I shut my notebook and pondered these issues with my eyes closed. Of course, the phone started ringing like always when I have something important to think about or when I have to hurry somewhere.
I picked it up, and said hello in a curt, formal voice. It was my brother Lewis. Now that he was calling from the hospital and not from home, he sounded fairly humane.
"Is that you, little brother? I've got good news for you."
I closed my eyes again. How can he be so annoying, even when he's telling me good news? And what does he mean by little brother? He should have given me a damned slice of bread when I drove a hundred miles to his house.
"All the findings are negative," he sounded enthusiastic as if he was responsible for the test results. "In other words, you are as healthy as an ox."
"That's strong, not healthy," I grumbled into the receiver. Lewis rarely wants to word things clearly, and even when he does, he fails. "And what does the neurologist say?"
When I was there, they did a blood test, X-rayed me, examined my innards with ultrasound, poked around, pressed my stomach, shined a light in my eyes, ears and throat, leaving only my ass out. Then Lewis walked me over to the neurologist's clinic.
I had to walk with my eyes closed and my arms held out ahead of me, I had to touch my nose still with closed eyes, and I had to perform other circus stunts. And then there were the psychological screenings. I remembered some of them from my studies, but I had no idea what the doctor was trying to get at with half of them. The neurologist was a short, slim man with bright eyes. He asked me about my childhood, what he was really interested in was my relationship with my brother. Of course, I lied. He asked me what was wrong with me and why I thought I had a split personality. I had to tell him about the things I had done, and how well I remembered them. He crossexamined me with questions about my answers. We wasted half a day on each other.
"He says that if you're crazy, then so is he," Lewis laughed cheerfully.
What can I say? It wasn't exactly reassuring. I wondered if there was someone else there, sitting with him in his luxurious study. Maybe his wife or a colleague was overhearing this conversation. Maybe Lewis was showing them that he's not only an outstanding doctor, an excellent husband and father, but he's also a good brother.
"And what about the Q-virus?" I asked after some hesitation.
"What?" He sounded alarmed, and I felt some kind of satisfaction.
"The Q-virus," I repeated, with an important tone. "Discovered by Dr. Martin Baruch. An aggression virus or something like that."
There was silence. I could picture him sitting in his revolving armchair, his eyes nervously scanning the bookshelves. He hates it when he doesn't know something.
"First of all, he hasn't proven it yet, it's just a theory," his voice was calming down. For Lewis if something isn't proven, it doesn't exist. "Secondly, it sounds like a pretty far-out theory to me."
Somehow, this statement reassured me. He's a fathead, but he's still my brother and an excellent doctor. I wanted to believe him instead of Baruch. Baruch's ideas were not at all reassuring.
"What do you know about the theory?" I asked. I was looking at my notebook as if I wanted to confront my brother with my confused scribble. I trust him. It's incredible how much I trust him, I thought. "I can't believe you don't know anything about it," I added cynically.
He wasn't going to be ruffled.
"I'll look into it if you're interested," he said condescendingly. His voice seemed to suggest that he did not have too much time to waste on such nonsense.
"Could you? And thanks. For everything."
He hesitated for a second, as if he couldn't decide whether I was making fun of him or not.
I said goodbye and hung up.
I had had enough of Baruch, of the solid, but uncheckable thoughts. Maybe I'm just a simple ignorant cop and maybe it's better that way. I opened the notebook to the part about Simone. Using my own words I abbreviated what she said, but looking at my notes I could practically hear every word in her own voice. I heard her mocking tone. After sex, we lay on the wide bed, blowing smoke rings toward the ceiling. Her rings went higher. She smiled at me, her face was innocent.
"There was a party at your place when you were still living with Pat. Do you remember?"
She blew the smoke into my face.
"What's this interrogation? You're going to get me to tell all my secrets after sex? That's a woman's trick."
I should have kissed her, or caressed her face lovingly. I knew that's what she was expecting. Then we could wrestle in bed, laughing. It would have worked if I loved this woman. But I wasn't able to do any of this. I got up and went into the bathroom so I wouldn't have to answer. The bathroom was small and packed with jars, plastic bottles, shampoos, gels, hair- and nail-conditioners. Simone probably used a different brand every week, maybe she was testing them all. I tried one of the liquid soaps, standing under the hot shower for a long time. A little while later, her slim body slipped in next to me. I closed my eyes, enjoying the water and Simone's gentle fingers.
"There were lots of parties there," I heard over the dull roar of the water.
I didn't say anything. I only bent my head back and let the water slap my face. Simone's fingers were already touching my thighs. I felt desire, remorse because of Celia, astonishment that fate brought me together with two incredibly beautiful, sensual and insistent women one after the other.
"OK, you bastard," she said and grabbed me so tightly that I wailed, "I know which party you mean. The one where Frost showed up with his friends …we got wasted."
I looked at my notes. There was only a name on the paper. Victor Delacroix. The only one from the gang who hangs out at the Star who was there at that party. The fancy dresser with the great smile. Charming Simone even knew his address. As I sat by my desk reading my notebook, I felt a twinge of jealousy. I had no reason or right to feel jealous of Simone, but emotions don't need reasons.
Just as I started daydreaming again, Captain Ericsson called. He wanted to see me in his office. I picked up my notebook and hurried down the dark corridor. Two people were standing by the coffee dispenser, they were stirring the dubious liquid in the brown paper cups with disgust on their faces. They didn't look familiar to me.
"Sit down, son!" Ericsson said. He dropped into the old-looking armchair and sat facing me. He took his medicine with what looked like lukewarm water.
"I am going to retire," he said suddenly. Then he put his glass down, looked into my eyes and started to look like his old self. "To hell with it, don't spread that around, that's not why I called you here!"
I had an idea about what was coming next, I was fondling the notebook with sweaty hands.
"I don't want to leave this place knowing that that piece of shit is still roaming the streets. Frost is one mess I want cleaned up before I go."
I thought of the untraceable gun Ericsson had given me. My stomach began to tremble. The rest of me felt shaky too. I didn't want to kill, damn it. Even the idea frightens me, I thought. It makes me sick. Maybe I don't have enough of this Q-virus in me—if it exists at all outside of Baruch's imaginative mind.
"Well?" Ericsson grumbled.
It's hard to share my thoughts with other people, especially someone like Ericsson. Work is different. I give accounts, I write reports. But this investigation is more of a personal matter—if it is an investigation. I'm really just follow a thread, and I don't know yet where it will lead me. Will it lead me anywhere? I didn't promise Ericsson that I would shoot Frost. I don't think I even promised I would find him.
And then I felt sorry for the captain, he seemed so old and weak. I told him about the gang at the Star, and that they are somehow connected to Frost and his crowd. It wasn't bad, as I was talking about it, the picture became clearer even for me. It wasn't like opening up in front of Celia. I was editing myself now.
"What makes you think that it's not this gang from the Star that was there at the party?"
I hadn't thought about this, I just knew it, period. But a couple seconds later I understood the explanation too. I know myself, and I know the tracks my thoughts follow.
"Because the guard in Patricia's house wouldn't have been so scared of those clowns. He likes to think he's a tough guy, and he would probably talk back to them, but he's not an idiot. He knows when he shouldn't mess around."
Captain Ericsson made a gesture of resignation with his liver-spotted hand.
"Too much psychology," he grumbled. "All this soul searching is what destroys our profession. Nowadays everybody has a psyche and a soul that you have to understand. In the old days, when they robbed a bank, that was a bank robbery, period. And murder was murder, and not a series of psychological crises ending in a disaster." He hit the table, but the old swing was missing, his palm didn't slam the table as loud as it used to. "Maybe it's good I'm going. I can't handle all the soul-searching."
I didn't know what to say to this. I did what I always do in these situations: I looked down, contemplating the tips of my fingers. Ericsson was waiting to see if I would object to what he said. There was heavy silence for a while. And then he reached into his pocket, took out another tablet and swallowed it without water.
"Tell me son, if you understand everyone so well, maybe you can explain to me why Victor what's-his-name broke up that fight at the club? All right, the management gave you an escort out of there because they don't want a raid. But why does this sharpdressing dandy hit his friend instead of you?
"Maybe he didn't want trouble," I tried.
"Why not?" Ericsson wasn't blinking, looking into his yellowish eyes, you could easily forget his weak body, his shrinking face. I hesitated. I hadn't thought about this either.
Somehow all the answers I wanted to give seemed fake. Why was Victor so worried about his friend getting in a fight with me? I didn't show them my shield. I didn't tell them I was a cop. If they had beaten me up, they could have easily said that I picked a fight with them. I was stumped.
"Because they're up to something," he said triumphantly, like the woman on the TV quiz show correctly naming the capital city of Burundi. "That's when these guys get careful. They don't exceed the speed limit; they aren't loud; they won't even litter on the sidewalk. Keep watching them—you'll see you'll find something."
I nodded and stood up. Somehow it seemed right what Ericsson was saying, but it was difficult to admit it. I opened my notebook and read:
"Q-virus is not contagious, but it has a similar effect. Those who have the disease look for each other's company, and the more they hang out together, the stronger the symptoms will be. A group organized this way can soon become a danger to the public."
"What?" Ericsson snorted.
I gave him a playful smile.
"Q-virus. A brand new theory. The virus of aggression. It can be found in practically everybody captain, even in you."
"I've got enough diseases to worry about. You just keep watching this Victor Delacroix, and you'll see that he's planning something. And catch Frost, with that virus or without!"
I nodded, and left the room silently. I remembered the gossip I'd heard: that Ericsson has cancer. Maybe it wasn't such a great idea from me to joke around with him about the Q-virus.
CHAPTER 28
It's not difficult to follow someone, it's just a question of time, experience and people. Arany, has experience. He has time, now that he's made up his mind to do this. And he probably could have asked Ericsson to give him some people. But he doesn't feel like it. He's just acting on a hunch, and he doesn't want to have to justify the whole thing with official reports and requests. So the evening after his talk with the captain he parks his car near Victor Delacroix's house, turns the engine off, leans the seat back, and takes the sandwich he prepared at home out of his bag.
He chews the sandwich slowly, sips at his soda, and watches passers-by. He decides to wait for another quarter of an hour, and then move down a block. He doesn't want to attract the neighbor's attention. No one trusts anyone anymore.
He doesn't even have to wait five minutes before Victor Delacroix turns up. The man is full of swagger. He rushes out from his lobby and stops for a second, as if he was expecting his limousine to roll up in front of the building with a uniformed chauffeur. It's a pretty nice neighborhood, a world away from Frost's hiding place, where Arany and Carl tracked him down. Delacroix wears faded jeans and a loose sweatshirt. His fair hair is unruly, but just mussed enough to look casual and windblown. Even when he's dressing down this guy looks like someone you'd see in a magazine advertisement.
No limousine comes, or maybe Delacroix is waiting for something else. For a millionaire woman or a miracle. Or it could be he was just looking around to see if anyone's following him.
Arany follows him. Delacroix drives fast, with confidence. He's not the kind of driver who looks into the rear-view mirror very often. Arany had hoped it would be like this. Delacroix is selfish, only interested in himself, and how he could work his way ahead faster in traffic.
Arany doesn't want to race with him, he slows down. Quarry like this should be followed by three cars, walky-talkies, the works. Or at least by a good motorcycle driver. Arany loses sight of him, and for a while he thinks about giving up, then he sees Delacroix's car again. It's an old BMW, covered with shiny chrome, as prominent as its owner. He rolls ahead slowly, a couple cars in front of Arany. Arany knows the symptoms. His man wants to park. Delacroix bounces his head to the rhythm of the music coming from the radio. All right, pal. Park if you can find a spot. Delacroix makes a right, and Arany continues straight ahead, then stops next to the no-parking sign on the other side of the street. He puts the "officer-on-duty" sign on his dashboard, hoping it will be more of a help then a hindrance. If he had time to think about it, he probably would have left the sign hidden. He walks back quickly along the street where Delacroix was driving so slowly, and then he stops to look at some shop windows waiting for the familiar figure to show up on the sidewalk. Where is he going? Lots of decent buildings, some elegant boutiques, a bank …oh no! Arany thinks of Ericsson, of the good old days when the captain was chasing gangsters in his uniform, when a bank robbery was a bank robbery.
To rob this bank? It seems impossible. There are two doors of bulletproof glass with electric locks, watched over by a well-dressed security guard. The guard can push the button at any time to lock either door. And he only opens the inner door when the outer one is closed.
Arany waits for at least ten minutes. He crosses over to the other side of the street and leans against the wall, thinking. Could Delacroix have realized that he was following him? Anything was possible, but he still didn't like this idea. He absentmindedly read the gilded sign next to the door. The office of the Maritime Navigation Company is upstairs. The old-fashioned ornamental letters conjure up images of tall sailing ships. It seems unlikely that Victor Delacroix is coming here. Arany smiles at the thought, and walks back to his car.
All he gets for parking there is a scratch on his paint job.
The next morning he's back with a bike. He stops the borrowed Kawasaki 500 in front of Delacroix's house. He takes off his helmet, leans against the seat and looks around. He soon realizes that, even if it be easier to follow Delacroix on a motorbike, waiting for him this way is definitely more conspicuous. It had been completely different to munch his sandwich sitting in the car. Standing on the sidewalk, he really sticks out. People look him up and down as if they've never seen anyone eat a sandwich. Arany can't take it for more than ten minutes, then he moves on. He's fortunate enough to find a little coffee shop nearby. He can sit at the counter, and even though he can't really see Delacroix's house, he can keep an eye on his car. It isn't great, but it's better than feeling so exposed. A grumpy old man puts some watery coffee down in front of him. Following the basic rules of his profession, Arany pays the check immediately, so he can leave at any time.
Hours go by. Arany starts to regret that he had this crazy ide
a to follow Delacroix. He regrets his pride, which prevented him from asking Ericsson for help. He regrets becoming a cop. He'd been offered a fantastic job at a shoe company once. Who knows how high he would have climbed by now.
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