"Right."
"What were you looking for, Ray? And where did you look for it?"
"I can answer the second part. We looked high and low, searched the place top to bottom. What were we lookin' for? We'da known if we found it."
"I'm a trained burglar," I said, "and I know more places to hide things than you do, and more places to look for them. And I even have a sort of an idea what I'm looking for."
"An' you want me to sneak you in there. Against all rules, in a case that ain't my case anymore."
"Right."
"Get me two more of those crullers," he said. "With the chocolate on 'em, an' the jimmies." I went and fetched them, and he ate them without a word. Then he drank down the rest of his coffee and got to his feet.
"Well, what the hell," he said.
There were things I wanted to look at before I started hunting the McGuffin. First was the lock on the door to the Lyles' apartment. You can pick a lock without leaving traces, if you're careful not to scratch the face of the cylinder. But the cruder forms of entry all tend to involve gouges of some sort or other, and I couldn't see any, or any scratches, either. It looked to me as though the Lyles had let their killers in.
Ray had badged his way past the doorman, picking up a set of keys in the process, and the two of us had pulled down all the yellowCRIME SCENE tape from the door, and I balled it up and pocketed it for disposal later, far from the scene of the crime. After I'd studied the lock, he opened it with the key, and in we went.
The forensics team had long since come and gone, but it was still hard to resist an impulse to mince around on tiptoe. I did pull on a pair of Pliofilm gloves, which got a raised eyebrow from Ray, but I couldn't see any reason to leave a print behind, and several reasons not to.
"The Lyles let them in," I'd told Ray before we entered, and after a close examination I said as much for the safe. "Either Lyle opened it for them, or he told them the combination and let them do it themselves. But nobody blew it or peeled it, and I don't think there are fifteen people in America who could open it without force and violence."
"Fifteen, huh? You an' fourteen others?"
"It wouldn't be easy. The thing is, if they were good enough to get through this safe, they wouldn't have kicked my door in. I had a good lock on there, but it would have been child's play compared to this baby."
It wasn't locked, so I didn't have to show off. I opened the thing, and it was as empty as he'd said it was.
"If it was like this when Lyle opened it for 'em," he said, "an' if they looked all over an' still didn't find it, why the head shots? I can see doin' one of 'em, to show the other one you're serious, but why cap 'em both?"
"Head shots," I said.
"That can't be news to you, Bernie. I told you, an' even if I didn't you'da got it from TV or the papers. They were both shot in the head, and with the same gun. And no, before you ask, it wasn't the same gun as killed Berzins. That was a Lindbauer TDK on full auto. Lyle and the lady were shot with a.22 caliber pistol."
"Your crew searched the place."
"I told you that."
"But neatly," I said, looking around. "You put things back where you found them."
"It's a crime scene, Bernie. You don't touch it until the forensics guys are done, an' then you do what you have to do an' put everything back where you found it."
"That's what you did at my place," I said. "But it's not whatthey did."
"They made a mess? Yeah, you said they did."
"But they didn't make a mess here. Aside from a pair of dead bodies in the living room, I'd say they left the place pretty much as they found it. Which means they didn't search it, and what does that tell you?"
"That they got the damn thing outta the safe, just like I told you right from the beginning."
"But I already explained why they couldn't have. So that leaves another possibility, and it's the only one I can think of."
"Let's hear it."
"They got something," I said, "and they thought it was the McGuffin, and at that stage they had no reason to leave the Lyles breathing."
"Bang bang."
"And away they went, and it wasn't until hours later that they found out they didn't have what they wanted. Because it's still here."
He took his time thinking it over. "Okay," he said at length. "I can't find the holes in that, so all you gotta do is prove the pudding. If it's here, show it to me."
Twenty minutes later, we stood looking down at four photos which I'd laid out on the dining room table. They were color prints, four inches by five inches, and looked to have been taken by the same camera. All four were framed with Scotch tape that held them to pages recently torn from a book. If you looked closely, you could see another thickness of tape, half as wide, which suggested that they'd been mounted somewhere else, then cut loose and mounted anew. The book from which they'd been most recently removed wasQB VII , by Leon Uris. I'd read the book years ago and remembered it fondly, and it had bothered me to rip out the pages, especially with the author having died not long ago. But it was a book club edition and its dust jacket was missing, so it could have been worse. I'd put it on the table next to the photos, where it sat looking deceptively intact.
The photographs showed two faces, full-face and profile. Both faces, stern and expressionless, were those of middle-aged white men, and they filled the photos; if anything of either man existed below the chin, you couldn't have told from these pictures. Madame Defarge might have just plucked them from the basket at the base of the guillotine.
"There," I said, triumphantly. "Head shots."
Twenty-Eight
Igive up, Bern. Who the hell are these guys?"
"That's what Ray wanted to know," I said. "He also wanted to hang on to the photos, but I pointed out they might be evidence someday, so he couldn't just come up with them. He had to find them somewhere, in the right time and the right place, when finding them was something he was legally authorized to do. This way, I said, he had plausible deniability. I think he liked the sound of it."
"I don't blame him. I like the sound of it myself. You got any idea who these bozos are? Because I wouldn't know where to start guessing. You look at them and at first glance they look like brothers, or maybe cousins, and then you look again and see how different they are. The noses are different, the mouths are completely different, this one's jowly, this one's got a higher forehead, the other's got a scar, they're different around the eyes-you know, when you add it all up, they're barely members of the same species, but there's a similarity about them, and I don't know what it is."
"Same pose, for one thing. Same expression, or lack of expression."
She nodded. "Same overall shape of the head, too."
"Ray said they were brothers, but with different parents."
"Ike and Mike, they look alike. Except they don't. Ike here looks older, doesn't he?"
"Well, he's a blond. They're supposed to have more fun."
"Mike's definitely younger. If he were a woman you'd say his hair was mouse-colored, but you don't hear that with guys. What would you call his hair color, sandy?"
"I guess."
"It's funny," she said. "He's got less hair than Ike, but he looks years younger. I wonder why."
"Maybe he was born ten years later than the blond guy."
"That would explain it, Bern. Or maybe it's clean living. A healthier diet. More vegetables. Plenty of exercise, regular dental checkups. Assuming either one of them even has teeth. They've both got this cold closemouthed stare, and I think that's what makes them look alike, even though they don't. Bern, how'd you know where to look for the photos?"
"I gave Berzins a book," I said, "and he was happy to pay thirteen hundred dollars for it, and I suppose he'd have gone as high as ten thousand, because that's what he'd brought along with him. He didn't care about the title or author, and when I said the title he must have thought I was talking about him, because that's what he was, a secret agent of some sort."
&nbs
p; "And then they shot him and took the book from him-"
"And took it to Mapes's house in Riverdale. Or to Mapes, anyway, for him to take home. They didn't say, `A book? We don't need no stinking books,' and throw it in the garbage. They figured it might be what they were after, so I thought about that, and I decided it might be something you could hide in a book. And then I realized it was probably photos, which you can definitely hide in a book. Then you stick the book in the middle of a bookcase, and nobody thinks to look for it."
"Like the Poe story."
" `The Purloined Letter.' Yes, the same idea. The apartment was a sublet, remember, and the original tenants had left the books in the bookcase. They were readers, too, so there were plenty of books. Ray said he and his buddies lifted them out a handful at a time and checked to make sure nothing was hidden behind them. That was reasonable if you didn't know what you were looking for, but it was just a waste of effort in this case. Some cop had that copy ofQB VII in his hand and didn't have a clue what he was holding."
"So you went through them a book at a time."
"It didn't take long. You just open the book and riffle the pages. If there's anything in there, you know right away. The hard part was finding the right book, which happened fairly early on, and then checking all the others to make sure it was the only one like that."
"I don't know if I would have had the patience to do that, Bern."
"I didn't get to think about it, because Ray just kept going, picking up books and riffling them, showing me what painstaking police work looks like. The least I could do was follow his example. And of course there were no more books with photos taped to their pages, but that way we were positive."
"Just four photos," she said. "Two for each subject. I asked before if you had a clue who they were, and I don't remember what you said."
"I didn't say anything."
"Oh."
"Your computer working?"
"Is my computer working? Of course it's working. I was just online, and I checked my buddy list, and guess who else was online? GurlyGurl, so we IM'd back and forth for a while. We've got a date for Tuesday night, unless she has to work late." She grinned. "She was bitching about one of the lawyers who keeps piling work on her, says she's a real ovary-buster. I bet I know who she means."
"Maybe we'd better not go on any double dates just yet."
"My thought exactly. She likes me, Bern. Isn't that neat?"
"Very."
"Why'd you ask about my computer?"
"Because you're better on it than I am," I said, "and I thought maybe you'd like to do a little research."
Ray had brought along a fresh roll ofCRIME SCENE tape, and after he'd used it to reseal the apartment he offered to drop me at Carolyn's. He got as far as Sheridan Square and told me I was on my own, claiming that he always got lost in the crooked little streets. He may just have been in a hurry to get home. It was still raining, so I was glad I had my umbrella.
Before I got out of the car I reached in my pocket and remembered what I'd been carrying around ever since I spoke to him hours ago. "You could do me a favor," I said. "Do you think you'd be able to run a print for me?"
He looked at me and made me repeat the question. Then he said, "Could I run a print? Nothin' to it. Could I run a print for you? Now that's somethin' else again. Whose print and where'd it come from?"
"If I knew whose print it was," I said reasonably, "I wouldn't ask you to identify it for me. As for the rest, you don't want to know."
"Meanin' you don't want to tell me. I dunno, Bernie. I'm bendin' a whole lotta rules today."
"Rules were made to be bent."
"Well, you're right about that," he said, and held out his hand, and I filled it, and he looked at what he was holding and then at me. "I dunno, Bern," he said. "This yours? Could be you're as light on your feet as Valdi Berzins."
Now, while Carolyn settled in at her computer, I made a few calls on her phone. I reached Marty Gilmartin at home, asked him a couple of questions to which he gave guarded responses, and made a date for lunch the following day. He asked if The Pretenders was all right, and I said it was always fine with me. I might be pressed for time, I said, in which case we could make it a drink or a cup of coffee instead of a full meal, but it would be good to get together.
I hung up and called Barbara Creeley, and when I'd said hello she said she was hoping I'd call. "I called you about half an hour ago," she said, "but I got your machine."
"I was out," I said. "Still am."
"I'm home."
"I figured that," I said, "right about the time you picked up the phone."
"Oh, right, of course. That was dumb of me, saying I'm home. I mean, you called me, so of course I'm home."
"I wouldn't say it was dumb."
"You wouldn't?"
She sounded shaky. I asked her if she was all right.
"I guess so. Do you still want to have dinner?"
"That's why I was calling. I was hoping you'd be home, and that I could take you out someplace for something nice."
"Okay."
"Okay?"
"Well, sure. I mean, I'm home. And yes, dinner would be nice."
"Great. What time's good?"
"What time? I don't know. You say."
"Uh, seven?" That would give me plenty of time to go home and change. "Is that good?"
"Seven's fine."
"Should we pick a place? It's Sunday, so not everybody's open. Do you have someplace you particularly like? Or do you want to meet at Parsifal's, and we can figure out where to go from there?"
There was a pause, as if two questions at once was too much to deal with. Then she said, "Could you just come over here?"
"If you'd like."
"That would be good, Bernie. You'll come over here at seven?"
"I will."
"You know the address?"
"I do."
"I'll see you at seven, then. Or earlier, if you'd like. Whenever you're ready, just come over. I'll be right here."
She hung up. I sat there holding the phone for a long moment, and then did the same myself.
"I've got to run home," I told Carolyn. "I need a shave and a shower. I've got a date."
"With Barbara? That's great."
"Let's hope so," I said.
Twenty-Nine
It was a little before seven when I mounted the half flight of steps at the brownstone on East 36thStreet. I rang and she buzzed me in, and when I got to her floor she was waiting in the doorway. She wore a dress with a bold geometric print, the kind of thing Mondrian might have done if he hadn't been so firmly committed to the right angle.
I told her I liked her dress. I'd noticed it before, actually, and had admired it then, but it did more for her figure than for a hanger in the closet, which is where I'd seen it. She said she'd taken it to Long Island, to wear at the Sunday brunch, but an informal poll indicated that most of the other women would be wearing jeans or a skirt, so the dress went back in the suitcase. She didn't know where we'd go tonight, but she could put on something else if I thought she was over-or under-dressed.
I was wearing a blazer and gray slacks, and I had a tie in my pocket, so I figured we were all right for just about any setting. I said she looked great, and she did, but there was an uncertain air about her that matched what I'd heard over the phone. She led me into the apartment, and there was a touch of awkwardness, the to-kiss-or-not-to-kiss moment. We'd been to bed two nights ago, but we really didn't know each other, so would it be presumptuous for either of us to expect the other to fall into a clinch? I hesitated, and she hesitated, and I reached for her and she came into my arms and we kissed.
It was a nice embrace, and a lingering one, but when we drew apart she still seemed troubled, and I asked her if everything was all right.
"Yes," she said, and thought about it, and said, "No," and thought about that, and then frowned. "I don't know," she said finally.
"What's the matter?"
"I'm a lit
tle scared."
"I can tell. Of what?"
She'd been avoiding my eyes, but now she met them. "Bernie," she said, "have you ever had the feeling that you could be losing your mind?"
"Sometimes I'm not sure I ever had one in the first place," I said. I glanced at her bed, and thought about the time I'd spent not in it but under it. "Sometimes I know I'm doing something that's really nuts, but I can't seem to keep myself from doing it."
"You mean like eating dessert when you'd decided earlier not to have dessert, and you really don't even want it, but there it is and you eat it?"
Burglar on the Prowl Page 20
