The Man Who Understood Cats

by Michael Allen Dymmoch

  “See if you can locate Ray Crowne for me, would you?” Thinnes asked Keys. “We’ll use one of your interview rooms.” He meant one of the district’s rooms, which were less stark than those upstairs in Area Six. “Miss Finley, if you’ll come with me…”

  He waited for her to precede him into the hall, then passed her. He led her across the District Nineteen lobby, into the corridor leading to the lockup. He waved her into one of the interview rooms opening on the corridor. It was small; the table and chairs took up most of the space. She edged around the table and turned to face him. Thinnes closed the door.

  Soften her up first. “I’m sorry about your brother, Miss Finley.”

  She sucked her lower lip and nodded, as if unable to answer. Fighting tears.

  Thinnes was unmoved. He’d learned to ignore women’s tears. They seemed to be something all women used—like they used makeup or bras. Some cried as easily and thoughtlessly as they talked. One of the things Thinnes loved about Rhonda was that she never used tears against him.

  He mentally reviewed the data NYPD had faxed him. She was twenty-seven and made a hundred grand a year as a commodities broker. Very sharp woman. Nothing, in fact, like the sniffling wreck before him. So you watch. You wait for the actress to blow her lines. If she doesn’t, maybe she’s not acting. Maybe she’s just very good.

  “Can you give me any reason your brother would kill himself, Miss Finley?”

  “He wouldn’t! He couldn’t have!”

  “He was found shot to death in his apartment with the door locked from the inside. Nothing was out of place. Nothing was missing. He doesn’t seem to have had any enemies. We gotta go with the evidence.”

  “Someone must have killed him and locked the door on the way out.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “And why?”

  “That’s what you’re supposed to find out. You’re the detective.”

  That didn’t sound like a murderer talking. If she’d had him killed, she might be delighted to have the cops write it off as suicide. It wasn’t likely she was planning on a big insurance payoff; she made more in six months than Finley’s policy would pay. She’d hardly risk ruin for that. Thinnes decided to get the rest of the formalities over with and go back to work. He wished Crowne would show. “When was the last time you saw him?” he asked.

  “At Christmas.”

  “Talk to him since then?”

  “Just before I left for vacation. And he was fine.”

  There was a knock on the door. Thinnes excused himself and went out.

  Crowne said, “What’s up.”

  “Finley’s sister’s here.” Thinnes thumbed in her direction. “I’ve let her jump to the conclusion that I think he killed himself. Why don’t I leave the two of you alone and you can tell her you think he didn’t. See what happens.”

  “You’re nuts, Thinnes.”

  Thinnes waited.

  “Okay. Whatever you say.”

  They went into the room and Thinnes introduced Crowne.

  Crowne said, “I’m really sorry about your brother, Miss Finley.”

  Thinnes thought she looked like she was tired of hearing it. He said, “Excuse me a minute,” and went out.

  He stuck his head in Karsch’s office and said, “Karsch, Finley’s sister’s here.”

  “Finley?”

  “The murder victim the ME wrote off as a suicide.”

  “Ah.”

  “Do you think you could talk to her or something?”

  “Of course, if she wants me to. But I don’t think it’s a good idea to mention murder without proof.”

  Thinnes laughed humorlessly. “Maybe murder’s not the greatest way to go, but if it was my brother, I’d damn sure rather know he didn’t kill himself, even if the cops never get the guy. Besides, what’s the difference what she thinks if it makes her happy?”

  “Just that if you can’t come up with a killer, she may make the department her scapegoat. In which case you’ll look pretty foolish.”

  Thinnes shook his head. “You’ve been spending too much time with Evanger—you’re getting to sound just like him. Anyway, I’ll take the chance.”

  “Tell her I’d be happy to speak with her. But don’t pressure her.”

  “Yeah. Thanks.”

  Thinnes went back downstairs to the interview room and closed the door behind him before he said, “Miss Finley, we have a counselor here, a psychologist. If you feel like talking.”

  She took a deep breath and said, “I’d rather just get on with the arrangements.”

  Crowne said, “Is there anything we can do to help?” She shook her head. “Do you have any questions?”

  “Will I have to identify him?”

  “No, his landlord did that. You’ll have to make arrangements for the—for his remains.” Crowne couldn’t seem to bring himself to say body.

  “You will have to talk to the medical examiner,” Thinnes said.

  Crowne added, “Your brother’s employer, Mr. Close, offered to help out, so maybe you’d like to see him first.”

  “Do you have a car?” Thinnes asked.

  “No. I took a cab from the airport.”

  “Detective Crowne will drive you wherever you have to go.”

  “Thank you.” She looked at Crowne when she said it.

  Forty-Five

  Thinnes spent most of the rest of the day working on other cases, carefully not thinking about his domestic affairs. He was putting the finishing touches on the last report when the desk sergeant phoned upstairs, “Woman to see you, Thinnes. On her way up.” Thirty seconds later, Bettina Calder came through the door. The WR&C office manager spotted Thinnes and stalked over to his table. A woman with a mission. Or an axe to grind.

  Thinnes stood and said mildly, “Miss Calder.”

  They sat down and she started in the middle. “I was on my way home—I had to stop at the Newberry Library, so I thought I’d save you coming to the office. I may have found something.”

  He wondered why she hadn’t phoned.

  “It’s probably nothing, but you said to let you know if anything unusual turned up.” Her grammar and pronunciation were carefully perfect. A sign she was insecure?

  “Well?”

  “A few days before Allan died, he and Miss Baynes traded jobs without telling me.”

  She didn’t emphasize the “without telling me,” but Thinnes knew that was the point. Crowne was defensive that way when dealing with someone like Margolis, who didn’t take Crowne’s authority seriously. He wondered if Calder’s preoccupation with authority had anything to do with the fact that she was black and Alicia Baynes was white. He said, “Could you explain that?”

  “I can’t. I mean, I can’t explain why they did it. I wouldn’t have known, except Allan signed the report Alicia was supposed to turn in. She signed his name on his report. She admitted that.”

  “That commonly done?”

  “It’s highly irregular, possibly illegal.”

  “You told Mr. Close?”

  “Of course. He said to forget it. He said he would take care of it. I noticed the discrepancy when I was doing my billing. We are about a week behind because of Allan’s death or I would have noticed it sooner. Allan’s name, not Alicia’s, was on the statement.” Thinnes nodded, encouraging her to go on. “Alicia said Allan asked her to trade, and she signed his name because it was his job. She said he wouldn’t say why he wanted her to trade. It was not like Allan, and I told her so.”

  “What’d she say to that?”

  “That shooting himself wasn’t like Allan either.”

  “It’s possible she’s right.”

  She snorted. “And it’s possible I’ll win the lottery.”

  “I’ll have a talk with her. Will she be in tomorrow?”

  “No. She sweet-talked Mr. Close into giving her the rest of the week off. To recover from Allan’s death.”

  “I see.” He did see. Plainly, there
was no love lost between the two women. “Well, maybe I can get her at home.”

  “If not, she might be at the service Mr. Close has arranged for Wednesday evening. Allan’s sister came to the office this morning, and Mr. Close helped her arrange a memorial service for him.”

  She gave him the address and the time, and Thinnes walked her out to her car, mainly because he wanted to get a look at it and save contacting the DMV for her licence plate number. Probably irrelevant, but you never know.

  He decided to give Alicia Baynes a call before he left for the day. If she was in, he might be able to stop on his way home. There was no answer. He was just leaving the building when the desk sergeant called him back.

  “Thinnes, a Ms. Margolis on the line.”

  Forty-Six

  Thinnes parked in the no-parking zone in front of the glass doors. He put his four-ways on and flipped the OFFICIAL POLICE BUSINESS sign onto the dash. When he tapped on the glass, Anita Margolis opened the door and held it for him, and then locked it behind him.

  “That was quick,” she said as they walked toward the back. “It can’t have been twenty minutes since I called.”

  She’d called because he’d mentioned he’d like to see one of the bohemian’s paintings before she turned it over to Margolis. “Have you ever inspected one carefully?” he asked.

  “Well, no. Customs is supposed to check the crates for contraband and make sure what’s on the bill of lading is what’s in the crate. And they come with certificates of authenticity. The paintings themselves are too awful to study closely.”

  In the office, Anita pointed to a table bearing a shallow wooden crate, about four feet square, covered with labels and bearing a U.S. Customs stamp. “There it is. I haven’t called him yet to let him know it’s arrived.”

  “Mind if we open it?”

  “Be my guest.” She dug a pry-bar out of the clutter beneath the table.

  Thinnes took it and started in on the crate, then stopped. “Who was Christopher Margolis?”

  She appeared startled by the abrupt change of subject but answered steadily, “Technically my stepson. Vincent’s only child.”

  “How did he die?”

  “In a car accident.”

  She took up the pry-bar and attacked the crate. Thinnes waited for her to elaborate. “It was such a waste,” she said, sadly. “He was a wild boy—typical poor little rich kid whose father was willing to spend anything on him but time. So eventually he got into drugs, and trouble…” She kept working as she spoke. Thinnes helped without distracting her. “Then he met Jack Caleb. Jack gave him a chance to kick the drugs and find something to do with his life. Instead of being grateful, Vincent resented it.”

  “You said helping suicidal people is Jack’s specialty. Was Chris suicidal?”

  “No. I was.”

  Thinnes was surprised.

  She smiled sadly. “Eight and a half years ago, I had a mastectomy and went to pieces. Suicidal depression—the depths. After I OD’d on pills, Jack was called in to consult. He’s one of the few shrinks with the guts to treat suicides.” She shrugged. “Anyway, my doctor wanted to try electroconvulsive therapy. Jack was against it—it can cause memory loss—and he fought for me. When I made a second attempt, instead of caving in to Vincent and his appearances-first shrink, Jack pointed out that I’d had to get enormously less depressed just to make the attempt. With Jack’s help, I recovered. I even got strong enough to leave Vincent.”

  Thinnes smiled, almost in spite of himself. He felt again an attraction to her that was almost as strong as what he felt for Ronnie. He curbed the urge immediately. He was wise enough to know that the opposite of love isn’t hate but indifference. He knew Ronnie didn’t hate him, but she was growing daily more indifferent. An affair would be one more item for the account she kept in her head. She wouldn’t throw it in his face in an argument—she wouldn’t even argue—but the weight of it would add to the heavy silence between them and the long list of what couldn’t be explained.

  He remembered his original line of questioning. “Tell me about the accident.”

  She sighed. “Chris and Vincent had a terrific row, and Vincent told Chris that if he wouldn’t carry on the Margolis family tradition—by which he meant his little financial empire—he never wanted to see him again. Chris drove away mad and wrapped his car around a tree. None of us has quite recovered.” To hide the tears filling her eyes, she got very busy pulling the painting out of the crate.

  “Pardon me, but were you lovers?”

  “Chris and I? No, just friends. Kindred spirits—we had Vincent in common. And if he’d lived, Chris would have been one of our best contemporary painters.” She took the final wrapping off the Bohemian’s painting to reveal a wooden board slathered with a thick coat of various colored paints. She shuddered. “Et voilà.”

  He grinned. “Would you mind looking it over carefully to see if there’s anything peculiar about it—apart from the painter’s taste?”

  She shrugged and examined the picture.

  He tapped the back. “Is it unusual for a painting to be on wood like this?”

  “Not when the paint’s applied with a trowel.” She looked closer at one corner. “Here’s something strange.” She pointed. “It looks like he put shrink wrap under the paint.”

  “Why?”

  “No reason I know of.” She got a letter opener from her desk and pried a large chunk of paint off one edge, exposing a very different painting beneath the wrap.

  Thinnes was fascinated. “Very ingenious.”

  “The bastard!”

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t know, but I’ll bet it’s stolen.” She rummaged through her desk until she found a typed list. “Here it is. The number to call if you see one of these stolen works.”

  “Maybe you’d better let me take over from here.”

  She nodded and handed him the list, and stepped away from the phone. Thinnes picked it up and dialed.

  Two hours later, it was Anita Margolis who dialed. Across the room, her phone call was being recorded. Thinnes and Detective Oster, a customs agent, and a man from the FBI were in the room listening in.

  “Mr. Margolis, please. Ms. Margolis calling…Vincent? Your latest atrocity has arrived. It looks as if it’s been damaged, although I admit, it’s hard to tell. Shall I send it back?” She frowned at Margolis’s answer. “I’ll be here for another half hour.”

  Later Thinnes watched her watch Vincent Margolis as he and an assistant loaded the crated painting into the back of a van. They got in and drove off. Thinnes pulled the unmarked car into traffic after them.

  Forty-Seven

  Uptown again. Thinnes parked next to a hydrant on Broadway and kept the motor running as he slouched down to watch Oster in his rearview mirror. Oster was inside the XXX-Adult-Movies-Latest-Videos store, standing with his back to the glass storefront with its perpetually closed burglar gates, thumbing through a lurid magazine. He was waiting for someone. He seemed nervous.

  The man who entered the shop from the back was tall and dark-skinned, and fat, with a Miami Vice shave and a short, shiny ponytail. Berringer. He shoved a brown paper package into Oster’s hands. Oster slipped Berringer a wad of bills and scurried out of the store, getting away as fast as a happily married suburbanite would. In the unmarked car, Thinnes followed Oster around the corner. When he was sure Oster hadn’t been tailed, he curbed the car and Oster climbed in.

  He was ecstatic as he held up the package. “With any luck, this is all we’ll need to get the warrant.”

  “Let’s do this right,” Thinnes said. “Let’s see if Berringer has a warehouse where he stores the stuff. And maybe we can get a blueprint so we know the layout before we go in.”

  When they were almost back to HQ, Oster said, “Look on the bright side, Thinnes. It could’a been worse if Evanger got those pictures instead of your wife.”

  “I’d rather he had. Ronnie was looking for an excuse to bail. The worst Evang
er can do is fire me. And he wouldn’t do that.”

  “Hey, with any luck you can squeeze a confession out of this creep. Then you send her flowers; take her someplace nice to eat; you tell her you’re sorry, that you’ll get help.”

  “You talking a shrink here?”

  “Marriage counselor. Women love ’em. They think the minute you agree to see one all their problems are solved.”

  Thinnes looked at Oster, then back at the road. “Sounds to me like the voice of experience.”

  “Don’t knock it.” Oster was quiet a minute, watching Belmont. “Something I never told anyone before.” Thinnes could hear a warning in his voice. “Eight years ago my wife was fixin’ to call it quits. Don’t blame her; I was pretty fucked up. Evanger—he was a sergeant then—sent me to see Karsch. He’s pretty good. And discreet. The way I see it is, you talk to a marriage counselor or a divorce lawyer.”

  “And spill my guts?”

  “It’s not so bad. Guy gets you talking by asking a few questions, then acts as a ref, calls time out when things get too heavy. And it’s usually cheaper than the alternative.”

  “But Karsch?”

  “You could do worse. I don’t know if he still does it, but if not, I bet he could recommend someone good.”

  Forty-Eight

  Marina City. Chicago’s signature. Twin towers on the river. Thinnes thought it was symbolic that they looked as if they’d been picked clean. He strolled up to the telephone company truck that was doubling as a surveillance van north of the east tower and got in the passenger’s seat next to the FBI agent. She put down the newspaper.

  Thinnes asked, “How’s it going?”

  “Same old same old.”

  “Have you identified the painting yet?”

  “Sure. Stolen a year ago from a museum in Italy, insured value one point seven million dollars.” Thinnes whistled. “Some of these thieves sit on a thing like this for years, but this one’s almost cold because it’s not famous. If Margolis was a dealer, I’d expect flyers to be circulating, in a figurative sense. But we checked around, and there’s not a whisper in the wind that this piece is available. We’re probably wasting our time.”