Foster was sitting in a back booth, under an autographed picture of Mel Torme. I sat down next to him under a photo of Jack Dempsey. Foster's light hair was unkempt, as if he'd been running his fingers through it. He pointed silently to a package wrapped in oilcloth on the table in front of him. I carefully unwrapped the cloth. He'd brought me a draftsman's tool kit. I used the tip of my table knife to lift up the cover; inside was an array of drafting tools. Most of the surfaces were thin and round, but there were just enough flat surfaces to make me think there might be latent prints there.
"I imagine a lot of people have handled that box since Victor's death," Foster said, "but there may be some of his prints on the tools inside. Nobody would have had a reason to handle those."
I thanked him and slipped the thin box into my jacket pocket.
"Whose prints are you going to compare those with?" Foster asked.
"I told you it was a wild shot," I said, evading the question. "In any case, I think it's a good idea to have some kind of fingerprint record on Rafferty. The police didn't have him long enough to print him."
Over vodka martinis I brought Foster up to date. He absorbed it all in silence, occasionally stirring his drink. When I finished he grimaced and slowly, emphatically, shook his head.
"This Lippitt character is lying."
"Why do you say that?"
"I knew Victor Rafferty as well as anybody. He wasn't any Russian agent. He couldn't have been a spy. Architecture was his whole life. My God, Victor just didn't have time to be a spy."
"He did a lot of traveling, didn't he? His career would have given him a perfect cover."
"I'm telling you he wasn't a spy," Foster said determinedly.
"Actually, Lippitt never said Rafferty was a spy. He said Rafferty was going to defect to the Russians. There's a difference."
Foster spoke hotly. "It's still a dirty accusation! It would kill Elizabeth. He's lying, which means he's covering up something. I want to find out what it is."
"It might be better to leave it alone, Mike," I said quietly.
He glanced at me sharply, surprise and anger in his eyes. "I heard you didn't scare off so easy."
"How easily I scare isn't the point, Mike. There are other considerations. I don't know if Lippitt is telling the truth, but I do believe that Rafferty was somehow involved in some very dangerous business. Just for the sake of argument, let's assume that Rafferty isn't dead. Now, what's the point of trying to prove it? Do you think it will help your wife's peace of mind if she finds out her first husband isn't dead after all?"
Foster stared into his drink, then slowly nodded his head. "I see your point. Even if Victor is alive, maybe it's better if Elizabeth never finds out about it."
"Also, Lippitt said that it could be dangerous for other people if I continued the investigation. The fact that he came out of the woodwork proves his contention that important people take an interest in this case. I'm not sure that you want to take a chance on anybody's getting hurt. I know I don't."
"Are you saying that you're dropping the case?" Foster sounded concerned.
"For the time being, at least. I think it's better to let things cool down and sift awhile. I'm leaving Thursday anyway."
"How long will you be gone?" He avoided my eyes.
"Three weeks, unless I get eaten by a great white shark."
Foster wasn't in the mood for jokes. He leaned against the vinyl backing of the booth and pressed a hand to his forehead. "If I drop it now… Elizabeth's in really bad shape."
"She could end up in even worse shape if we continue."
"I'd … always wonder," he said distantly.
"Maybe you can handle uncertainty better than your wife can handle the truth," I said. "Still, I've got a file on this, and I've taped a lot of thoughts. If you want, I'll turn them over to somebody else you can trust before I leave."
"Uh-uh. I like the way you operate." He was staring at a large wall mirror across the room, as if searching for truth there, forgetting that mirrors only reflect the truth of the people looking into them. "You'll be back three weeks from Thursday?" He half-smiled. "Unless you get eaten by a great white shark?"
"Not necessarily to work on this case, Mike. I don't think I want the responsibility."
"But it would be my responsibility if I wanted to continue. I'd just like to know if you'll go back to work on it when you come back … if I decide I want to know more."
"I'll have to think about it."
"Fair enough. Who knows? Maybe I'll be able to convince Elizabeth that we should get away for a couple of weeks. I think a change of scenery might do her some good."
"Do you want my file and tapes?"
"Not now," he said. "Why don't you hang on to them until you get back?"
"Okay. I'd also like to keep the draftsman's kit for a while."
"Of course. How much do I owe you up to this point, Frederickson?"
"Why don't you come around to my office tomorrow afternoon? I'll give you an itemized bill. I should also be finished with the kit by then."
We made an appointment for two o'clock.
The relief I'd expected to feel the next morning wasn't there: only unrelieved anxiety about Abu, distracting as a bad hangover. There'd been no messages left with my answering service. It was too early to start calling, so I tried to put the worry out of my mind, at least temporarily.
After breakfast, I went to see my brother. I found Garth looking hurt and annoyed, stuffed into his cubicle writing reports. The typewriter bounced like a toy under the merciless attack of his thick fingers.
"Hey, brother! Guess who's come to visit you."
"Christ," he said without looking up. "I hope you're not here to take up my time or looking for any more favors; I'm out of both."
"What about a fingerprint kit?"
That got his attention. He eased up on the typewriter, and I thought I could almost hear the machine sigh. "Why the hell do you want a fingerprint kit?"
"Just want to check out a couple of long shots." I took out Tal's pencil and Elliot Thomas' protractor and laid them on the desk in front of Garth.
"What's this? Show and Tell?"
"How long will a fingerprint last?"
Garth shrugged. "Indefinitely, as long as it's on a good surface that's been protected."
I took the draftsman's kit out of my pocket and shoved it across the desk to Garth. "Rafferty's prints may be on some of these tools. I'd like to compare them with whatever you can get off the pencil and the protractor."
"The pencil will be tough."
"Can you get partials?"
"Maybe. I'll have to see. Where'd you get the goodies?"
"The protractor from a man named Elliot Thomas, and the pencil from Ronald Tal."
"Tal? You've been traveling in high circles and keeping bad company."
"Careful, brother. Your Midwest conservatism is showing."
Garth whistled softly. "Christ, you think either of these guys could be Rafferty?"
"Doubtful, but I've got to start thinning the herd somewhere. Both men are about the right height and seem the right age; both men are Americans." Garth looked skeptical. "What can I tell you?" I added. "This is known as being methodical."
"How the hell do you get mixed up in these things? How the hell do I get mixed up in these things?" He rummaged around in his desk drawers until he finally came up with the kit. He used a pair of tweezers to lift the pencil and protractor from the cellophane sleeves I'd placed them in, then laid the items carefully beside the draftsman's kit. He opened the kit and began dusting the flat metal surfaces of the tools inside.
"Can I use your phone?" I asked.
Garth nodded as he continued dusting the implements. I picked up the receiver and dialed Abu's office. Abu still wasn't in; his secretary hadn't seen him since before lunch the previous day. I checked to make sure she had my message right, then hung up. I stared at the phone for a long time. It took me a few moments to realize that what I felt was f
ear.
Garth broke into my thoughts. "Take a look at these."
I took the magnifying glass he offered and studied the marks he'd raised on the instruments.
"You lucked out, Mongo," Garth said. "You've got good prints on the protractor, and decent partials on the pencil and the instruments. As far as I can see, there's no match anywhere. If you want, I'll have the lab boys take a look."
It wasn't necessary; I could see that the three sets of prints were entirely different. "Don't bother," I said, snapping the kit closed and putting it back into my pocket. "Two down, a few dozen to go. Case closed."
"Case closed?"
"For me, anyway. Too much risk with too little to gain for everybody involved."
"I don't follow you, Mongo. I thought you were really hot to go on this one. I'd have laid odds the trip to Acapulco was going to be postponed."
"Nope. Some folks I liked got hurt in the last case I was working on. I don't want to see that happen again." I outlined for Garth the reasoning I'd presented to Foster. Garth listened in silence, tapping his fingers thoughtfully on the desk top.
"Heavy," he said when I'd finished. "You're worried about me too, aren't you?"
"Has anybody leaned on you since Sunday?"
Garth pursed his lips and slowly shook his head. "Haven't heard a word."
"Lippitt knows you gave me his number. The man works fast, and he's dangerous."
Garth shrugged. "All must be forgiven."
"Or he's saving that kind of pressure as an ace in the hole. I'm pretty sure you'd be out on the street in a minute if he lifted the wrong eyebrow."
Garth's eyes glinted angrily. "We don't run this department to suit some super-Fed!" He paused, laughed to break the tension. "I guess I'm getting a little skittish myself. You think this Rafferty really is alive?"
"I don't know. It's impossible to read this Lippitt. He's playing some kind of game, but I don't know what it is. If Rafferty is alive, I think there's a good possibility that Lippitt and his merry band have him; they just don't want anybody to know it. But Lippitt says he shot Rafferty himself."
"Really?" It wasn't a wisecrack; Garth was listening intently.
"One more free opinion," I said. "I'm convinced Arthur Morton's murder is connected with the Rafferty case. I'm sure Lippitt knew what I was talking about when I mentioned it."
"Lippitt said so?"
"No. He pretended not to know anything about Morton. I think he was lying."
"God, you're a veritable lie detector, aren't you?"
"It was a feeling."
Garth reached into his desk and took out two manila folders. He opened them and absently gazed at the contents.
The papers inside were photocopies of the Rafferty and Morton files.
"It's pretty risky having that stuff in your desk, isn't it?" I asked. "A lot of people would be unhappy if they found out you were going to nose around."
Garth replaced the folders in his desk and closed the drawer. "Just wanted you to know that a humble public servant is on the job," Garth said with a smile. "When do you leave for the Sunny South?"
"Thursday."
"Remember to send me a postcard."
I tried to shake off the feeling of exclusion, the suspicion that I'd gone gun-shy. "How about that steak now?"
"You hungry?" Garth sounded distracted.
"Not really, no. But I'd like to buy my brother a steak. You mind?"
Garth pushed the typewriter aside and rose. "I thought you'd never get around to it," he said. "But I don't like it when you sound like you're buying a condemned man his last meal."
After lunch I went to my uptown office to wait for Foster. Another call to Abu's office told me he still wasn't in. The secretary wouldn't give me his unlisted home number. I tried to occupy myself by reading the junk mail that had accumulated. Two o'clock came and went. At two forty- five I left a message taped to the door and caught a subway downtown. I was getting edgy. For all I knew, Abu was holed up somewhere with a mistress, but I wanted to do a little personal checking.
A few blocks from the subway station the upended stone- and-glass slab that was the U.N. Secretariat building rose into a cloudless, azure sky-a gigantic symbol of man's striving for something better than the economic and political squalor the majority of his fellows were accustomed to.
Sunlight glinted off the polished windows on the upper stories as a flock of starlings rode an air current up off the East River and across the face of the building. Suddenly another, larger bird appeared, a little behind the others. This bird was surrounded by a glistening shower of what looked like water. The bird flapped helplessly and plunged toward the earth as its companions flew on without it.
I was running before the body hit the ground.
The screams of police and ambulance sirens were closing in as I reached the U.N. plaza. Theirs was a futile, hopeless sound; the man who had fallen would never need an ambulance or a policeman again.
Stunned pedestrians and U.N. guards stood around staring at something just out of my line of vision. I pushed through the gathering crowd and stopped a few paces away from the bloody, broken thing splashed over the concrete apron. The head was a shapeless jam, but one hand lay in macabre, ironic repose atop the caved-in chest. I'd seen the large opal ring on the finger before.
I stared at what was left of the gentle Pakistani for a few moments, then turned away and dazedly groped my way back through the crowd toward the street. Cops and stretcher bearers raced past me in the opposite direction, but it seemed as if they and everything else were going in slow motion. I heard Abu's voice, speaking to me from the opposite end of a long, dark tunnel, telling me how happy he'd be to help me.
Now he was dead. He'd asked the wrong people the wrong questions.
Now I needed some answers. I needed to know why a friend of mine was dead; to find out what terrible knowledge Victor Rafferty had possessed. There was only one person besides Lippitt who I thought could give me those answers, and that was where I intended to go.
Still numb with shock and something like terror, I managed to hail a cab. I mumbled Foster's address, then sank back into the cab's cracked leather seat. I thought I heard Garth yelling at me as the cab pulled away, but I wasn't sure whether the voice was any more real than Abu's, and didn't really care.
Feeling started to return during the long ride to Queens, but I still saw mental flashes of Abu's body plummeting like a wingless bird to be squashed on a hot sidewalk. Garth was going to be asking me some tough questions when I got back, and I intended to ask them of Mrs. Foster first. The toughest questions were the ones I was going to be asking of myself.
I was wound down by the time I reached the Fosters' home: an expensive trilevel on a street with just enough other houses to provide neighbors, but not enough to make anyone feel crowded. I'd originally intended to come on like Dr. J driving for the basket and start firing questions. Now I realized that that wouldn't help anyone. I wasn't going to feel particularly gallant pumping Mrs. Foster for information if she was alone, so I stood on the sidewalk, hands in my pockets, staring at the house and trying to figure out what I wanted to do.
There was no sign of the Olds: just a black Falcon in the driveway, probably Mrs. Foster's. A phone started to ring inside the house. It rang five or six times, then stopped, unanswered. The muscles in my stomach knotted. I walked up to the front door and tried the bell. There was no answer. I rang the bell again, then pounded on the door; still no answer. It suddenly became very important to me that I get inside the house. It was broad daylight, but I was in a hurry and not thinking too clearly; I used a plastic credit card to jimmy my way past the spring lock and into the house.
Not sure what I expected to find, I went through the house room by room. The fact that the door was locked and hadn't been tampered with seemed to be a good sign. Everything inside the house seemed in order; there were no signs of a struggle. The Fosters had apparently left the house under their own power. The question rem
ained as to where they had gone, and why Foster hadn't kept our appointment.
I used the phone to call my answering service. There were no messages from Foster, or anyone else. Next I called Garth's station house. Garth was out. Finally I called a cab, then the airline to cancel my flight to Acapulco.
10
Garth was waiting for me on the steps of the station house when my cab pulled up to the curb. He came down to the sidewalk to meet me. "You knew him, didn't you?" he said perfunctorily. His eyes were opaque, stirred by conflicting emotions.
"Yes." He didn't have to tell me whom he was talking about. "And I think I'm responsible for his death."
"You have an inclination toward self-pity," Garth snapped. "Some bloody bastard pushed him out a window, and I sure as hell know it wasn't you."
"I'm sorry I ran out on you back there," I said, my voice thick with fatigue. "I couldn't. .handle it at the time."
Garth nodded. "It has something to do with the Rafferty case, doesn't it?"
"I think so," I said, knowing so.
"Then maybe it's time you told me everything you know, right from the beginning."
We went into Garth's office and spent the next three quarters of an hour going over what I knew and a little of what I suspected. A second shock wave of horror rolled over me, taking away my breath. Garth saw and tried to beat it back with words.
"You say you talked with him yesterday morning," Garth said, poking me on the arm and forcing me to focus my attention on his words. "Then it all happened incredibly fast."
"Somebody inside that building killed him. And it wasn't a visitor-not up on those floors."
"Rafferty?"
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