“So?”
“So we got a tap on the phone. We’ll give Margolis another day or two, then we’ll get a warrant to see what he’s got in his private collection.”
Thinnes would’ve liked to arrest Margolis immediately, before he had time to dispose of the painting. But The G had to make a federal case out of it. They never seemed to do any thing small.
Like in the Graylord investigation. It took them three years, thousands of man-hours, and who knows how many millions of dollars to put a couple of rummy judges away. Thank God they weren’t getting in on the Berringer case, at least not initially. Later, if any interstate mailing lists turned up, the Feds could have a field day. All Thinnes wanted was to get the dirty-snapshot fiasco over with. To get Ronnie back.
Forty-Nine
Viernes and Swann were on the phone and Crowne was typing when Thinnes came into the squad room that afternoon and dropped his paperwork on the table near the coffee maker. Karsch came out of his office. Thinnes dialed a number and, as he waited for someone to answer, Karsch poured himself coffee.
“How about finishing this so I can make another pot?”
Thinnes held up a finger and said, “Bob Fell, please,” into the phone, he told Karsch “Okay.”
Fell came on. Thinnes concentrated on the call, ignoring Karsch, who was setting up the pot again, and Crowne, who’d stopped typing to listen.
“Bob, John Thinnes. How are you?” He listened for a moment, then laughed. As he did, Evanger strolled in with his coffee cup and stood next to the coffee maker, waiting for it to finish running. He and Crowne, Swann, Karsch, and Viernes eavesdropped as Thinnes said, “Of course. Listen, Bob, I need to find out about one of your alums. Guy named Caleb. C-A-L-E-B, James Arthur. Don’t know the dates, but he’s supposed to have picked up some medals in Nam.” Thinnes listened and said, “I appreciate it. I haven’t any hot suspects; this one may be lukewarm. Depends on what you dig up. Thanks.” He put down the phone and looked at the others. “Don’t you people have anything to do?”
A few minutes later, Thinnes got up and knocked on Karsch’s door. When Karsch called, “Come in,” Thinnes said, “Got a minute?”
“Sure.” Karsch waved Thinnes into a chair as he closed the door. The phone rang before Thinnes could begin. Karsch answered, listened, hung up. He said, “Excuse me a moment,” and went out, closing the door.
Thinnes spent the two minutes he was gone looking at his poster-size photos. When Karsch returned, Thinnes asked, “You take these?”
“As a matter of fact, yes.”
“Not bad.”
Karsch acknowledged the compliment with a smile. “What can I do for you, Detective?”
Detective, not Detective Thinnes. Not just Thinnes. It occurred to Thinnes that Karsch had hit the perfect balance between formal and familiar. Thinnes hadn’t planned what he’d say. No one was fooled by that old friend-of-mine-has-a-problem routine anymore.
“One of the guys told me…”
Karsch raised an eyebrow and waited.
You have the right to remain silent, Thinnes thought. Out with it, Thinnes. “Anything anyone tells you is privileged,” he said.
“That’s correct.”
Anything you say can and will be held against you. Is this what it feels like to be on the receiving end in the interview room? Karsch won’t tell, so who’ll know? he told himself.
Karsch’ll know. But if he’s sworn to secrecy?
“You guys talk to each other about your cases?”
“Only hypothetically.” Karsch smiled. “With the names changed to protect the guilty.” He waited.
When you knew you had someone off balance, Thinnes thought, all you had to do was wait. He wanted to ask “Are you gay?” but that wasn’t something you asked someone you were supposed to know. Damn Caleb! What difference would it make if Karsch were gay? Well, what would a faggot know about wife troubles? It’d be like asking a priest.
“I need the name of a marriage counselor.”
If Karsch was surprised, he hid it. “Certainly. In fact, I’ll give you several, because it’s best if you choose someone you feel comfortable with. Sometimes you have to shop around.” Karsch pulled a folder from a desk drawer and copied names and phone numbers onto a sheet of paper. He handed it to Thinnes. “Call them and tell them what your needs are. If you feel comfortable talking on the phone, make an appointment.”
Thinnes didn’t feel comfortable talking about it with Karsch. It was too much like talking with one of the dicks. And it was not something you talked about at work. But he had to talk to someone or he’d lose Rhonda.
Did they have refresher courses in how to talk to your wife? If he learned to be romantic, would she give him another chance? Could he learn?
Thinnes folded the paper and put it in his pocket. He’d let Rhonda choose. He said, “Thanks.”
Karsch nodded and said, “Good luck.”
Having got that over with, he went back to the squad room. Karsch followed him out, heading for the coffee machine.
The phone rang at Thinnes’s place just as he reached for his own coffee. “Thinnes,” he said into it, and paused. “Just a second.” He grabbed a pen and note pad. “Okay, shoot. Twelve eighty-seven West Argyle, got it. You got the warrant? Have somebody look it over. We don’t want to lose this over bad paper. Okay. See you then.” He put down the phone and tore the sheet off the notepad.
“We’ve located Berringer’s warehouse and we’re gonna hit it tomorrow night. Anybody want to join the party?”
Fifty
Thinnes got to the funeral home early so he could read the cards on the flowers. Murderers sometimes eased their consciences by sending flowers or condolences. You didn’t need to be a shrink to figure that out. Sometimes you could judge the guilt by the size of the tab.
About thirty chairs had been set up in rows facing the front of the room, where the body would’ve been laid out at a wake. Finley wasn’t there; the flowers were arranged around a framed eight-by-ten photo of him. When Thinnes asked, the funeral director hemmed and hawed but finally admitted Finley’s remains were being cremated so that the sister could take them back to New York with her at the end of the week.
There was an ostentatious wreath from Margolis Enterprises and an expensive but tasteful arrangement from the Margolis Gallery. Same from North Michigan Avenue Associates. WR&C edged them all out, though. Its arrangement was smallest but made of things Thinnes’d never seen before. And orchids. It figured to be very pricey.
Dr. Caleb was the first to arrive, a little before seven. Thinnes stood quietly in a corner near the door and watched him do just what he himself had done—read the cards on all the flowers. Only he didn’t take notes. When he turned to go back to the anteroom, he spotted Thinnes.
“Good evening, Detective Thinnes.” Caleb’s manner gave no hint of reference to their last meeting.
Thinnes nodded. “Doctor.”
“Is this an official visit?”
“I’m not on the clock.”
“But still curious?”
Thinnes smiled.
Caleb didn’t ask for clarification. He said, “Then I’ll see you later,” and walked away.
Thinnes could hear that others had arrived, and before long Marshall Close escorted Adriana Finley into the room. Like Caleb and Thinnes, they went and read the cards on the flowers. Close looked the room over as if he’d paid for it. He noticed Thinnes immediately and nodded almost imperceptibly. If he was curious, he hid it well. He stood there with Adriana Finley, greeting the people starting to straggle in, making the introductions.
Thinnes thought the turnout was predictable. Almost everyone they’d interviewed at WR&C showed up, including Alicia Baynes. Finley’s super was there with a few neighbors—they’d been notified, according to one tenant, by a handwritten notice left by the mailboxes—also Joseph Remora, Finley’s attorney. Remora looked like the type of lawyer who represents hustlers and whores and wears loud suits to mak
e his clients feel more comfortable. The guy’d sounded like a Harvard grad over the phone, sharp and professional. He’d probably discovered what good money there was in defending working girls and traffic violaters if you weren’t too hung up on image. Thinnes’s estimation of Finley rose, the kid’d been able to overlook the window dressing and go for talent.
He slipped out to the anteroom to check the names in the guest book. Only one was unfamiliar; the funeral director identified the older woman as a professional mourner. The only surprising arrival was Anita Margolis. She was dressed in navy blue and made the other women in the room look like cleaning ladies. Dr. Caleb took her by the arm and led her in to make introductions.
After expressing their condolences, most of the guests sat on the folding chairs and looked around at the room. Alicia Baynes, in black, sat as far as possible from Bettina Calder. It made Thinnes think of what he’d overheard Caleb tell Margaret Linsey at the zoo; they were like two big cats, hair on end, all but hissing. The looks they acknowledged each other with could have caused frostbite. Caleb and Anita Margolis sat together but didn’t speak to each other. Didn’t seem to need to. Thinnes found himself wondering if the doctor didn’t swing both ways.
At exactly seven thirty, a man in a Roman collar entered to convene the service with a prayer. Thinnes watched the audience. Adriana sat clenching her jaw through the eulogy. Marshall Close and Dr. Caleb and Anita seemed to be paying careful attention. Alicia Baynes fought tears. Half the others appeared to be daydreaming or falling asleep. When he was finished, the speaker invited the mourners to add their thoughts. Close got up and made Finley sound like Einstein or Abraham Lincoln. Several of Finley’s coworkers talked about him. They all seemed uncomfortable, and Thinnes wondered if Close hadn’t put them up to it. Then Adriana thanked all her brother’s friends for coming, and the priest finished the program by leading the Lord’s Prayer. He paused on his way out to express his condolences to the “family.” People began to drift away as soon as he left.
Adriana walked up to Thinnes. She’d pulled herself together since their last meeting, and hostility replaced the tears. She said, “I understand why you couldn’t tell me Allan was murdered.” She made it sound as if she was sarcastically forgiving him for an oversight.
He wasn’t particularly offended. Cops seldom see people at their best. Her anger was more believable than the dumb grief he’d seen Monday. This woman could be the financial barracuda NYPD had reported. He wondered about the change.
“What did Dr. Caleb tell you?”
“Just that you’re playing the cat until you find out which mouse is really a rat.”
Thinnes gave a noncommittal “Huh” and excused himself.
Playing the cat. The perfect analogy. To carry it a little further, sometimes you had to bat something off the shelf to see who’d jump. He looked around for Close.
“Detective Thinnes,” Close said by way of a greeting. Thinnes nodded. “Does your presence here indicate dissatisfaction with the coroner’s verdict?”
“Medical examiner,” Thinnes corrected him. “Just a few loose ends to tie up. It’s none of my business, Mr. Close, but I’m curious; you ever have any professional jealousy or personal clashes among your staff?”
“I suppose you have a good reason for asking?”
“It’s more a lack of a good reason why Finley would kill himself. The medical examiner doesn’t have to concern himself with motive, just cause and manner of death. But we like to come up with a reason. It makes a case a lot tidier.”
Close thought about it. “You’re suggesting Allan had difficulties with one of my staff that might have led to his suicide?”
Delicately put. “Failure, either professional or personal, can be a motive.”
Close seemed satisfied with that. “As I told you, he was professionally very successful. I don’t inquire into my employees personal business, in fact I encourage them to keep it to themselves. And to answer your question, my staff are adults. And professionals.”
The implication was that they wouldn’t be staff long otherwise. But there was nothing to suggest they wouldn’t be terminated in the commonly accepted manner.
“Anything else?” If Close knew about Baynes and Calder, he wasn’t letting on.
Thinnes caught up with Caleb in the anteroom. Anita Margolis had gone. Thinnes said, “Doctor, I thought I warned you about alerting my suspects.”
“You and I have different goals, John. It’s the nature of our jobs. In any case, you can’t really suspect Adriana?”
“Everyone’s a suspect until I have the killer.”
Caleb smiled.
Thinnes said, “Monday she was coming apart, today she’s ready to take me apart. Can you explain the change?”
“When I told her Allan didn’t kill himself, I think it was an affirmation for her.”
“Hunh?”
“She knew him well enough to believe he’d never commit suicide, but when the police—the experts in these matters—insisted, she began to doubt herself. Also, there’s a great deal of rage engendered by the death of a loved one, and it’s often directed at the perceived agent—disease, fate, God. When the agent is the victim himself, the survivor isn’t usually able to add to the guilt he already feels for failing to prevent the death by being angry with the deceased. Even though the deceased may deserve it. So in cases of suicide, survivors often convert their anger into inconsolable grief or psychosomatic disorders. I’d say Adriana’s redirected her anger away from herself and towards Allan’s killer. And perhaps towards you for letting her believe the worst.”
It made sense. But then almost everything Caleb said did. He was so damn reasonable, there wasn’t much you could argue with him about. Sort of made you want to hate his guts. Or pin a murder rap on him. You’re still pissed because you didn’t guess he’s gay, Thinnes told himself. Didn’t have a clue.
Alicia Baynes was the last to leave. When she noticed Thinnes watching her, she turned to him and said, “It’s so unfair!” Thinnes nodded. “He was so nice. Sort of compulsive about neatness, but at least he had a sense of humor about it.”
“Why did you trade assignments with him?”
“She told you.”
Thinnes nodded.
“Because he asked me to. He was the senior accountant. I mean, there were rumors Close was going to take him on as a partner. Why wouldn’t I trade if he asked?”
It was understandable she’d be defensive, but there was something more. She was lying. Thinnes said, “I’ll need you to come down to my office and sign a statement about it.”
She was subtly alarmed. “Tonight?”
Might as well let her think it over. Maybe talk with her attorney. Maybe she’d decide to tell the truth. “Tomorrow or the next day’ll be soon enough.”
Fifty-One
Berringer’s warehouse was an old building, well-constructed but dilapidated, off an alley in the Uptown area. Next to a door with the street number stenciled on it was a garage-type overhead door. The raiding party—Thinnes, Crowne, Swann, Oster, Ferris, and half a dozen others—wearing jackets marked POLICE surrounded the building, coordinating their activities by hand radio. They had a wrecking truck with a huge front bumper standing by; a fire truck waited in the next block.
On a signal from the ranking officer, Oster went to the door, followed closely by the truck. The driver angled it so that a corner of the bumper was just in front of the door. Oster knocked softly and said, “Police! Search warrant. Open up!” just loud enough to be heard by the truck driver or anyone standing with his ear to the other side of the door. Naturally, nothing happened. Oster stepped aside and signaled. With a roar of the engine and a grind of gears, the truck smashed the door open, then backed away. Oster gave the signal and everyone swarmed in.
Inside, fires were being set. Choking smoke billowed out of cartons hastily slashed open and sloshed with gasoline. Bright tongues of flame licked the dark interior. As the police invaded, several men scra
mbled to escape. One turned on the police with a gun, saw how badly he was outnumbered, and threw down his weapon. The other suspects threw their arms over their heads, screaming, “Don’t shoot!”
Oster called to the firemen on his hand radio and activated the overhead door, and fire fighters moved in to put the fires out.
Thinnes, Crowne, and Ferris skirted the main conflict, and Thinnes directed them with hand signals to surround a door marked OFFICE while he covered it. Ferris and Crowne moved to either side of the door. Crowne held up one finger, then two. On three, Ferris kicked the door with the ball of his foot. The lock flew apart. Ferris and Crowne burst into the room.
It was was deserted, containing only a metal desk, a chair, and a pile of empty cartons.
Thinnes ran to the next closed door and kicked it open as Crowne and Ferris continued down the hall.
The john was filthy. A sludge of grime covered the sink. The mirror was clouded by flyspecks, the toilet yellow with poor attempts to aim. Berringer was flushing something down as Thinnes smashed through the door with gun drawn. He flew into the room and slammed Berringer against the wall, holding the .38 to Berringer’s head as he reached into the toilet for a large cellophane package lodged in the hole. He tugged and it came free with a splash and a gurgle. Thinnes dropped it in the sink.
“Nice try, Berringer. Grab the wall and spread ’em.”
Berringer turned to fight, but faced with a .38, he shrugged and complied. Thinnes kept him covered while he patted him down for weapons. He found a .32.
“O for three, Berringer. Not your lucky day.”
“I got a permit.”
The Man Who Understood Cats Page 16
