“Is he going to give the message to Patrick’s Attick?”
“I assume so, but nothing was said about it. All that’s happened so far is that the city has agreed to come up with the money. The rest is up to Dwyer—and us. Dwyer wants us to come to his house this evening. Under cover of darkness, you might say.”
“Tomorrow is Sunday. Patrick’s Attick won’t be on the air.”
“Are you sure?”
I nodded. “I checked with the station. The program runs Monday through Friday.”
“I wonder if the Masked Man knows that?” Friedman said thoughtfully.
Eighteen
“YOUR CAR SOUNDS GOOD,” Friedman said. “How old is it?”
“Five years old. I just had the engine overhauled.”
“A very sound idea, I wish I’d done that.”
“How old is your car?”
“Two years. And it’s a piece of crap. I wish I had my old one back, not to mention the money I spent on it.”
As I turned right on Thirty-second Avenue, I checked the time. We were due at Dwyer’s house by 7 P.M. With only a block to go, we were ten minutes ahead of schedule. I glanced in the rear-view mirror. Using Canelli’s battered station wagon, four homicide detectives were following us, just turning the last corner. A half-block ahead, two unmarked police cruisers were parked on the street in front of Dwyer’s house. Another two men were stationed in Dwyer’s garage, guarding the rear access to the house. A uniformed patrolman was on duty inside.
I swung to the curb and parked. We checked in with the two surveillance cars by radio, then sat silently for some time, surveying the scene. The neighborhood, I realized, was similar to that in which both Ainsley and Bates had lived: affluent, serene, secure.
Finally Friedman broke the silence. “If I’m honest with myself,” he said, “I’ve got to admit that I’m afraid this thing is going to beat us.” In the gathering darkness inside my car, his voice was strangely disembodied, totally uninflected. He was confessing to the same fear I felt.
“I know,” I said. “The whole thing has a—an eerie feeling.”
“Exactly.” He sighed. “If the guy wants a half-million so badly, why doesn’t he buy himself a couple of guns and find an accomplice and rob a bank?”
“You know what we should have done?”
“Tell me.”
“We should’ve gotten a psychiatrist to give us a profile on the Masked Man.”
Friedman snorted. “I’ve played word games with psychiatrists dozens of times. And I’ve never—repeat, never—found one of them who could second-guess a good detective’s hunch.”
Wearily, I nodded. “I can’t argue with you.”
“A hunch, I once read, is really the subconscious in operation,” Friedman said. “And everyone knows about the bottom eighty percent of the iceberg.”
“Speaking of hunches, how’re you betting on Dave Vicente?”
“I’m betting that if he’s the Masked Man, he’ll have a hell of a time picking up the money with Culligan and company on his tail. Incidentally, Culligan called to say that he hasn’t actually eyeballed Vicente since yesterday afternoon. So I instructed him, court order notwithstanding, to get one of his guys to knock on Vicente’s door and try to sell him a magazine, or something.”
“I wonder whether Laura and Vicente are in it together,” I mused.
“Why would she call your attention to him, if they’re in it together?”
“Maybe to protect herself,” I said.
“Maybe.” He glanced at his watch, then pushed open his door. “We’d better go inside. We can theorize any time.”
Friedman and I sat side by side on a leather couch. The patrolman stationed in the hallway inside the Dwyer house had shown us to a small, book-lined library just off the main-entry hallway. Inside, the house was even more elegant than it appeared from the street. The hallway featured a huge antique armoire and two chest-high marble urns. I’d glimpsed a lavishly appointed living room, its walls covered with paintings. Besides the leather couch on which we sat, the library was furnished with two matching leather armchairs and a leather-topped desk. On the wall behind the desk, I saw a collection of framed photographs and certificates. Most of the photographs showed Dwyer shaking hands with politicians: the mayor, the governor, the head of the FBI. On the shelves, most of the books looked undisturbed—perfectly aligned, perhaps, by a cleaning lady.
“I wonder how much money the Chief makes?” Friedman said softly.
“About forty-five thousand a year, I think.”
“Hmmm.”
“How’s your background check on him going?” I asked, also speaking very softly.
“To tell you the truth,” he said, “I didn’t give the order yet. But now I think that—”
The latch clicked; the carved oak door swung suddenly open. Dressed in an orange turtleneck sweater, checked sport slacks and burnished brown loafers, Dwyer entered the small room and strode straight to the desk, sitting in a brass-studded swivel chair. With his beautifully barbered silver-grey hair, his clear blue eyes and his magnificently determined jaw, he could have been a Hollywood producer, relaxing at home.
But when he swiveled to face us directly, I saw that the blue eyes were hollow and haunted. The cheeks were drawn and sallow. The wide, expressive mouth was no longer firm, no longer decisive. The face was twisted into a mask of anguish.
“A few minutes ago,” Dwyer said, “I phoned Communications and ordered them to put out an APB on Irving Meyer.”
Friedman and I turned toward each other—then turned again to face Dwyer as he continued, speaking in a dull, defeated voice: “The reason I’ve done it,” he said, “is because Irving’s prints are on the three guns—the three murder weapons.”
“Jesus Christ,” Friedman muttered. Then: “I’m sorry, sir.”
Woodenly Dwyer nodded. He momentarily closed his eyes. Then, struggling to keep his voice even, he said, “I should have done it before—should have lifted a set of his prints. But I—I just didn’t. Not until today. This morning. I sent them down to Radebaugh, unidentified. About two o’clock this afternoon, Radebaugh called to say that the prints matched the unclassified prints on the murder weapons. But, unfortunately—” Dwyer drew a ragged breath. “Unfortunately, Irving had gone. He left while we were meeting at the bridge.” Dwyer gestured helplessly toward Friedman. “He left on that—that goddam chopper of his. And so far he hasn’t come back. So I—” Dwyer raised his right hand in a small, futile gesture, then let the useless hand fall back on the embossed leather desktop. While he’d been speaking, he’d kept his eyes up, by obvious force of will, alternately looking directly into Friedman’s eyes, then into mine. Now, though, he couldn’t sustain the effort. His eyes dropped to the desktop. His fingers began to twitch. His throat was corded, his eyes vague and unfocused.
“How did it happen?” I asked.
Dwyer drew a deep, shaky breath. “You’ve both met Irving. I’m sure you’re aware that he’s—got problems.” This time, Dwyer made no effort to raise his eyes, nor to disguise the tremor in his voice. “He—he’s nineteen, as you probably know. His mother and I have been married for almost two years. During that time, Irving has been in and out of three schools. Even before that time, he was on drugs—all kinds of drugs. He”—Dwyer shook his head—“he’s totally disaffected. Which is a polite way of saying that he hates me.”
“It wasn’t apparent,” Friedman said quietly. “Not around the Hall, anyhow.”
Dwyer’s exhausted smile was painful to see. Before our eyes, in minutes, the urbane, successful executive had shrunken to just another disbelieving parent surrounded by an affluence that mocked the sudden spiritual shambles of his life.
“I’m almost certain,” Dwyer said, “that Irving was hanging around the Hall for the sole purpose of getting into the property room. I should have suspected it long before. I guess I—I really did suspect it, subconsciously. You see, his visits to the Hall began after a—a v
ery painful incident, here at home. He—” Dwyer broke off, shaking his bowed head as he stared down at his hands, now clasped before him on the desk. It was a prayerful attitude, all hope resigned. “He’s on drugs, as I said. And about three months ago, I discovered that some cash was missing from a strongbox I keep here at home. We usually keep five hundred dollars in cash, for emergencies—and a hundred fifty of it was missing. It was a—a very painful incident, as I said. He—he took the money to buy drugs, the old story. But until this—this property room thing came up, I thought we were over the worst of it.”
“You kept the combination to Rifkin’s safe in your strongbox.” Friedman spoke quietly.
Dwyer nodded. “Exactly. But, as I say, I didn’t make the connection—the possible connection until two days ago. As a matter of fact, I—my wife and I—we were congratulating ourselves, feeling that the way we handled the theft here at home had turned Irving around. Our proof, we thought, was the fact that he began hanging around the Hall, presumably because he’d come to accept me, and wanted to be more like me.” His wry smile was grotesque. He shook his head. “Jesus. It—it’s unbelievable, how people delude themselves. Especially where children are concerned.”
“Do you think,” Friedman said, “that he could commit murder?”
Dwyer shook his head. “I just don’t know. I—I’m incapable of judging.”
“Is there any known connection between Meyer and Dave Vicente?” Friedman asked.
“Not that I could discover.”
“According to Radebaugh,” I said, “the fingerprints aren’t in position to fire the guns.”
“Yes,” Dwyer answered, “he told me that, too. However, at the least, Irving is an accomplice.”
“Does Radebaugh know that the prints are Irving’s?” I asked.
“No. I—couldn’t tell him, somehow. But I’m telling the two of you. And as of now, I expect you to handle this matter as you normally would, given the circumstances.” I could hear a hint of authority in his voice. But his eyes were still hollow—still defeated.
Friedman cleared his throat, asking, “Are we going ahead with plans to make the payoff, sir?”
Doggedly, Dwyer nodded. “Yes,” he answered. “Yes, we’re going ahead with the plans, just as we discussed them. For one thing, the mayor’s going way out on a limb, tapping a contingency fund without notifying the Board of Supervisors. He could be impeached, he told me, if the Board doesn’t go along. And besides”—a tortured smile tore at his mouth—“I’ve told the mayor that we’d have a good chance of catching the Masked Man when he picks up the money. That’ll be his point of maximum vulnerability, I said.”
As Friedman and I exchanged a look, Dwyer pushed himself heavily away from the desk and got to his feet. He stood with shoulders hunched, torso slack—staring at nothing. Finally he cleared his throat, and blinked his eyes back into focus. “I’ve got to go upstairs,” he muttered. “My wife—Irving’s mother—is under sedation. She—she’s emotionally fragile. And this is—” He let it go unfinished. As he moved to the door, he said, “Keep me informed. Be sure and keep me informed.” He spoke indistinctly—almost querulously.
In unison we murmured, “Yessir,” as we watched him walk out into the hallway, leaving the door ajar.
At that moment the phone rang. As I was debating whether to answer, the ringing stopped. Moments later, a uniformed man put his head in the doorway. “It’s Inspector Culligan,” he said. “For either one of you.” He pointed to Dwyer’s desk. “You can take it there.”
I lifted the receiver.
“This is Culligan, Lieutenant.”
“What is it?”
“I’m sorry to disturb you, but I thought you should know, right away. I sent a man to knock on Vicente’s door—and no one answered. So I, ah, fooled around with the lock, and got inside.”
“And?”
“And he wasn’t there. He entered the premises on Thursday night, about eight o’clock. And he didn’t come out—at least, not through either the front or back entrance of the apartment house. Which means that he left sometime between Thursday night and this morning, when we put a man on the roof. That’s how he got out, over the roofs.”
“Did he show lights last night?”
“Yes, he did. But they’re on a goddam timer.”
“So he could’ve been out last night—without his car.”
“That’s right, Lieutenant.”
“Who’s there with you?”
“Canelli.”
“All right—here’s what I want the two of you to do: I want you to lock the door, and then I want you to toss his whole place—really toss it. Forget about a warrant. It’s my party. Clear?”
“Yessir, that’s clear.”
“I also want you to pick up his car, and send it to the lab. Tomorrow’s Sunday, I realize. But, if I can, I’ll get a couple of technicians to process it in the morning. Clear?”
“Yessir, that’s clear too.”
Nineteen
MY CLOCK RADIO WAS playing hymns the next morning when my phone rang. As I rolled over in bed to answer, I looked at the clock and groaned. I’d set the radio to come on at eight-thirty. The time was now ten-thirty. The radio had been playing for two hours.
“You overslept,” Friedman said in my ear.
“I’m afraid”—I yawned—“I’m afraid so. Has anything happened?”
“What’s happened,” he said, “is that I’ve got every cop in the city looking for Vicente and Irving. And about an hour ago Irving was spotted—possibly spotted—riding his chopper along Lincoln Way. But as soon as he saw the black-and-white car, he turned into the park and disappeared down a goddam bridle path.”
“He’s on the run, then.”
“No question—if it was Irving they spotted. It wasn’t a positive make, by any means. But whoever it was, he was running.”
“What about Vicente?”
“Nothing. Tentatively, he was identified on the street sometime Friday afternoon. So he could’ve picked up the Ruger and done the Callendar job Friday night. The lab is working on his car—under protest. But they won’t have any results for a while.”
“What we should do,” I said, “is search the Dwyer house, top to bottom. Those guns and the keys could be there, hidden.”
“I realize that,” Friedman answered. “And I agree with you. But I don’t have the guts to give the order. Do you?”
“No.”
“I talked to Dwyer just a few minutes ago,” he said. “I asked him particularly if he searched the house thoroughly. And he said that he did.”
“I assume that Culligan didn’t find anything in the Vicente apartment.”
“You assume correctly.”
“What’re the papers saying?”
“They haven’t said anything about either the payoff or the search for Irving—or, for that matter, about the search for Vicente. Somehow, though, they found out about the property room connection. Or at least the Sentinel hinted that the Masked Man’s guns were contraband. Which is pretty close to the mark.”
“Have you talked to Jamison and Mobley—asked them whether they saw Irving hanging around the property room?”
“I did. And they didn’t. Incidentally, I decided to have Laura Farley tailed.” He hesitated. “Any objections?”
“Hell, no. Why should I have any objections?”
Again he hesitated. Then: “You sound a little—ragged.”
“I feel a little ragged, as a matter of fact. I feel very ragged.”
“That’s understandable. You’ve had a tough week.”
“Well—so have you.”
“I know. However, I’m basically a phlegmatic type, whereas you’ve got a basically uptight personality. Which means that you tire easier. Plus, you were shot at and banged up.”
“Listen, I—”
“I’ve got a suggestion.”
“What suggestion?”
“I think,” he said, “that you should take the day off.
It’s a warm, sunny Sunday. I think that, for instance, you should take Ann to the beach—accompanied, of course, by your faithful beeper. Take along some wine. Enjoy. Let me keep the shop. Maybe nothing’s going to happen until the Patrick’s Attick broadcast tomorrow morning.”
“You’ve just made a deal.” I yawned. “Effective immediately. And incidentally, thanks.” I hung up the phone, turned off the radio and went back to sleep.
Ann lay on her back, staring up into the sky, a darkening blue in the late afternoon. Around us on the beach, the picnickers were beginning to pack their baskets and shake out their blankets. Low on the horizon, purple clouds were touched at their tops with gold.
Propped on one elbow beside her, I studied Ann’s profile. Beneath thick, tawny hair, her forehead curved down to wide, calm brows, and her eyes were steady and serious. Her nose was small and straight; her mouth traced a firm, determined line. Her chin, too, was firm—small and deftly shaped. It was a quiet, thoughtful face. Ann often smiled, but seldom laughed. Her humor was a private affair.
“I’m glad we came,” she murmured. “Very, very glad. Can you come to my house for dinner?”
“Yes. Sure.”
“I don’t think the boys will be home until ten or eleven. Victor took them to a concours d’élégance, in Napa.” As always, when she spoke of her ex-husband, the golden line of her eyebrows slightly contracted; painful memory was plainly etched in a gathering of tiny lines around her eyes.
“Maybe we should go to my place, if the kids are out of town,” I said. “I’ve got some cold chicken.”
As she turned her head toward me, her lips curved in a slow, subtle smile. “We were at your place just two nights ago. Remember?”
“I remember. That’s why I mentioned it.”
“I think you need your rest. I know you need your rest. You should come to my house and have a drink and stretch out on the couch while I’m fixing dinner.”
“I’ll fall asleep.”
“And I’ll let you sleep. In fact, that’s my plan. I’m going to make a casserole and a salad. So, if you fall asleep, I’ll just turn the stove low and read a book and watch you sleep. Besides, I’ve got some math papers to correct.”
Doctor, Lawyer . . . (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries) Page 15