The Man Who Understood Cats

by Michael Allen Dymmoch

  Caleb put the papers on his desk and picked up the phone.

  “Detective Thinnes, please…Is he on duty today?…If I send something to him by messenger, could you be sure he gets it?…Thank you.”

  He wrote a note on the letterhead and put it in the business envelope with Finley’s mailing. Then he sealed the business envelope and wrote Detective John Thinnes, Area Six Headquarters, Western at Belmont on the outside.

  It took longer for his second call to be answered. He said, “Hello, Joe. What’s your schedule like this afternoon? I have a little job that’s right up your alley. My last appointment’s at three. How about your place at four thirty?” Joe was agreeable, though he had a dinner engagement and he wanted to know how long it would take.

  “That depends on how quickly you can figure this out.”

  Caleb hung up the phone and took the envelope to the outer office, where Irene was typing statements. “I’d like you to send this out immediately, Mrs. Sleighton. Be sure to ask the messenger for his ID, and get a receipt.”

  “Certainly, Doctor.”

  “I haven’t anyone coming in until one; I’ll be back before then.”

  “Have a nice lunch.”

  The medical examiner’s seals had been removed, and Allan Finley’s door was open. When Caleb knocked, Adriana Finley came to the doorway. She’d been crying.

  “Dr. Caleb.”

  “The super sent me up. He said you were packing Allan’s things.”

  “Just his personal things. I told the super to get rid of the rest. I can’t deal with it.” She turned away from the door without inviting him in, but she left it open and didn’t object when he followed her inside. The bloody mess had been hastily cleaned, but the apartment was otherwise as the police left it. She went to the couch and sat down. Covering her face with one hand, she sobbed. “Why Allan? Oh, God!”

  Caleb said, very gently, “Would you like me to help?”

  She stopped crying and swallowed. “Please.”

  “Would you happen to have mailed a bill Allan left lying around the apartment?”

  She sniffed and shook her head. “Bills. The super did. He found them when he came in to clean up, and he asked me if I minded. They had to be paid and, well, it’s clearly what Allan intended.”

  He nodded. “What needs to be done?”

  Sixty-Three

  8:45 A.M. No one was sitting around reading the paper. Those from the night watch who hadn’t gone home had joined the day shift hitting the streets. Swann was closeted with the area commander. Ferris and Viernes were phoning purposefully. Everyone else moved through the squad room with urgency.

  Except Thinnes. He sat reviewing his own private demons. It’d been less than two years since Frank Flynn had been shot trying to settle a fight after a traffic accident in the neighborhood he’d moved to for safety. Ray’s death had the same sickening irony.

  Evanger and Karsch came in together. Karsch said, “Excuse me, Lieutenant.” He went over and put a hand on Thinnes’s shoulder. “Thinnes, what is it?”

  “Ray was murdered.”

  That meant it could be Caleb. Caleb could have set Crowne up for Finley’s murder, then arranged a convenient “accident” to make the question moot. Or it was narrowed down to the cops who were present when Caleb suggested it was Crowne—Evanger, Viernes, Ferris. Karsch. But Karsch was always present. Evanger! Evanger’d known about the Margolis kid.

  Karsch said, “Good Lord! Are you sure?”

  Evanger said, “What?”

  Thinnes didn’t look at them. “I just came from the autopsy. Ray was dead before his car hit the water. He died from alcohol in his lungs after he was hit on the head. No water in his lungs.” He looked at Evanger. “Someone killed him, then smashed his windshield from the inside and pushed his car into the lake.” He sat with his hands in his lap, staring at the tabletop. Suddenly, he raised his fists and slammed them down on the table.

  “God damn him!”

  Everyone in the room looked at Thinnes except Evanger. Evanger looked at Karsch.

  Karsch said, “Let’s talk about it in private.” He put a hand under Thinnes’s elbow and steered him toward his office, pausing to get water from the cooler in a paper cup.

  Evanger called after them, “I’ll get the ball rolling on this.” As he passed Ferris and Viernes, he told them, “Come with me.”

  Karsch closed his door. “Sit down, Thinnes.” He took a prescription vial from his top desk drawer and shook two tablets from it into Thinnes’s palm.

  “What’s this?”

  “Valium. Take them.” Thinnes complied. “Now finish the water.” He emptied the cup. “Good. Now tell me.”

  “We must’ve been getting too close. That’s why he had to set Ray up as Finley’s killer—yesterday in the interview room—then kill him.”

  “Who did?”

  “It has to be Caleb!”

  “Maybe you’d better explain.”

  “He asked who knew enough about both him and me to make trouble for both of us. And then he tried to make it look like Crowne’s reckless driving finally got him. He knew about that—saw Crowne drive outta the lot the night the Williams woman was killed, saw the car he drove. Crowne wouldn’t be expecting a physical attack from a shrink.”

  Even as he said it, Thinnes wondered if he had it right. What about the failure of his own brakes? Would Caleb know how to tamper with brakes? How would he do the fix without being seen? No. It had to be somebody from here. Viernes or Ferris or Evanger.

  And Karsch reported to Evanger!

  “I think I’d better get back to work,” Thinnes said.

  Karsch escorted him out of the office. Going to the table where he’d left his files, Thinnes had his feelings under control. As expected, Karsch went to Evanger’s door, knocked, and went in.

  Thinnes had returned to his work place more out of habit than for any other reason. An envelope addressed to him lay on top of the typewriter. From Caleb. He took out the envelope from Finley and Caleb’s note: John, This came in this morning’s mail. I indulged my curiosity by opening it, but I was careful not to get fingerprints on the contents. Jack Caleb P.S. The writing on the odd slip isn’t Allan’s.

  Thinnes found Finley’s statement, check, and cryptic note in the envelope and looked them over, handling them by their edges and not getting fingerprints on them. When you’d been doing things long enough, part of your brain just kept on doing them, no matter how fucked up you were, no matter how distracted.

  Why had Finley put the paper in the envelope with Dr. Caleb’s bill? Could he have figured it all out so quickly? Maybe he was going to talk it over with Caleb before he went to the cops. He had an appointment the next day. He might’ve put the paper with the bill so he wouldn’t forget it. Maybe if they found the killer he’d shed some light on that. Maybe they’d never know.

  He picked up the phone. He kept his voice too low for others around him to hear. “We got a print man in the building? I got something urgent.” He hung up as Karsch came out of Evanger’s office.

  Karsch walked over to Thinnes’s place. “Evanger wants to see you.” He stood over Thinnes as the detective slid Caleb’s note and Finley’s papers back in the mailer.

  Thinnes said, “I’m going.”

  As he went into Evanger’s office, taking the envelope with him, he wondered how much Evanger knew about bleeding brakes.

  “Sit down, John.” Evanger said, and pointed to a chair.

  “John, huh? Why don’t you just get to the point?”

  “All right. Take it easy. I assume you’ve told Swann everything you can think of that might help him.” Thinnes nodded. “Then I want you to take the rest of the day off.”

  “What did Karsch tell you?”

  “Nothing I didn’t know already. You’ve been under stress, you’re overdue for a vacation, and this is the second partner you’ve lost in two years. You also didn’t get any sleep last night.”

  Thinnes expressed his e
xasperation by looking all around Evanger without looking at him. He didn’t answer.

  “An order, Thinnes. Turn in your car keys and your radio and go home. Come back Monday. I’ve got twenty dicks working on this, good people. If they come up with anything, I’ll call you. Meanwhile, go home.”

  In one of the District Nineteen rooms, Thinnes yawned as he watched the evidence technician brush black powder all over Finley’s check, statement, and note. He shouldn’t have taken that Valium.

  The tech finally shrugged. “Sorry, Thinnes. No luck.”

  “Thanks, anyway.” He looked around the room as if for an answer. He felt tired. “Maybe you could do me a favor?”

  The technician looked expectant.

  “I’d like to make copies of these, then maybe you could log ’em in as evidence in the Finley case and drop them off at the lab. Ask them to see what they can find out about them.”

  “Sure.”

  Thinnes gave him the case report number. “And don’t tell anyone we’ve got ’em. Not even Evanger.”

  The parking lot was deserted when Thinnes came out of the building, preoccupied and depressed, slowed by the tranquilizer. He opened his car door and was about to get in when something on the ground near the corner of the building caught his eye. He walked toward the object. A wallet. He bent to pick it up. For an instant, he saw something loom over him; he didn’t have time to see what. Something hard and heavy struck the back of his head. He heard a thunking sound. Like a melon hit by a hammer. He felt the sandpaper surface of the concrete strike his face as he dropped.

  In the scenario Thinnes reconstructed later, someone wearing a white shirt and gloves picked up the wallet, then searched him, taking his keys. Handcuffs. Gun. Someone dragged Thinnes to his car; opened the trunk; and lifted him inside. Someone taped his mouth and eyes. Someone took his jacket; cuffed his hands behind his back. Someone put the jacket on.

  Thinnes vaguely remembered that the trunk slammed shut. The back of the car dipped slightly. The door slammed. The engine started.

  He supposed that the someone put the sun visor down to hide his face as he left the parking lot, and waved to other officers as Thinnes would have.

  Sixty-Four

  Joe was a mathematics professor at Northwestern University who dabbled in hacking, tax law, and investing. His office was the playpen of a genius. On one wall equations covered a blackboard. Shelves of esoteric books filled another wall, geometric posters and quotes from Albert Einstein adorned a third. Sophisticated stereo and computer systems; a kinetic sculpture; and a disorderly desk occupied the space between. Joe’s toys. Joe greeted Caleb warmly before demanding, “What’s this ‘matter of utmost urgency’?”

  Caleb handed him the photocopy of Allan Finley’s note. “What do you make of this?”

  It took only a glance. “My guess is the numbers are tax index numbers. This other thing’s probably a password.” In answer to Caleb’s look, he said, “I’d say this sheet belongs to a guy with extensive real estate holdings—maybe some in trusts. Probably files ’em by tax number.”

  “But writing it down defeats the purpose.”

  “It might be someone else’s password, or the guy might have just had it changed and wrote it down to refer to. Lot of people don’t know enough about their own systems to change the password themselves.” Caleb nodded. Joe laughed. “It doesn’t do you a lot of good to have the password if you don’t know whose it is.”

  “I have an idea about that. Do you have a directory?”

  Joe handed him the phone book, and Caleb looked up Margolis Enterprises. “Don’t companies that have more than one phone number usually get them in sequence?”

  “Yeah, if they can.”

  “Okay, here’s the main number.” Caleb pointed to the directory. Joe nodded and typed several things, including a consecutive number, into his computer. When that didn’t work, he tried two more numbers. The second elicited the response USER NAME on the monitor. He typed MARGOLIS, and the computer responded with a beep and ENTER PASSWORD. Joe typed CHARTREUSE. The computer responded INVALID PASSWORD.

  “Either it’s the wrong computer or they changed the password.”

  “I’m fairly certain it’s the right computer.”

  “Okay. What’s this guy like?”

  “Nouveau riche. Arrogant. He collects contemporary art and real estate.”

  Joe nodded and for the next five minutes tried other words, getting more beeps and INVALID PASSWORDS. Finally the computer responded, WELCOME TO MARGOLIS ENTERPRISES MASTER FILE.

  Joe grinned. “Bingo!”

  “How did you do that?”

  “You don’t want to know. Now, what would you like to see?”

  “Something that would identify these numbers.”

  Joe conjured up a menu and studied it. “That would probably be real estate.”

  He typed another instruction, and the printer attached to his computer began printing furiously. Caleb was startled.

  “I’m dumping it into my printer,” Joe explained, “so we can log off. The longer we’re on line, the better chance we have of getting caught.”

  The computer screen displayed the menu again, and he logged off, then studied the printout. Finally he said, “Here’re your numbers.” He whistled as he pointed to the addresses printed next to them, then to the owners of record, which were listed as trusts. “Do you know what we have here?”

  “If those parcels are worth what I think, a motive for murder.”

  Joe went to his desk and dug out several legal-size sheets. He pointed to one of the numbers on the printout. “This one’s quietly working its way through a zoning hearing right now. And I mean quietly. If it gets the requested changes, the agent’s commission alone will be in the six-figure range. Who is this Margolis, anyway?”

  “The goose who lays golden eggs.”

  Joe’s puzzlement was apparent. “The name sounds familiar. He’s in real estate?”

  “Someone’s been blackmailing him. When his accountant got hold of this…” Caleb waved the photocopy in the air, “…that someone murdered him, nearly killed me, and tried to push the police detective on the case off the deep end…The accountant was a client of mine. He must’ve slipped this in the envelope with my check to hide it from the murderer.”

  “Well, don’t keep me in suspense. Who done it?”

  “I don’t know. Yet.”

  Sixty-Five

  Caleb stalked across the outer office past Miss Ellis, who grabbed her phone, and into Margolis’s inner office. He made no attempt to conceal how close he was to losing his temper as he crossed the room, and there was a carefully implied threat as he leaned his large frame over the desk, into Margolis’s personal space. He slapped the cryptic photocopy down in front of Margolis.

  “Who knew you lost this?”

  Margolis was too flabbergasted to equivocate. “How did you get that?”

  “Allan had it. And he wasn’t a thief or a spy, so he must’ve come by it innocently. Who did you tell about it?”

  “No one.”

  “By trying to protect yourself on this real estate swindle, you’re helping to cover up a murder!” Caleb could feel himself losing control, and he forced himself to breathe slowly and deeply.

  His behavior had the effect of terrifying Margolis. “If my name is linked with that property, it’ll destroy the deal and maybe attract enough attention to start an investigation. I’ll be ruined!” Caleb waited, letting Margolis see he was unimpressed. “I swear I don’t know who it is!”

  “Who did you tell about losing the paper?”

  “The man who’s been blackmailing me. Over the phone. When he called to get those numbers and I couldn’t tell him because I’d lost the paper and I couldn’t remember the numbers!”

  Margolis’s fear shocked Caleb out of his rage. He eased up, nodding. “All the police would have to do would be to see who else has profited from your deals the last twelve or thirteen years. It has been about thirt
een years since Chris was arrested, hasn’t it?”

  Margolis seemed to harden at the mention of Chris. “Don’t you think I haven’t thought of that? I couldn’t get anywhere, not even with the best detectives money can buy.”

  “Ah, but the police have resources private detectives don’t. And they don’t have to cover their own trails.”

  Margolis’s silence was assent.

  Caleb continued, “You told this blackmailer about the paper and that Allan had been working on your books.”

  “I just told him it was someone from WR and C. I didn’t tell him his name—I didn’t even know…”

  Sixty-Six

  There were too damn many things Margolis didn’t know, Caleb reflected as he leaned on the polished granite top of the District Nineteen front desk, waiting for the desk sergeant to get off the phone. The sergeant told him Thinnes was off for the weekend.

  “But you can talk to one of the other detectives if you like.”

  He liked. Until he was halfway up to the Area Six squad room and he remembered that Finley’s murderer knew a great deal about him. And about Thinnes. And Finley’s death was all that the two of them had in common. You had to be careful, when you were poking into things, not to get your tail caught in the door. Speaking to one of the other detectives was beginning to seem like a dangerous idea, but he was past the point of no return.

  A dozen people were at work in the room. It gave Caleb the impression of a cat shelter with its variety of individuals withdrawn in their police-officer reserve. One of the men stretched, and Caleb was aware of the handgun under his coat like a well developed muscle as the coat pulled away from his chest. And like cats detectives were neither pitiless nor cruel as they waited, remorselessly, for movement from their prey, their hunter’s instincts merely an expression of their nature. He imagined dog people would find these men and women discomfiting. And which was the man-eater?