“It kind of looks that way,” Carmine answered.
“In which case, why does Dagmar keep trying to get the bank and account number out of us?” Delia asked.
“So they can say we gave it to them,” Carmine said.
“They could say that anyway,” Nick said.
“That’s true,” from Delia. “The other answer is that there’s no one to send here. Dagmar must suspect her husband is behind it, the Baron is senile, and the mother is retiring and giving her money to the grandchildren. She might be senile too.”
“That flies,” said Nick.
“He tried to steal her industrial secrets once. I imagine Dagmar must suspect Josef of the kidnapping,” Carmine said.
“She genuinely may not suspect him.” Helen squeezed her hands together. “Oh, I wish I knew the family! I wish I was there!”
“I couldn’t agree more, Helen,” said Delia. “Not knowing the suspects, how can we solve the case?”
“What about the FBI?” Nick asked. “They have better foreign contacts than the police department of a small city.”
“Not a brass monkey, according to Hunter Wyatt,” Carmine said. “Like us, he’s convinced it’s a German job.”
Corey and Abe came in.
Corey was looking haggard. Everyone in Detectives knew why; he had to face an enquiry over Morty Jones’s death, and he had also to face Carmine. Both were postponed until the search for Kurt von Fahlendorf was over, but that moment was drawing closer with every tick of the clock.
“Anything?” he asked.
“Nothing.”
Abe Goldberg didn’t look hopeful, and that was a bad sign. As he had an uncanny instinct for hidden doors and vents going nowhere, he was Carmine’s secret compartments expert; for that reason Carmine had allocated him a strip of territory to the south and west of Holloman Harbor, an industrial wasteland beyond the airport where functioning factories and workshops were mixed with buildings and sweat shops long abandoned. Though it had streets, it was a wilderness of sorts, bounded by the Holloman jail and I-95.
“Not a sausage, as you’d say, Delia,” Abe said. “I’ve been searching for four days without a twitch or a tremble, and that’s bad. I don’t think he’s there, but I haven’t finished, so I’ll keep on going, Carmine.”
“You do that, Abe. If he is there, you’ll find him.”
Today was Tuesday, October 22, and the search had been in full swing since dawn of last Friday. Desdemona was taking his place today, allowing Carmine time to check up on the Dodo. The first phase of this consisted in a short walk to the Medical Examiner’s; Patrick was in his office. When his first cousin came in Patrick’s face lit up and he pointed at the coffee pot. “Just brewed,” he said, putting his pen down.
“The autopsy on Melantha Green,” said Carmine, sitting with a mug of fresh coffee. “The last of the bloodwork hadn’t come through when Kurt von Fahlendorf was kidnapped, and we’ve been on that non-stop ever since. What goes?”
“Nothing helpful,” Patrick said, pouring himself coffee. “She had amphetamine in her bloodstream, I suspect self-administered to keep awake and on top of a crushing workload. There was no other substance present. His anesthetic was crude—a clip on the jaw that probably stunned her but didn’t knock her out. She was known to have a black belt in judo, hence the clip, which wasn’t hard enough to cause any meningeal bleeding. Her death was due to asphyxiation.” Patrick sipped. “The young man was killed by someone who can shoot. The throat shot was perfect, the second bullet overkill. He used a .22 pistol.”
“No one heard the shots, yet the other apartment was tenanted and its inhabitants were actually awake—the wife was sick to the stomach,” Carmine said. “He used a silencer.”
“Must have done, but not a home-made device. I doubt the Dodo was interested in the young man. Two shots, then he went back to cleaning up after Melantha.”
“Did he wash Melantha with soap and water?”
“No, he simply wiped her down with xylene. That you know.”
“Good coffee, cuz, but bad news,” said Carmine, smiling. “Anything else on any other case?”
“No, but something else on the Dodo. I think you should go talk to Nick and Delia.”
“I just left them!”
“Sorry about that.”
“Shit!” Carmine put his half drunk coffee down. “Maybe I can catch them before they go searching their grid.”
But it was Corey he encountered in the parking lot. His lieutenant flinched, but had the sense to stop.
“You’re in big trouble, Cor.”
“I don’t see why.”
“A man on your team is dead.”
“That’s not my fault.”
“In one way, it is. Several other people noticed that Morty was depressed, and I even spoke to you about it. You sneered.”
“Now isn’t the time to have this, Carmine. I’m going to my search area right this second.”
“You’re only piling up demerits, Cor.”
“Fuck the demerits!”
Carmine watched him go, then got into his Fairlane and drove off toward the shoreline of Busquash Bay, where his list said Nick and Delia were searching on the far side of the peninsula from the Inlet and getting close to the neighboring district of Millstone, home to Delia.
He found them walking along the rocks at the base of the low Busquash cliffs, and paused to take in the sight before they knew he was in the offing. Nick had changed into shorts, a tee shirt and tennis shoes, but Delia possessed no leisure apparel in her lavish wardrobe. She was paddling along bare-legged, her miniskirt hitched up a few inches, something like a multihued crab with two pallid rear legs; her dress was marbled in bright green, orange, cyclamen and ultramarine blue.
“Hi!” he yelled. “It’s lunch time, see you in the Lobster Pot—Nick, you’re okay dressed like that!”
“What on earth do you hope to find literally foot-deep in water?” he asked when they were settled in a booth.
“Old gun emplacements,” said Delia.
“They went years ago, Deels.”
“You’d be surprised. How many have we found, Nick?”
“Four so far, east of the Carew-East Holloman boundary. Ben Cohen and his team found nine in East Holloman, on the point, mostly. The guns are all gone, the emplacements are cunning,” Nick said. “I guess no one sees them, so no one bothers about them.”
“The things you learn!” Carmine said.
Nick and Delia were ravenous, and made short work of their lobster rolls; Carmine let them eat in peace. Over coffee he broached the reason for seeking them out.
“Patsy says you know something about the Dodo.”
“No, about the kidnap,” Nick said, lighting a cigarette and inhaling luxuriously. “Tell the man, Delia.”
“We think we found the spot where the kidnappers jumped Kurt—not really important, as it offers no clues of help, but interesting. We can show you if you like.”
One hand waving for the check, Carmine looked eager. Nick and Delia piled into their unmarked and Carmine ranged his Fairlane behind them, forcing himself to a sedate pace as the two cars headed for Persimmon Street in Carew. There Nick and Delia pulled into the kerb, Carmine following suit. Once he joined them Delia pointed to the intersection with Spruce Street. Curzon Close was clearly visible two hundred yards away.
“It was here, on this corner,” Nick said. “See the skid marks? I checked, the tires are Michelin and the right size for the Porsche. Von Fahlendorf’s a good driver, he came out of the skid slowly, and left us some pattern. See here? Glass from a Porsche parking light, forensics told us. And see this? It’s blood, the same type as Kurt’s.”
“Look at these bushes,” said Delia, leading Carmine over to the corner house, where tall smoke bushes grew along the edge of the sidewalk. “They pounced whe
n he got out of his car, and he must have reeled before he lost consciousness. Someone landed heavily in the bushes. We took photos of everything.”
“Why haven’t you mentioned this?” Carmine asked.
“Since we’re looking for him, we couldn’t see a good reason why,” said Delia. “We dealt with the forensics in case it was ever needed in the future—you had enough on your plate, boss, when this blew up.”
“How could the kidnappers stage their abduction between ten and ten-thirty on a busy street in Carew?”
“Persimmon and this side of Spruce are concealed and dampened by trees,” Nick said. “All they needed were a couple of minutes.”
“But the collision?”
“Was staged, we think. Someone stepped out in front of Kurt, he braked in a well driven skid, and when he got out of the car, they jumped him. The blood is his, whether from a head blow or the finger amputation, who knows?”
“Well done,” said Carmine. “Kurt was loaded into their car, one of the two drove the Porsche, and they accomplished whatever they had to do in two and a half hours. By one, both of them were putting the Porsche in Kurt’s garage. All they needed to do then was walk around the corner to their own vehicle. A pity Gordie Warburton went back to bed.”
“It looks like two kidnappers to me,” said Nick.
“And to me,” said Carmine. “The gall! Whoever they are, they have superb confidence in themselves.”
Mention of Gordon Warburton prompted Carmine to go and see Amanda Warburton, who was in her shop and looking well.
“I continue to enjoy a trouble-free existence,” she said.
“Did you get a museum expert to look at the glass teddy bear, Miss Warburton?”
“No,” she said, and laughed. “Even if he is as valuable as you say, Captain, he’s as much a fixture in my window as Frankie and Winston. People don’t believe that he’s priceless.”
“Business is good?”
“Very good.”
“And the twins? How are you getting on with them?”
“What a shock when they turned up! I don’t have any idea why they moved to Holloman and then didn’t tell me, except that it’s not money, I gather.” She smiled. “To answer your question, I’m on good terms with them. Perhaps they’re not ideal nephews, but now they’ve confessed that they’re down the road in Carew, they are behaving delightfully. I’ve decided to leave them in my will as my heirs, which solved a dilemma.”
He concealed his alarm. “You didn’t tell them, I hope?”
“No, Captain, I won’t do that. Let it come as a surprise—oh, thirty years from now.”
“Take care of yourself.”
“I do, honestly.” Her eyelids dropped, she looked a little inscrutable. “Hank Murray is a great help to me.”
He left carrying an image of her pretty, smiling face, and decided to see Hank Murray before he left the Busquash Mall.
Hank was dressed casually in jeans and an open-necked shirt; Carmine caught a glimpse of a sparsely hairy chest, and decided that if he himself were to wear a chest toupee, it would sport better hair than Hank Murray’s! Hank’s chest hair, he concluded, was the real thing.
“You look as if you’re going on a picnic,” he said.
Hank grinned. “No, Captain. I’ve been out searching for Professor von Fahlendorf. Captain Vasquez roped in quite a few local men to comb the vacant lots and houses of Carew. Mark Sugarman, Mason Novak and I all volunteered. Kurt was a friend.”
“How’s Miss Warburton?”
“She’s well.” Hank went red. “I see her most evenings—just dinner and a board game or cards. She and Marcia Boyce don’t have many friends, which I guess is the fate of single women working every day. It’s especially hard for Amanda, working weekends. As Tuesday is the slackest day, we both take it off, and go somewhere.”
“That’s good. Have you met the twins?”
“Pah! What poseurs!”
“Interesting word, poseur. If they present as that, what do you think they are underneath?”
“Something creepy, Captain. Or slimy—words like that. Amanda was in two minds about them, but of late she seems to be coming down on their side. They’ve managed to impress her.”
“Well, they’re blood kin after all. Maybe they’re late bloomers.” Carmine went to the door. “Keep in touch if you have any worries, Mr. Murray.”
“Any news about the bank robbery?”
Carmine shrugged, “Not a thing,” he said.
And more than that he couldn’t do.
Now it was off into Dodo territory. Mark Sugarman would probably be home.
Mark Sugarman was. He looked tired, and not a lot had gone on at the drawing board.
“Searching for Kurt?” Carmine asked.
“Yes, but also walking, Captain. If the Dodo strikes within his usual three weeks, we’re running out of time. October 15 means he’s due to pounce up to and including the presidential elections. A lot more people vote in presidential years.”
“I’m beginning to realize that.”
“An omen, huh?” Sugarman asked.
“No, not that, Mr. Sugarman. More that there’s likely to be increased foot traffic around polling stations.”
“How’s Maggie Drummond?”
“Pretty good,” Carmine said. “The Chubb psychiatrist has made a difference to all the Dodo’s victims already.”
“Tell me about it!” A look of content came over Sugarman’s attractive face. “Leonie trusts me again—she’s behaving more like her old self. I wish she’d seen Dr. Meyers earlier.”
“Better late than never, pardon my hackneyed comment.” Carmine walked over to the big windows displaying Spruce Street. “Sir, were you up last Wednesday night about half after ten?”
“I think so,” said the President of the Gentleman Walkers, looking puzzled. “I’d made supper for Leonie, and delivered her back upstairs around ten. Even after the hassle of checking all her locks, I would have been back down here by ten-thirty.”
“Did you hear the noise of a collision at the intersection of Persimmon and Spruce?”
“No, not a collision, Captain. I did hear a screech of brakes and some yelling—it happens all the time at that intersection.”
“Thank you,” said Carmine, looking pleased.
“Will you find Kurt?”
“We’re all praying so, sir.”
“Good afternoon, Frau von Fahlendorf,” said Helen at seven on Wednesday morning, October 23. “No, I am afraid not … That is unfair, ma’am! We have tied up huge resources in the search for your brother—as you would have seen for yourself if you or any member of your family had come here … No, I am not rude, I am fed up—indignant, do you understand that word? Good! … At midnight tonight, American Eastern Standard Time, Special Agent Hunter Wyatt of the FBI will telephone you on your home number and give you the details of the Swiss bank and account number, but I entreat you not to pay the ransom early! To do so won’t make any difference to his chances of surviving … Special Agent Hunter Wyatt will also forward you a written report on our activities … Thank you, ma’am. Goodbye.”
The receiver went down with a bang. “Bitch!” said Helen. “She has the hide to blame us—us! I could cheerfully kill her.”
“She’s under great stress, Helen,” Carmine soothed. “We still have two full days of search—well, one full day and a few hours. Time zones are a pain in the ass.”
Corey and Abe came in.
“Corey?” Carmine asked.
“The most suspicious things we’ve found are a few cow pats, but we still have sheds, barns and bunkers to deal with on the north side of North Rock. Old Ray Howarth has a bomb shelter, or so I’m told.”
“Actually we’ve found quite a number of bomb shelters,” said Carmine. “I never realized how paranoid some people are ab
out The Bomb. I saw one the day before yesterday that had Persian carpets and air conditioning. It hadn’t occurred to the owner that if The Bomb went off, electric power would be cut off. He was expecting to run his shelter on mains.”
“Like my potty papa,” Delia said. “If Richard Nixon gets in, he’s moving permanently into his shelter—he’s convinced that the first Nixonian presidential action will be to push the button.”
They all rolled their eyes at each other, but the light moment faded fast.
“Abe?” Carmine asked.
“I just have to check around the outskirts of the jail,” Abe said. “Nothing so far.”
“Have you heard what Patrick found in the Porsche, guys?”
“Nothing—it’s so clean it might have come from the dealer’s showroom,” said Nick, “except that there’s some gravel wedged in the tire tracks. Nonspecific, but not the kind of gravel you’d get from a crumbling road base. No asphalt component.”
“Which says they drove the car somewhere off-road, but it could have been anywhere. Holloman is full of gravel, even has three quarries. Does it come from them?”
“Some of the uniforms checked them, but didn’t think to take samples,” Corey said. “They asked me, but I couldn’t see any virtue in sending them back to do it.”
“What color and size is it, Carmine?” Abe asked.
“Pink granite, so it’s not from our quarries. It sounds more like something you’d find in a monument mason’s yard.”
“File that in case you see it. Incidentally, Joey Tasco, who had that section to check, told me that none of the quarries had a septic tank. They use chemical toilets, so don’t go back there, Corey. Keep on into virgin territory.”
It might have been because Carmine said “septic tank”, but when Abe Goldberg, Liam Connor and Tony Cerutti reached the West Holloman industrial estate, Abe wasted a good hour going back to check that they hadn’t left an old, buried septic tank unexplored. They had not; Liam, who understood how Abe’s mind worked, did not grudge him the wasted time, but Tony, younger and a more restless type, was inclined to grumble until Liam shut him up by treading heavily on his foot.
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