be true. “It’s in bad shape, and I really don’t know what to do with it. Did you do your own work on this one?”
“Yes,” Markman said. “It needed a fair amount of restoration.”
Harper pointed. “Are these panes replacements? The color’s a very good match. Well-mounted too. You must be good at soldering.”
Markman sounded quietly pleased with the compliments. “It’s just a matter of having the right equipment.”
“Really? I’d appreciate it if you’d show me.”
“What?”
Harper turned to look at him. “Could you show me your workshop? It’s in the garage, isn’t it?”
The pale eyes met Harper’s calmly. “I’m sorry. The garage isn’t really fit to be seen. I’ve got my current project spread out all over the place.”
“Really? What’s your current project?”
Markman said, “I’m repairing my lawn mower engine. It’s in pieces all over the floor. Sorry.”
The two men continued to gaze at each other. If Markman was rattled by the talk about his workshop, he gave no sign of it. In fact, he seemed perfectly relaxed, as if he was pleased to have Harper here. Maybe he was just what be appeared to be, a lonely, somewhat eccentric man who’d been battered by life. Harper’s interruption of his quiet routines had thrown him at first, but now he was enjoying it.
Harper decided to make one last effort to shake Markman. “You know how I found you?” he said. “I went over to Markman Manufacturing.”
Markman remained silent. He continued to look at Harper. But there was a quaver in his cheeks as he set his jaw. After hesitating a long moment he said, “Who did you talk to there?”
“Man called Hayden.”
Markman’s eyes widened and he blurted out, “Mr. Hayden! He’s still there?”
“Yes. Hanging on by his fingernails, apparently. The new owners—”
“Does he know
I’m here?” Markman interrupted. “Back in St. Louis, I mean?”
“No. I think he’d be surprised if he found out.”
Markman nodded slowly. He wasn’t looking at Harper any more. His attention had turned inward. “There’s no reason I should’ve stayed away,” he murmured. “St. Louis is as good a place as any for me.”
“Does anyone know you came home?” Harper asked.
Markman’s lips twisted into a bitter smile. “Fund-raisers.”
“Fund-raisers?”
“Once you’ve given an institution money you can never shake them. I still get calls and letters. From Country Day, where the Markmans used to prep, and Washington University, where we went to college. From the Symphony and Barnes Hospital and the Episcopal Church of St. Michael and St. George. They all say the building that has our name on it needs repairs. Or the trust fund we established could do with a new infusion of cash.”
“What do you tell them?”
“That they’ve got the wrong Markman. I’m not related.” He looked up at Harper again, his eyes full of apprehension. “What did Mr. Hayden say about me?”
“He told me the whole story. He’s still angry at you.”
“I’ll bet.” Markman gave Harper a sharp look, as if he knew Harper was taunting him, trying to get a reaction out of him. He blew out his breath and shrugged his shoulders. It was an effort to lighten his thoughts, and it seemed to work. He sounded amused as he said, “Did you enjoy the Tony Markman story, Mr. Harper?”
Harper matched his irony. “Very dramatic. Just like a TV movie.”
“Not quite. In a movie, I’d have become a star.”
“You’re right.”
“Of course I’m right. It was movies that seduced me. The movies guaranteed there would be a happy ending to my struggle, just so long as I didn’t quit.” Markman made a small movement of his head. “I should’ve quit, of course.”
“You must be bitter about it.”
“What’s to be bitter about? Lots of people don’t make it.”
“Few of them lose as much as you did by trying.”
“I have only myself to blame,” Markman said, in the same mild tone. “I let myself be seduced.”