by McBain, Ed
“I don’t know.”
“Anybody taking pictures?”
“Yes, there were a lot of photographers there. Augusta’s a model, she knows—”
“Oh yeah?” Ollie said. “A model?”
“—knows lots of photographers.”
“Would I know her if I saw her picture?”
“I think so, yes.”
“How about that?” Ollie said. “Last celebrity case I had was four years ago.”
Carella did not bother mentioning that this was not Ollie’s case. Instead he said, “We don’t think of Augusta as a celebrity.”
“Oh sure,” Ollie said. “But you say there were photographers there, huh?”
“Yes. Man taking the official wedding pictures was—”
“Yeah, that’s the one I’m looking for.” Ollie wet the tip of his pencil and looked up expectantly.
“His name is Alex Pike.”
“Alexander, would that be?”
“Yes.”
“Alexander Pike,” Ollie said, and wrote down the name. “You wouldn’t have an address for him, would you, Steve?”
“No. He’s probably in the book, though. He’s a well-known photographer.”
“Alexander Pike, right,” Ollie said. “You mind if I talk to him?”
“What about?”
“Some of those pictures he took. But first I want a copy of the guest list, okay?”
“Ollie,” Carella said, and leaned over the desk toward him. “This case is very personal to us, you understand?”
“Oh sure,” Ollie said.
“Things may look pretty calm up here, business as usual, but let me tell you there isn’t a man on this squad who isn’t sweating. You understand me, Ollie?”
“Oh sure. You don’t have to worry, Steve.” He grinned again, and said, “I’m a good cop, don’t you know that?”
Carella did know it. He had recognized it reluctantly the last time the 87th worked with Ollie Weeks, and he accepted it as undeniable truth now. Ollie had been of tremendous assistance on an investigation involving both arson and murder, and whereas he was a bigot and a pain in the ass, he was also a very good cop. This contradictory input filled Carella with confusion. It was rather like being asked to forgive Hitler for genocide because he happened to be an excellent public speaker. Well, Carella supposed the analogy wasn’t quite that strong. Still, he didn’t like Ollie, and he felt uncomfortable in his presence. The fact that Ollie seemed to like him only made matters worse. Respecting Ollie as a cop, disliking him as a man whose personal beliefs were anathema to everything Carella had come to accept as inviolable tenets, the best Carella could hope for was a quiet disappearing act. No one had invited Ollie downtown to the Eight-Seven, and Carella wished with all his might that Ollie would simply crawl back into the woodwork until such time as he was willing to wash out his socks, his mouth, and his prejudice-riddled head. The one thing Carella did not want was Ollie doing anything that might jeopardize Augusta’s safety, or send Kling off the deep end. Kling was barely hanging on, that was the best that could be said for him right now. That telephone in the hotel room hadn’t rung since 2:00 in the morning, when the installer checked it out to make certain the recorder was working. It was now more than twelve hours later, and Carella was beginning to worry. He did not need Fat Ollie Weeks to compound the anxiety. He decided to put it to him a bit more bluntly. Sock it to him in words even thick-headed Ollie might understand.
“Ollie,” he said, “keep out of this case.”
“Huh?” Ollie said, a surprised look on his face. And then he burst out laughing, and said, “You’re hot stuff, Steve, I got to tell you. I almost believed you there for a minute.”
“Believe me, Ollie,” Carella said. He was leaning forward, both his arms on the desktop, his eyes level with Ollie’s, his eyes refusing to let go of Ollie’s. “Believe me. And stay out of it.”
“I only want to talk to the photographer,” Ollie said, looking injured.
“I’d rather you didn’t.”
“Because, you see, if I can get those pictures from him, the ones he took at the wedding and the reception—”
“Ollie…”
“—and then show them to Kling…Why, we could go down the guest list together, and if there’s anybody in the pictures who wasn’t on the list…You see what I mean, Steve?”
Carella was silent for several moments. Then he said, “Kling might not know everybody on the list. A lot of them were Augusta’s friends, he might not have met all of them.”
“Models, you mean? Like that?”
“Yes,” Carella said. “And photographers. And people from advertising agencies.”
“Like art directors, huh?”
“Yes. And fashion editors.”
“Yeah, I see what you mean,” Ollie said. “Kling would only know the people from the police department, huh? And their wives, huh? And their girlfriends.”
“Yes,” Carella said.
“But somebody has to know these other people, no? I mean, besides Augusta. Wouldn’t the photographer know them? This Alexander Pike?”
“Maybe,” Carella said. “Or maybe…”
“Yeah?”
“Maybe Cutler would be able to identify them for us.”
“Who’s Cutler?”
“He runs the modeling agency that represents Augusta.”
“So what do you think?” Ollie asked. “It’s a good idea, ain’t it, Steve?”
“It might be worth a shot,” Carella said.
His voice startled her.
She had not known he was in the room until she heard him speak, and she reacted sharply to the sound of his voice, almost as though someone had suddenly slapped her in the dark.
“You must be hungry,” he said. “It is almost three-thirty.”
She wondered instantly whether it was 3:30 in the morning or 3:30 in the afternoon, and then she wondered how long he had been standing there, watching her silently.
“Are you hungry?” he asked.
There was a faint foreign accent to his speech; she suspected his first language was German. In response to his question, she shook her head from side to side. She was violently hungry, but she dared not eat anything he might offer her.
“Well, then,” he said.
She listened. She could not hear him breathing. She did not know whether he had left the room or not. She waited.
“I will have something to eat,” he said.
Again there was silence. Not a board creaked, not a footfall sounded. She assumed he had left the room, but she did not know for certain. In a while she smelled the aroma of coffee perking. She listened more intently, detected sounds she associated with bacon crisping in a pan, heard a click that might have been a toaster popping, and then a sound she identified positively as that of a refrigerator door being opened and then closed again not a moment later. There was another click, and then a hum, and then a man’s voice saying, “…in the low thirties, dropping to below freezing tonight. The present temperature here on Hall Avenue is thirty-four degrees.” There was a brief, static-riddled pause, and then the sound of canned music, and then another click that cut off the music abruptly—he had apparently been hoping to catch the 3:30 news report, had only got the last few seconds of it, and had now turned off the radio. From the kitchen (she assumed it was the kitchen), she heard the sound of cutlery clinking against china. He was eating. She suddenly became furious with him. Struggling against her bonds, she tried to twist free of them. The air in the room was stale, and the cooking smells from the kitchen, so tantalizing a few minutes before, now began to sicken her. She warned herself against becoming nauseated; she did not want to choke on her own vomit. She heard dishes clattering in the kitchen; he was cleaning up after himself. There, yes, the sound of water running. She waited, certain he would come into the room again.
She did not hear his approach. She assumed that he walked lightly and that the apartment or the house or the hotel suite (or whate
ver it was) had thickly carpeted floors. Again, she did not know how long he’d been standing there. She had heard the water being turned off, and then silence, and now, suddenly, his voice again.
“Are you sure you are not hungry? Well, you will be hungry sooner or later,” he said.
She visualized a smile on his face. She hated him intensely, and could think only that Bert would kill him when he found them. Bert would draw his revolver and shoot the man dead. Lying on her back sightless and speechless, she drew strength from the knowledge that Bert would kill him. But she could not stop trembling because his unseen presence frightened her, and she did not know what he might do next, and she could remember the fanatic intensity in those blue eyes above the green surgical mask, and the speed with which he had crossed the room and put the scalpel to her throat. She kept listening for his breathing. His silence was almost supernatural, he appeared and disappeared as soundlessly as a vampire. Was he still there watching her? Or had he left the room again?
“Would you like to talk?” he said.
She was ready to shake her head; the last thing on earth she wanted was to talk to him. But she realized that he would have to remove the gag if he expected her to speak, and once her mouth was free…
She nodded.
“If you plan to scream…” he said, and let the warning dangle.
She shook her head in a vigorous lie; she planned to scream the moment he took off the gag.
“I still have the scalpel,” he said. “Feel?” he said and put the cold blade against her cheek. The touch was sudden and unexpected, and she twisted her head away sharply, but he followed her face with the blade, laying it flat against her cheek and saying again, “Feel?”
She nodded.
“I do not want to cut you, Augusta. It would be a pity to cut you.”
He knew her name.
“Do you understand, Augusta? I’m going to remove the tape from your mouth now, I’m going to allow you to speak. But if you scream, Augusta, I will use the scalpel not only on the tape, but on you as well. Is that clear?”
She nodded.
“I hope that is clear, Augusta. Sincerely, I do not want to cut you.”
She nodded again.
“Very well, then. But please remember, yes?”
She felt the scalpel sliding under the gag. He twisted the blade and she heard the tape tearing, and suddenly the pressure on her mouth was gone, the tape was cut through, he was ripping the ends of it loose. As he lifted her head and pulled the remainder of the tape free, she spat out the cotton wad that had been in her mouth.
“Now, do not scream,” he said. “Here. Feel the blade,” he said and put it against her throat. “That is so you will not scream, Augusta.”
“I won’t scream,” she said very softly.
“Ah,” he said. “That is the first time I heard your voice. It is a lovely voice, Augusta. As lovely as I knew it would be.”
“Who are you?” she asked.
“Ah,” he said.
“Why are you doing this?” she asked. “My husband’s a policeman, do you know that?”
“Yes, I know.”
“A detective.”
“I know.”
“Do you know what happens when a cop or his family are injured or threatened or…?”
“Yes, I can imagine. Augusta, you are raising your voice,” he chided, and she felt him increase the pressure against her throat, moving his hand so that it and not the scalpel exerted the force, but the gesture nonetheless threatening in that she knew what was in his hand, and knew how sharp the instrument was—it had sliced through the tape with a simple twist of the blade.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “I didn’t realize…”
“Yes, you must be more calm.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yes,” he said. “Augusta, I know your husband is a detective, that is what it said in the newspaper article announcing your wedding. Detective Third/Grade Bertram A. Kling. That is his name, is it not?”
“Yes,” Augusta said.
“Yes. Bertram A. Kling. I was very distressed when I read that in the newspaper, Augusta. That was in October, do you remember?”
“Yes,” she said.
“October the fifth. It said you were to be wed the following month. To this man Bertram A. Kling. This policeman. This detective. I was very distressed. I did not know what to do, Augusta. It took me a long while to understand what I must do. Even to yesterday morning, I was not sure I would do it. And then, at the church, I knew it was right what I wished to do. And now you are here. With me. Now you are going to be mine,” he said, and she suddenly realized he was insane.
Alexander Pike thought he had seen enough cops yesterday to last him an entire lifetime. But another cop was here in his studio now, and he wasn’t even one of the cops who’d been at the wedding and the reception, and he was asking Pike for the photographs he’d taken. Pike did not like his looks and he did not like his manner. He had been photographing beautiful people for more than four decades now, and Oliver Weeks was definitely not beautiful. Nor was he exactly what Pike might have called couth.
“We need the pictures you took yesterday, and that’s it,” Ollie said. “Now, Mr. Pike, I been here a half-hour already, arguing with you, and I’m trying to tell you this is important to us, and I would like to have the pictures now without further ado.”
“And I’m telling you, Mr. Weeks, that all I’ve got printed so far are contact sheets—”
“That’s fine, I’ll take the contact sheets.”
“I’d planned to look them over this afternoon,” Pike said. “Decide where to crop them…”
“Mr. Pike, you have the negatives, don’t you?”
“Yes, but—”
“So make yourself another batch of contacts.”
“Do you know how many rolls of film I shot yesterday?” Pike asked.
“How many?”
“Thirty rolls of film. That’s more than a thousand photographs, Mr. Weeks. That’s exactly one thousand and eighty photographs, in fact. It was my plan to look over those pictures this afternoon…”
“Yeah, I know,” Ollie said, “and decide where to crop them.”
“That’s right.”
“That can wait, Mr. Pike. This is more important.”
“Why? You still haven’t told me what’s so important about these pictures.”
“Mr. Pike, I am not at liberty to divulge this information,” Ollie said. Carella had told him that they were trying to keep this whole case hush-hush, at least until they’d heard something from the kidnapper. He had instructed Ollie to get the photographs from Pike without telling Pike what this was all about, a mission Ollie was finding difficult to accomplish. Moreover, Carella’s instructions did not make much sense to Ollie. Pike was one of the men he hoped would help match the guest list against the photos. If he couldn’t tell Pike what this was all about, then how could he enlist Pike’s aid? Besides, Ollie was a detective 1st/grade and Carella was only a detective 2nd/grade, and that meant Ollie outranked him. Still, he didn’t like to fly in the face of Carella’s instructions, especially since the case was the Eight-Seven’s, and also the guys up there were personally involved in it—which was, in fact, a good enough reason for somebody with a clear head to step in here, somebody who didn’t know Kling from a hole in the wall, and couldn’t care less about anything but the puzzle of the thing. That was what made police work exciting to Ollie—the puzzle of it. He didn’t give a damn about people, dead or alive. All he cared about was the puzzle. He had just told Pike he was not at liberty to discuss why the police felt those photographs were important. He waited now for Pike’s answer.
“In that case,” Pike said, “I am not at liberty to give you these pictures.”
“Then I’ll just have to go downtown and get a search warrant, I suppose,” Ollie said, and sighed. He had no intention of going downtown to get a search warrant. He was, in fact, trying to figure how he could tell Pike that
Augusta had been kidnapped without coming right out and telling him. He would like to be able to say, later, that he had never once mentioned the abduction, that Pike had simply deduced it all by himself. Toward that end, he said, “You want me to go downtown for a warrant, Mr. Pike?”
“Yes, go downtown for one.”
“Mr. Pike, I can get one, believe me. I’ve got pretty good reasonable cause to believe the pictures will constitute evidence of a crime…”
“What crime?” Pike asked at once.
“Never mind,” Ollie said.
“A crime that took place at Augusta’s wedding?”
“Let me put it this way,” Ollie said. “A crime has been committed, Mr. Pike.”
“Where? At the wedding?”
“No, not at the wedding, but shortly after the wedding, and it’s possible that the pictures you took yesterday may help us in identifying the person or persons responsible. Now, that’s all I can tell you at this time, Mr. Pike, without jeopardizing the victim.”
“Victim? Who?”
“Well, it doesn’t matter who. I don’t want to jeopardize her by—”
“Her?” Pike asked. “A woman? Is the victim a woman?”
“Mr. Pike, it doesn’t matter who the victim is. The point is—”
“But is it a woman?”
“Yes, it is a woman.”
“Who?”
“Mr. Pike, I’m going to ask you for the last time. If you won’t let me have those pictures, I’m just going to have to run downtown and get a warrant, and that’ll put a hair across my ass, Mr. Pike, it really will. So why don’t you cooperate with a hardworking person like yourself, huh, and let me have the fuckin’ pictures, okay?”
“I’ll give them to you if you tell me what happened. Was something stolen from one of Augusta’s guests?”
“No, nothing was stolen.”
“Then was someone hurt?”
“No. Nobody was hurt. Not that we know of, anyway.”
“Then what?” Pike asked. “Does Augusta know about this? Does she know you want the pictures?”
“No, she doesn’t know we want the pictures.”
“Does she know a crime was committed?”
“Yes. She knows.”