by John Lutz
“You want what I can't give you, Nudger,” Livingston said.
He leaned back behind the desk, framed by the gloomy view out the dirty window of his office. A large bird, probably a pigeon, flapped near the glass as if confused; Nudger thought it was going to hit the window, but it veered at the last instant and swooped out of sight. Maybe the view through Livingston's window was as deceptive from outside as from within.
“Why can't you give me the key to Hollister's apartment?” Nudger asked.
Livingston peered around the ever-present vase of flowers; this time they were ugly things that looked like the kind of plants that ate flies and raw hamburger. They were in the right place. “That apartment's a crime scene,” he explained.
“No crime has been reported,” Nudger pointed out.
“Yet.”
“True,” Nudger said. “Maybe I'd better report a kidnapping and make it official that a crime has occurred.”
Livingston didn't like that suggestion, didn't like Nudger for making it. There was pressure on Livingston from opposite ends and both men knew it. “Don't push that line, Nudger,” Livingston said. The hard glint was back in his slanted, beady eyes. Tough little bastard, that glint said. Mean little bastard.
“As long as Collins hasn't requested police help,” Nudger said, “you're under no obligation to regard the apartment as an evidence site. You really have no business possessing Hollister's door key.”
“You're the one who said I had a key to Hollister's apartment.”
“You didn't deny it.”
Livingston smiled. “Think of the things you don't deny but aren't guilty of.”
“This isn't a question of guilt,” Nudger said. “You searched Hollister's apartment and found out his clothes are missing; I was told that by a reliable source. You're the type that touches all bases. I'm sure there was a spare key and you located it. Or if there wasn't, you have a copy of the landlord's passkey.”
“I haven't admitted being in Hollister's apartment,” Livingston said. Nudger interpreted that as a good sign; the captain might be starting to cover himself, which meant he might be considering allowing Nudger inside the apartment.
Nudger was sure that by now Livingston not only knew Ineida's disappearance was a kidnapping, he'd also be in possession of all available information. Collins obviously had notified him unofficially, given him the details. Maybe he'd even gotten a speech outside Collins' wine cellar, as Nudger had. After all, they were both in the same business, which sometimes entailed locating kidnap victims, and Livingston was familiar with the territory. Livingston had to play dumb, even though Nudger knew he was anything but that. A mutually protective charade was required here, and Livingston was good at charades. Practice, practice.
“We have the same interests here,” Nudger told him.
“Sure we do. But I don't want you mucking up things.”
“Speaking of muck,” Nudger said, “consider the swamp.”
Livingston grinned and shook his head knowingly. “I'm privy to certain facts that you don't know about, Nudger.”
“Some things I do know. I know that people who know where too many bodies are buried sometimes join the group.”
Livingston smoothed a lapel with one of his little pawlike hands and gave that some thought.
“Do you have any kids?” Nudger asked.
Livingston shook his head no.
“Then it's hard for you to understand the way a father feels about his only daughter, how he might react out of gut feeling rather than logic. Powerful instincts are at work there. Primal emotions. A bereaved father might do just about anything.”
“Do you have any kids, Nudger?”
“No.”
Livingston snorted, almost a sharp bark. He scooted his chair back a foot or so on its plastic carpet protector and bent down out of sight. Nudger heard a drawer slide open.
Within a few seconds Livingston resurfaced above desktop level. He was holding a shiny brass key. He tossed it lightly so that it landed flat, with a dull sound like a dropped coin that hasn't flipped, on the desk corner where Nudger could reach it.
“I'll get this back to you,” Nudger said, picking up the key and slipping it into a shirt pocket.
“I never gave anything to you,” Livingston told him. “But if I would happen to give you something, I'd make sure I had a duplicate so you wouldn't have to return it. So with luck I wouldn't have to see you again, even if what I didn't give you got you into trouble you couldn't get out of.” He didn't so much as begin to smile as he said that.
“Confusing but protective,” Nudger said, “like good legalese. I admire the way you cover your tracks, even if it's at someone else's expense.”
Livingston smiled his narrow and nasty smile. “That's the secret of life, Nudger, someone else's expense.”
Nudger had to agree. He'd paid enough to know it was true.
THIRTY
After leaving Livingston's lair, Nudger drove directly to Hollister's apartment on Rue St. Francois. He parked the red subcompact a block beyond the tan brick-and-stucco building and walked back along the narrow sidewalk. He wasn't sure there was a need for such caution, but he knew it might not be wise to have his car seen parked in front of Hollister's apartment. There were unfriendly players in this game.
As he walked toward the sunlit tan building, he adopted a casual air and glanced around. No one seemed to be watching the place, but that was hardly reassuring. It only meant that someone who knew how to conduct a stakeout might be watching. The few people Nudger passed on the sidewalk seemed genuinely uninterested in him, but since he had come to New Orleans, little had been as it seemed. As he approached Hollister's door, he stuck his hand into his pocket and withdrew the key. He didn't want to stand on the stoop wrestling with the lock any longer than was necessary.
The key slipped into the lock smoothly, with a well-oiled, soft ratchety sound; Livingston knew where to have good duplicates made. Efficient little bastard.
Nudger turned the key and was about to rotate the doorknob and enter when something slammed hard into the door near his left knee. He bounded to the side, whirling, a teenager again, weightless and agile. Scared.
“Sorry,” she said, scooping up the red rubber ball that had struck the door and lodged in the bushes near the stoop. “Didn't mean to spook you.”
She was about twelve, a scrawny black girl with immense pigtails that appeared to draw back the skin on the forehead and make her wide, wise eyes seem even larger. When she got older, if she put on some weight, she would be pretty, maybe beautiful.
Nudger managed to smile at her, mentally brushing her aside, and reached again for the doorknob.
“He ain't home,” the girl said. Blatantly curious, she was standing in the middle of the sidewalk, staring up at Nudger.
“How do you know he's not home?” Nudger asked.
“I knocked a little while ago. My ball bounced in his courtyard and I wanted to get permission to go get it. Nobody came to the door, so I went back and climbed the fence and got the ball anyways.” She tossed the ball up behind and over her shoulder with her right hand, snatched it from the air at eye level with her left. Grinned. Nifty. “I'm Midge,” she said. “I'm a neighbor. Who're you?”
“I'm Mr. Hollister's cousin. My name's Nudger. What does Midge stand for?”
“Just stands for Midge, is all. What's Nudger stand for?”
“Truth, justice, even the American way.”
“Huh? Oh, that's a lot.”
“Gets to be a burden sometimes. Thanks for the information, Midge. Bye.”
“You goin' inside anyway?”
“Sure. Cousin Willy won't mind. I'm supposed to meet him here soon.”
“I don't guess he's been back since last night,” Midge said. She turned, bounced the ball off the sidewalk, and started across the street.
“Wait a minute!” Nudger said. Too sharply. He was concerned he'd frightened the girl. But she stepped back up onto the cu
rb and then came over to him, looking up at him with those born-wise, unafraid eyes. No walkover, this kid. “Did you see Mr. Hollister here last night?” he asked.
“Yeah. Said I did.”
“About what time?”
“I dunno. I was in bed. My dad came home and got in an argument with my mom over headaches or somethin'. Woke me up. When I wake up late at night I like to stay awake. I look out the window sometimes 'cause my bed's right by it. I seen Mr. Hollister go into his apartment.”
“Was he alone?”
“Sure. It was late. He was probably goin' to bed.”
“Then you didn't see him leave.”
“Nope.” Whap! went the ball on the sidewalk, as she bounced it and effortlessly caught it. She was young, full of fire and fizz, getting impatient with this conversation.
“Was your window open?”
Whap! “Sure. It was hot last night.”
“Did you hear any noise coming from here, Midge?”
“Nope.”
“Think hard. Voices? Anything?”
“I always think hard. There was some comin' an' goin', maybe. Commotion. Real late. Or it could be I dreamed it. Or maybe it was Mom and Dad and they made up. They do that sometimes.”
A rust-primed old Chevy driven by a black man in sunglasses turned down Rue St. Francois, slowed as it passed Nudger and the girl, then drove on.
Whap!
Nudger hoped that, whatever the source or genuineness of last night's noise, Mom and Dad had become friends again. He liked Midge and figured she deserved some regular sleep and family unity. The noise she thought she'd heard might have been Livingston's men, or Collins', searching Hollister's apartment. Or it might have been Hollister and Ineida. Or, as she'd suggested, it might have been a dream. Like this entire case; dreams within dreams. There were as many different worlds as there were people, it seemed, and maybe this world or that one corresponded to reality. Or maybe none of them did. Maybe there was no reality. All dreams. Or was that too terrifying to think about?
“Where do you live?” Nudger asked.
Whap! “Across the street there. My window's in front. I like it there; you can see everything that goes on, even real late when nobody thinks anybody's eyes are on 'em.”
Nudger looked up at the second-story window she was pointing to. It was uncurtained; a crooked, yellowed shade was pulled halfway down. She'd have a good view from there, all right. “Have you seen anything unusual going on over here during the past week or so?”
“Nope.” Whap! Whap! “I gotta go.” She began backing away, worm of youth wriggling.
“Okay,” Nudger said. He was even more anxious to get inside now. “Thanks, Midge.”
“Sure, Nudger.” Whap! The red ball bounced ten feet into the air, described an arc out over the street. She twirled gracefully and closed on it like a young female Willy Mays, made a perfect basket catch over her shoulder, and ran down the shadowed street and out of sight. It was a great catch, considering she'd been looking straight into the sun.
Nudger opened the door and went inside.
The apartment was still. Its air was stale, as if it had been closed up without movement all night and most of the day. There was a kind of residue of cooking-gas scent that was often detectable in places that had been sealed tight for a number of hours. Nudger could take in most of the apartment in a glance, right through to the courtyard beyond the sliding-glass-door draperies that were opened to outside, where the sun lay in slanted gold rays across the well-tended garden. A large bee of some sort was flitting around out there, sampling blossoms. In the kitchen the refrigerator clicked on, humming softly and contentedly.
Nudger began nosing around. There was no sign that anyone had searched the place before him, but there wouldn't be. The people interested in Hollister's and Ineida's whereabouts were professionals. Wall hangings, kitchen utensils, the small and unimportant trappings of living were still here, but the larger and more personal items were gone. Only a ragged wool sweater remained in the bedroom closet. The dresser drawers were empty but for lint, and the desk in the living room was cleaned out except for a few blunt pencils and a folded piece of blank notepaper. Nudger spread the paper flat and used a soft-leaded pencil to lay graphite markings gently over it and try to pick up an impression of what had been written on the last, missing sheet of paper. That didn't prove effective; it only seemed to work in detective novels and movies. There sure were a lot of misconceptions about this job.
He put down the pencil and stood up from the desk. This visit hadn't helped him much, only left a steadfastly reliable witness to swear that he'd been here under false pretenses, if the law ever forced the issue in court.
He decided to leave, yet a part of him wanted to stay. It was an eerie feeling, as if his subconscious were telling him something and recoiling from it at the same time.
From where he stood, one corner of the bedroom wasn't visible. He walked toward the open bedroom door. The bed protruded there; he couldn't see beyond it to the wall.
Slowly, he entered the bedroom and walked toward a point near the brass footboard from which he'd be able to see the other side of the bed. He'd never believed the hair on the back of anyone's neck actually rose, but his felt as if it were doing so now. He moved a few steps to the left, craned his neck cautiously, painfully, for a clear angle of vision.
The carpet on the other side of the bed lay flat and bare.
Nudger let out a long, hissing breath and rubbed his hand over the back of his neck in relief. He'd seen every corner of the apartment now; it was empty of any of the things he dreaded finding.
But when he turned to go he stopped and stood still, as if he'd walked into a wall of icy air. In the dresser mirror he could see the reflection of the hall and the sliding glass door, and beyond the door the sunny courtyard. The rosebushes Hollister had planted were still there, growing in a row alternating red roses with white.
But something was different about them. Now, at the end of the row, there were two white rosebushes in succession, then a red. Someone had dug up, then replanted the rosebushes, but had neglected to replant the two end bushes in the same order they had been in. Had reversed them.
Nudger went to the sliding glass door, unlocked it, and stepped outside. The lowering sun was warm as well as bright; some of the rosebuds on the bushes had bloomed and their petals seemed virginal and fragile in the gentle light.
In a crawl space beneath the sundeck, several garden tools were stored. Nudger rummaged around in the shadows, found Hollister's long-handled shovel, and carried it to the row of newly planted rosebushes.
He dug almost in a frenzy, feeling his arm and back muscles tighten and ache from the effort, afraid the sickening hollowness in his stomach would get out of control if he didn't work hard to keep his mind off it.
Nudger remembered a case Hammersmith had told him about back in St. Louis. A guy on the east side had murdered a woman he'd picked up in a bar, strangled her, and then buried her in the woods. He'd been seen with her in the bar, and it bothered him that when the body was found, he might be tied to the murder. It bothered him so much that after two weeks he'd gone back one night, dug up the decomposed body, and removed the head to make identification from dental records impossible. Hammersmith hadn't said what the killer had done with the head; Nudger hadn't asked and didn't want to know.
But it bothered Nudger that anyone could do that to a woman he'd buried two weeks before. And it puzzled him. What was it about people like that? What was missing in their minds or hearts? He knew he could never do what the man on the east side had done. Nudger would rather die in the electric chair than do that. Really.
He was damp all over with cold sweat. Emotion clawed at his features. He didn't want to uncover what he was sure lay beneath the loose earth.
He kept digging.
THIRTY-ONE
“Hey, old sleuth, you gotta get over here,” Fat Jack told Nudger on the phone.
Nudger had only been
back in his hotel room for half an hour, had stopped his uncontrollable shaking only a few minutes ago. He was washing the dirt from his hands and arms after digging in Hollister's garden. His hands were still wet when he answered the phone; he wondered if anyone had ever been electrocuted this way. “Where's here?” he asked.
“My office at the club,” Fat Jack said, as if Nudger were crazy for having to ask. “I just got a phone call from David Collins.”
“What kind of call?”
“I better tell you in person.”
“Okay, I'll be there in twenty minutes.”
“Great. Hey, I got real problems, Nudger. Ultra-problems.”
“You ain't seen nothin' yet,” Nudger said.
“Huh?”
“Al Jolson used to say that before he laid the really big number on the crowd. Same way Ronald Reagan.”
“I know. So what?”
“See you in half an hour,” Nudger said, and hung up.
He stood for a moment, shirtless, staring down at the dark spots of water he'd dripped on the carpet. Then he went back in the bathroom, finished washing, and hurriedly toweled his hands dry. He felt like switching on the ceiling heat lamp in the tiny bathroom; despite the inability of the hotel's air conditioning to hold back the warmth of the day, he was getting chills. He put on a fresh shirt, shrugged into his wrinkled brown sport coat, and left for Fat Jack's.
“I hung up on Collins just a few minutes before I phoned you,” Fat Jack said. He was standing behind his desk, twitching around as if he were too nervous to sit down. It was warm in the office, too, but Nudger's chilliness had accompanied him there.
He waited, saying nothing. That seemed to make Fat Jack even more jittery. He was visibly miserable, a veritable Niagara of nervous perspiration. Ultra-miserable.
“Collins told me he got a phone call,” Fat Jack said, “instructing him to come up with half a million in cash by tomorrow night, or Ineida starts being delivered in the mail piece by piece.”
Nudger wasn't surprised. He knew where the phone call to Collins had originated.
