Looker

by Michael Kilian

  “Have you ever tried to break into one of those?” he said finally.

  “That’s not authorized, Detective.”

  “Could you do it?”

  “Ray, I’ve gotten into the phone company and some hotel chain reservation systems, but that’s it.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Okay. I’ve scanned some personnel files, all right? Maybe a couple of captains’ memo files. But this here’s very strange stuff, and I ain’t no genius.”

  “Shit.” Lanham took back the printouts. “Okay. Thanks for your trouble.”

  He wasn’t six feet away when Leander spoke once more. “Is this real important, Ray?”

  Lanham took a deep breath as he turned. “Yes, it is, Sergeant.”

  “I know a guy. A certifiable genius. Karl Paulina. Used to be a cop.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “Sure you have. Used to be in burglary until we went over to computers. He helped put in this system. He was the guy who trained me. A great big guy, as big as you. Grew up in New Jersey. Blinked all the time. Kind of a twitchy guy.”

  “You said, ‘Used to be a cop.’”

  “He wasn’t very good on the street. He was a great thinker, but he was always forgetting his service weapon and going to the wrong address.”

  “He got pushed out?”

  “Yeah, but not for that. He’s a player. A gambler. He worked up all kinds of systems for figuring out casino odds. He could even figure out how the mob was laying off money at the track.”

  “He was using department computers?”

  “This stuff? Not hardly. This stuff’s like Nintendo compared to what he had at home. He’s got an Omega—one million megabytes, with a twenty-four hundred baud modem. He can talk to any computer in the world.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Last I heard, in Atlantic City. He was working for one of the casinos. Head of security.”

  “Head of security?”

  “Sure. Outfits like that need a guy like Karl to stop guys like Karl. Not to speak of IRS investigators.”

  “Do you think he might be willing to help me out?”

  “No. But he might help me out. I covered him a couple of times. And I warned him they were going to come down on him. But he wouldn’t quit. He had the itch, you know? A player.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “I’ll call him.”

  “Use a pay phone.”

  “Huh?”

  “A pay phone. And not the one downstairs. Use the street. I’ll owe you.”

  Leander smiled broadly this time. “I’ll remember.”

  Lanham made some phone calls of his own, on the Wickham case, getting nowhere. He took out some paperwork and put it back. He drank three cups of coffee.

  Taranto came in, passed by, then stopped.

  “You’re supposed to be beatin’ the streets for Bad Bobby,” he said.

  “I’ll be out there,” Lanham said. He gestured at the slightly crumpled computer printouts. “I’m working on it, boss. I got his computer file.”

  Taranto nodded, and went into his office. Lanham got up and followed.

  “Excuse me, boss,” he said. “You said you would check with the feds on Molly Wickham. Remember? We couldn’t get anything.”

  The lieutenant was staring at some reports on his desk. He didn’t look up.

  “I couldn’t get anything either, Ray.”

  Lanham waited, slouching against the frame of the door.

  “My office ain’t the street, Ray.”

  Lanham pulled himself up straight. “Okay, boss.”

  “Ray.” His eyes met Lanham’s this time. “I’m putting Tony on restricted duty. It was his rounds killed Pat Cassidy. There’ll be a full I.A.D. on it.”

  “And the round through the door?”

  “It was Cassidy’s.”

  “Thank you, boss.”

  “We still want Bad Bobby, Ray. Prime suspect. Unlawful flight. We want him real, real bad, Ray.”

  The rain had stopped. The night sky was clearing and one or two stars could be seen above the tall buildings. The air was cooler and people were out in the streets.

  Camilla hesitated before turning the corner onto Sutton Place, then lifted her head and continued on, her determination manifest in the swiftness of her pace. It would be as if she were simply coming home. It hadn’t been that long since she had lived here. She still owned the place. She still had her keys. If she had any luck, Molly Wickham would not have changed the locks. Molly was the kind of girl who seldom changed the sheets.

  She slowed again. She was attracting attention walking so fast. She slowed further. If there was a policeman in front of the building, she would just keep on going. If there was one in the lobby, she would pretend she had the wrong address. If she encountered one in the elevator, she would get off on another floor.

  The lobby was empty but for a concierge. He looked up from his desk as she swept in, eyeing her appreciatively but curiously.

  “Good evening,” she said, moving on toward the inner doors.

  “May I help you, Miss?”

  “I live here.” She held up her keys. He was no one she recognized. “I’ve been away. Are you new here?”

  “Kinda. Since March.”

  “Well, I am Mrs. Avenant.” It was true. It was also all she could think of saying. The name would not be known to him, or anyone, as he would discover if he checked. She could not stay long.

  “Sorry,” he said.

  There were no policemen anywhere, but she rang the doorbell of the apartment twice and waited until she was sure of no response before using the key.

  Someone, possibly Molly but probably the police, had left a light on in the living room. The rest of the apartment was dark.

  Fear had numbed her sense of decision. She fought to regain it. She still wasn’t sure what she was looking for. She was looking for whatever she found. She doubted the videotape Pierre had talked about would still be there, but she still might come across some clue as to whom Molly and the others had been paying. There might be similar tapes, or pictures. There had to be something.

  She started in the master bedroom. Women put personal things with their personal things. Molly loved pictures of herself, loved anything to do with her own body. Camilla half expected to find a mirror installed above the bed. Pierre would doubtless enjoy that.

  There was no mirror. There was very little of anything. Molly might as well have been living in a hotel.

  Camilla was surprised at how clean the apartment was. She supposed the police had seen to that. They had been through all the drawers, or someone had. No woman, not even Molly, would keep her stockings and underwear in such a tangle.

  The searchers had also made a thorough job of the bathroom. The toothpaste had all been squeezed out of its tube. What had they been looking for? Drugs? It had been rumored that Molly was a cocaine user, though Camilla had never seen any evidence of it.

  It irritated Camilla to find African masks on the living room wall. She took them down, one by one, to look inside them, but she didn’t put them back.

  She was leaving fingerprints. But this was her apartment, or had been. Her fingerprints must already be here. She was breaking no law. She had broken no law. She had done nothing wrong. There was no just reason for any of this to be happening to her.

  Damned tears. She wiped them away and moved along. She was taking too much time.

  Camilla was in the kitchen, staring in wonder at all the liquor bottles in one of the cabinets, when she heard the noise—a muffled, distant click. Had something she’d touched fallen down? She froze. There was an exit from the kitchen to the fire stairs and the garbage chute. She was no more than eight feet from it.

  Another sound now. Unmistakable. The front door closing. And then a voice, harsh, demanding.

  “Camilla!”

  She turned toward the doorway, trying to compose herself. She had gone over in her mind what she wanted to d
o when next she looked into the face that belonged with that voice. In her dreams the last two nights, she had done it—shot him, stabbed him, butchered him. But when Jacques stepped into the kitchen, she could do nothing. All she could manage was to cross her arms and hold them tightly against her chest, as though to keep back her terror.

  He smiled, Rhett Butler returned from running a Yankee blockade. He was as handsome as Camilla was beautiful—as Pierre was ugly. But the nastiness in his eyes ruined the effect. She didn’t believe in such nonsense, but he looked like someone possessed.

  “Why are you here?” she asked. Her own voice sounded like a small child’s.

  “I followed you. I’ve been following you all day, darlin’. I never knew you to be so fond of rain.”

  She backed up against the sink. “How did you get in?”

  “The man behind the desk.”

  “The concierge?”

  “He’s sleeping now. Under his desk.” He held up a ring of keys. “I borrowed these.”

  “You didn’t—He’s all right?”

  “I think so.” Another smile.

  “My God, Jacques. The police—”

  “The police don’t even know who I am. Or do they, Camilla?”

  “They’ll know soon enough if they catch us in here.”

  “Why didn’t you answer when I called?”

  “Why did you beat up that poor man last night? He means no harm. You could have killed him.”

  “Means no harm? He’s a goddamn newspaperman, Camilla! He’s the last person in the world you should be talking to.”

  “He doesn’t know anything. He just wants to help me.”

  “Why? How does he know you need help? You’re just a witness. What have you told him?”

  “I haven’t told him anything, but—”

  “But what, Camilla? Can he identify me?”

  She remembered A.C. standing by the family portrait when she came in.

  “No,” she said. “But he knows who Pierre is.”

  Regret came as swiftly as pain. Why had she blurted that out? Why in hell? What had she just done to A.C.?

  “He knows about Pierre?” Jacques said. “He knows about the family?” His voice was very quiet and, consequently, more menacing than if he had shouted the words at her.

  “I think he recognized Pierre at the show. He’s a newspaperman. Pierre used to work in the White House. Pierre was Molly’s lover, for God’s sake! It’s going to come out.”

  “Why was he in your apartment for so long, Camilla? What were you talking about?”

  “I was trying to fix up his cuts and bruises. You hit him all over, Jacques. You could have killed him.”

  He snatched at her wrist and yanked her toward him, leaning close, his dark eyes fixed on hers.

  “I will kill him, Camilla. If one word about our family appears in that newspaper of his, I’ll shoot him down just like that nigger model. Do you doubt me?”

  She mustered all her effort to stare back at him, to turn her fear into courage and defiance. All she doubted was whether he meant the “if.” Jacques looked out of his mind with frustration. He’d kill again just to relieve that. She’d seen him kill a horse once just because it kept balking at a jump.

  Finally, he relaxed his grip enough for her to pull her arm away. Her wrist was red, and beginning to swell.

  “He won’t put anything in the paper,” she said. “He won’t do anything to harm me.”

  “Why not?”

  “I think he’s attracted to me. A lot.”

  Jacques smiled. “They’re all attracted to you, darlin’. It’s the great curse of your life.”

  Jacques was the great curse of her life. Jacques and Pierre, and their wretched daddy.

  He opened his coat. He had a large pistol stuck in his belt. Any patrolman strolling his beat could arrest Jacques just for that.

  “You’re the biggest fool I’ve ever known,” she said.

  He hit her, as hard as he could, striking her shoulder and knocking her violently back against the sink. The pain brought tears. At least he had spared her face.

  “I’ll kill him, Camilla. And I’ll kill that nigger cop if he sniffs around too close. And, by God, I’ll kill you, my darlin’ sister, if you don’t stop playin’ flirty-eyes with that damned newspaperman, if you don’t start helping me get us out of this.”

  She rubbed her shoulder, making it hurt all the worse. She had to get away from him—had to get them both out of this apartment.

  “There may be a way,” she said. “Pierre said there’s a tape—a videotape of him and Molly and some others. Doing things in bed.”

  “In bed?”

  “Having sex, Jacques. It’s a filthy, awful tape, every kind of nasty, lewd, disgusting thing. Pierre is paying money to whoever has it. He told me last night. He said that’s why he needs more from us. The others in the tape are paying, too.”

  “What others?”

  “Another model, Belinda St. Johns. And one named Jimmy Woody. He’s … he’s black.”

  “Having sex with Molly Wickham?”

  “And with Pierre. It’s on the tape.”

  “Pierre in bed with a nigger boy?”

  “Will you stop using that word? A gentleman does not use that word! Nor does he strike a woman!”

  His face went blank. She’d finally managed to intimidate him a little.

  “Where is this tape?” he asked.

  “Do you think I know? I looked through things in here.” She shrugged. “Absolument rien.”

  “Pierre must know where it is.”

  “I told you. He’s paying someone. He seemed very worried. He hopes to have the federal charges against him dropped, and then sell his company—for a lot of money. I don’t suppose it would help him much if that tape turned up in Washington.”

  “Honey, some of his clients would probably ask for that Woody boy’s telephone number.”

  “I mean the federal government. The newspapers. They could ruin him in Washington.”

  “They surely could.”

  “If we could get that tape, Jacques, we could put an end to this. Think about it. He’d have no choice.”

  “We could arrange a trade. Unless I find his cache first.”

  “You won’t, Jacques. He’s not stupid. He put it in his will.”

  “Put what?”

  They had been in the apartment too long. She wanted so desperately to get away.

  “The directions to where he hid it. He named three beneficiaries to receive certain papers. They’re all Carolina society writers. The will is locked up in a bank safe-deposit box. No, Jacques. This tape is our only way.”

  “Those two models, you said. And Pierre and his black whore.”

  “There may have been another person, a photographer. His name is Peter Gorky. He and Molly chummed around together. He used to make films like that, dirty movies.”

  “I’ll find him.”

  “Don’t hurt him, Jacques. Don’t hurt anyone else. And for God’s sake, leave A.C. James alone!”

  He stepped close, very much the bully again.

  “I think you’re a little attracted to him, aren’t you, darlin’? A nice respectable married lady like you.”

  “I’ve only just met him.”

  Jacques took her chin in his hand, lifting her face to his eyes.

  “If I catch you talking to him just one more time, darlin’, I’ll kill him. Do you understand? Do you believe me?”

  “Yes.” She closed her eyes. His fingers were still hard on the bone of her chin. “Let me go, Jacques.”

  He didn’t.

  “If you’re going to kill somebody again, Jacques,” she said, as hatefully as she could manage, “why don’t you murder Momma? That’ll solve everything.”

  He slapped her face. It sent her reeling, but for a moment, she was free of him. Then he took her arm, pulling her down the hall. He paused in the living room. A great sweep of Manhattan running north along the river glittered and sp
arkled outside the wide window.

  “You go home now,” he said. “You stay put until I call you again.”

  “I’m leaving, Jacques. I’m going to get out of New York for a while,” she said. “Pierre’s gone back to Washington. You find the tape. But don’t you hurt anyone.” She hesitated, then folded her arms, standing her ground. “If one more person gets hurt in this, Jacques, I’m going straight to the police.”

  He pulled the large pistol from his belt and leveled it at her head, slowly pulling back the hammer. She didn’t move, except to tremble. If he fired, she would die exactly as Molly had died.

  But she knew he wouldn’t. As mad and crazed and evil as he was, he still lived by his code. She was his kin, a woman of his house.

  He laughed, then returned the pistol to his belt, moving to the front door.

  “We’ll go out the way we came in,” he said. “We’ll just act like we belong here.”

  The elevator was a long time reaching their floor. It was empty.

  “The concierge will recognize you,” she said.

  “No he won’t.”

  Floor numbers blinked on and off in a display panel as they descended. The lobby could be full of policemen. She could shout, “This man killed Molly Wickham.” It would all be over.

  She looked at his hand. She remembered him caring for a foaling mare. Gentle hands.

  “How badly did you hurt him?” she asked.

  “That’s what I want to see.”

  The doors slid open like the swift curtain of a stage, revealing a small crowd of people hovering by the concierge’s desk. There were others outside on the sidewalk, peering in through the glass of the entrance. Jacques moved them along, gripping Camilla’s arm tightly. She pulled away, and hurried up to the others.

  The concierge was lying on his back. There was blood running from the top of his head. His eyes were open, blinking. He was muttering something.

  “What happened?” Camilla said to a woman. “Is he all right?”

  “A robber attacked him,” the woman said, as calmly as though they were waiting in a checkout line at Gristede’s. “He may be in the building. Someone called the police.”

  There were sirens.

  Camilla looked back at Jacques, but he had vanished. She edged away from the others, then turned and left the building, walking with studied naturalness though every nerve in her body screamed at her to run.