‘It doesn’t sound stupid,’ said Rena. She pushed her head under his chin. ‘My momma even had a name for it, that feeling people have when they’re close to dying. She called it the wisdom of the bones.’
‘Now you’re the one starting to sound spooky.’
‘Maybe I can do something about that.’ Rena pushed her fingers under the elastic and into the tangle of his pubic hair.
‘I’m not making any promises,’ Ray warned.
‘I’m not asking for any,’ she said and turned and kissed him softly on the mouth.
* * *
That night he dreamed about the painting that hung in Rose Cottage but in his dream he was actually standing in the painting itself, the feel of the sandy loam of the roadway down to the water hot between his toes. His little brother was already in the boat with his fishing rod and Daddy was pushing off and no matter how loudly Ray called out to them he couldn’t make his father wait. Finally the Old Man pushed the boat away from the ragged shore, started up the outboard and headed down the lake, his back to Ray, deaf to his desperate cries.
Sunday
November 24, 1963
Chapter Twenty-One
When Ray woke up the following morning Rena was gone, having left a note taped to the refrigerator asking him to give her a call, either at home or at Inky’s later in the day. She’d left him a percolator full of coffee on the back burner of the stove and after a half cup standing over the sink he headed for the bathroom and a shower. Instead of just his feet, the needle spray of the shower stung almost everywhere it landed now.
Stepping out of the cubicle he towelled off and hazily saw himself full length in the mirror on the back of the door. He stared at himself, transfixed. Usually the thickness of his legs seemed to be at its least noticeable first thing in the morning but this time it hadn’t receded at all. His belly was sagging as well, his navel pulled down to an obscene little slit nestled among his thick black body hair.
He stepped closer to the mirror, rubbing away the haze with the palm of his hand, and looked at the rising worm of his carotid artery, raised and visible now almost up to the bottom of his earlobe. His doctor had told him that the carotid was like a thermometer – the higher it went, the closer you were to absolute heart failure. For the first time Ray dared to actually put his second finger onto the twisted cord of his flesh, feeling the rapid, stuttering pulse as his racing heart took him beat by beat towards his grave. He pushed the towel over his face, breathing hot breath into it, reminding himself that for now at least he was a living, breathing human being.
Throwing the towel over the shower curtain bar, Ray picked up his old Norelco Double Header and ran it automatically over the crags and creases of his cheeks and chin. For a second he found himself wondering what someone like Rena saw in him, then he switched off the razor, leaning over the sink and supporting himself with both hands. He’d spent the night with her twice and they both seemed to have enjoyed the experience and yet here he was being a cop and thinking about motives. Maybe she didn’t have a motive beyond simply liking him or would it be just too goddamned strange for a pretty woman to take a shine to someone like him? On the other hand, lady luck sure as hell hadn’t been shining her headlights in his direction lately. He pushed the whole thing out of his mind, straightened up and finished shaving.
With all that done he went back to the bedroom, threw on his old tattered terry-cloth robe and collected the address book he’d found at Schwager’s love nest and his own notebook. He took them both back to the kitchen, switched on the dowdy old Emerson 541 he kept on the counter tuned to KRLD and poured himself a second cup of coffee. This morning, instead of talking about Kennedy, they were going on endlessly about Oswald, who was apparently going to be transferred from the holding cells at HQ to County, a few blocks away. Ray switched the radio off and sat down at the kitchen table. Maybe getting him out of the station would ease the congestion in the corridors and everyone could get back to work.
Ray opened up his notebook to a clean page, noting the date, then flipped back through his previous notes. It still didn’t amount to a whole hell of a lot but he transferred the whole thing under the new date and then added a few more lines to his list.
PINOCCHIO
TIME
CARE
PETER PAN
PLANNED
OLD LAMP
CORVAN
ARTS & MONUMENTS
OLD BOOKS
OLD PAINTINGS
OLD LETTERS
SCHWAGER
RUBY
ARMY RECORDS CENTER
KIDNAP
KOOP
Ray stared at the list, then took his pencil and began rearranging things into blocks of information that seemed to go together, striking out ‘Pinocchio’ because he was reasonably sure it had no real relevance except as to the method behind the murderer’s madness, and occasionally underlining another word:
PINOCCHIO
TIME, CARE, PLANNED, PAST
OLD LAMP. OLD BOOKS, OLD PAINTINGS, OLD LETTERS
ARTS AND MONUMENTS: SCHWAGER, PRICE, VALENTINE, KOOP ARMY RECORDS CENTER
PAST AND PRESENT: KIDNAP, MURDER, CORVAN
Ray looked down at his new list and tried to connect the dots. Less than an hour before she was kidnapped, Lucille Edmonds had told her brother about an old fringed lamp she’d seen, but where? Not the school, because her brother, Marcus, would have known the lamp she was talking about, and not Mrs Pinkers’s place for the same reason. At the time Ray had been more interested in the man who drove the hearse for Todmorden’s Funeral Home but now he remembered something else Marcus Edmonds had said. Ray had asked about who’d gone by that day and Marcus had mentioned the junk man. A junk man might have had an old fringed lamp in his truck and a junk man might have made a promise to that little girl about making sure that she got that lamp she liked so much. A junk man who travelled a regular route from town to town, picking through garbage dumps for abandoned treasures. A man who could take the time to plan his conquests, a man barely noticed as he drove the back roads of the northern counties. A man who might have come upon all sorts of antiques, even the occasional old book or painting. Excited now, Ray flipped through the pages of his notebook and found the telephone number he’d jotted down for Amanda Pinkers. He looked at his watch; just past eight; early, but not too early, especially for a little old lady with arthritis who probably didn’t sleep well. He went out to the hall and got the operator to make the long distance call. It rang five times and then he heard the woman’s cracked, dry voice.
‘Yes?’
‘Mrs Pinkers?’
‘Who else would it be? This is my telephone and I’m the only one here.’
‘It’s Ray Duval, Mrs Pinkers. You remember me?’
‘Of course. The policeman who was asking about Lucille.’
‘That’s right. I said I might want to ask you some more questions.’
‘Then ask.’
‘Marcus Edmonds mentioned a junk man who travelled in your area.’
‘There have been several over the years. These days they seem to be interested in automobile parts. Tyres and such.’
‘In the past, Mrs Pinkers. Around the time Lucille was murdered. Was there a regular junk man that you can recall?’
‘Certainly.’
‘Can you recall his name?’
‘DiMaggio, like the baseball player who married that unfortunate movie star.’
‘Do you recall a first name?’
‘Martino. He was Italian, of course.’
‘What do you remember about him?’
‘Very little. He often smelled, either of the dump or of wine. I would say he was almost certainly a heavy drinker.’
‘Do you remember how old he was?’
‘Specifically? No. He never mentioned his age.’ She paused. ‘I would say that he was in his sixties or seventies. He had a large stomach and very little hair. What he did have was snow white. He had bad teeth and equally
bad breath.’
Ray’s spirits slumped. Martino DiMaggio was obviously not his man. ‘You’re sure about his age?’
‘Certainly.’ She paused again. ‘Of course, his assistant was much younger.’
‘Assistant?’
‘Yes. From time to time Mr DiMaggio was too drunk to drive his pickup so his assistant did. The boy sometimes even covered the old man’s route without him, especially towards the end.’
‘End?’
‘Mr DiMaggio died in 1939. January, I believe.’ Just when the murders stopped.
‘How old was this boy?’
‘Eighteen or nineteen. Quite a pleasant-looking young man, dark hair, strong hands. What we used to call a pianist’s hands.’
‘Do you recall his name?’
‘Certainly. William Cooper but—’
He saw it in a clear bright light, just like Rena had said the night before – the wisdom of the bones. ‘Everyone called him Coop,’ said Ray.
‘That’s right,’ said Mrs Pinkers. ‘How on earth did you know?’
‘Just a guess.’
Koop.
‘Shit!’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Sorry, Mrs Pinkers.’ He thanked her for her help and hung up. William Cooper had travelled up and down those back roads with old man DiMaggio like a smokescreen all around him. It was DiMaggio’s junk business and no one really cared about them one way or the other. The police were looking for a solitary killer, not the young assistant who sat beside the junk man. William Cooper, the one everyone called Coop, would mark his victims and when the old man was too drunk to make his route Coop would make his move.
Ray went back to the kitchen and his list. He crossed out and underlined until he was sure of what he had.
PINOCCHIO
TIME. CARE. PLANNED. PAST
OLD LAMP. OLD BOOKS. OLD PAINTINGS. OLD LETTERS
ARTS AND MONUMENTS: SCHWAGER. PRICE.
VALENTINE. WILLIAM COOPER KOOP
ARMY RECORDS CENTER
PAST AND PRESENT: KIDNAP. MURDER. CORVAN
William Cooper and Koop were one and the same. And somehow Jennings Price had uncovered his secret and written or called the Army Records Center in St Louis to confirm his suspicions. He’d left his assignation with Futrelle and gone to meet his death at Cooper’s hands. It all seemed to fit the facts or at least his personal theory of events. Personal theories, however, were about as far from evidence as a cop could get, at least when it came to making a case to the district attorney’s office.
Not that Henry Monasco Wade would give him the time of day anyway; he was an ambitious politician, a schoolmate of Connally’s and he was going to try to ride this poor son of a bitch Oswald into the governor’s mansion all on his own. He wasn’t going to have time for Ray Duval with less than a week before his ticket got punched and a hare-brained story about a lunatic who went around killing little black girls; no votes there and fewer votes still if he threw Paul Futrelle into the Mixmaster. Ray glanced at his watch. Almost nine o’clock now and on a Sunday. It was bad timing but he had to get some kind of help from Fritz and at the very least he could use the sheriff’s directory at the office to try and find out if William Cooper had any kind of record in the northern counties back in the 1930s.
Ray suddenly had another bright idea, prompted by the list. He took his notebook back to the telephone in the hall and called Douglas Valentine at his home number.
‘It’s Duval.’
‘Detective, I’m just watching the preparations for Mr Oswald’s transfer to the County Jail on television combined with Mr Cronkite’s description of Mr Kennedy’s coffin being taken from the White House. An odd juxtaposition to say the least. These are terrible times, Detective.’
Even worse for Zinnia Brant if he didn’t do something soon. ‘Quick question for you, Mr Valentine.’
‘Certainly.’
‘Koop.’
‘What about him?’
‘Did you know his actual name?’
‘Of course. William Cooper.’
‘Out at Schwager’s place in Blackstone, Schwager said that Jennings Price liked hiring local boys.’
‘I remember.’
‘How local was Cooper?’
‘Lubbock, I think. Or Decatur. One of the two.’ There was a pause. ‘That it?’
‘One more thing.’
‘Yes.’
‘The Arts and Monuments group…’
‘Monuments, Fine Arts and Archives, Detective Duval. MFA and A.’
‘Okay.’
‘What about them?’
‘A lot of army units have associations, the Rangers, the marines have half a dozen, most divisions have them.’
‘And you’re wondering about the gay men in Monuments and Fine Arts?’
‘You said it, not me.’
‘Yes, there is an organisation. Sort of an alumni group. It was a pretty small bunch.’
‘Is there a secretary or a treasurer or someone I could get in touch with on a Sunday?’
‘Jannie.’
‘A woman?’
Valentine laughed. ‘Hardly. Jan van Plaut.’
‘German?’
‘Dutch. He spoke just about every European language you could think of. He’d been a curator at the Rijksmuseum before the Nazis invaded and when we came along he was working for the Rijksbureau voor de Monumentenzord or something of the sort.’
‘I’m supposed to call him in Amsterdam?’
‘No, no,’ said Valentine. ‘He emigrated after the war. He’s a director of the Addison Gallery of American Art in Andover, Mass. Teaches at the Phillips Academy. Dutch Masters.’
Ray had never heard of either the Addison Gallery of American Art or the Phillips Academy. ‘You have a number for him?’
He did, both home and office. When a woman answered the home number, presumably Mrs van Plaut, she told him Jannie was at his office. Her accent was as broadly Boston as Kennedy’s had been. Clearly Jan van Plaut had married an American after the war. Ray called van Plaut’s office and got through on the fifth or sixth ring. The connection was poor and Ray felt as though he was shouting down a well.
‘Where did you say you were calling from?’ Van Plaut’s accent was flat, formal and mid-Atlantic, the voice of a man who’d learned English at school or from a stack of Berlitz records.
‘Dallas,’ Ray answered and for the first time he heard the cold, hesitant reaction to the name of his city.
‘I see. And you are a detective.’ The academic liked to repeat everything for himself, as though fixing it in his mind.
‘Right. Douglas Valentine gave me your name and number.’
‘You are investigating a murder.’
‘Yes.’
‘I would have thought that the Dallas Police Department would have other concerns at the moment.’ The tone was like a winter wind.
‘I’m working on this alone, Mr van Plaut, and I’m running out of time.’
‘Correct me if I am wrong but if this is a case of murder then the victim is already dead and time is no longer of any concern to him.’
‘This victim isn’t dead, yet, or I hope she isn’t. She’s a twelve-year-old girl, Mr van Plaut.’
‘I’m sorry, I did not know. I am presently immersed in writing a book comparing the themes of Winslow Homer to those of several Dutch Masters. It takes up a great deal of my concentration.’
‘I’d just like to ask you a few questions.’
‘Hopefully I will be able to give you the answers you are looking for.’
‘Do you remember a man named William Cooper? A member of the MFA and A unit like yourself?’
‘Yes. Although to be truly accurate Coop was never actually a member of the unit.’
‘How did he become attached?’
‘I have no idea. Jennings Price simply appeared with him one day. Said he was good with books and documents.’
‘Did he wear a uniform?’
‘Yes. That of an in
fantry corporal.’
‘Can you remember the unit he was with?’
‘Just let me wander in my memory for a moment,’ said the Dutchman. There was a long echoing silence. ‘Eighty-second Airborne,’ he answered at last.
‘So how does someone from the Eighty-second Airborne wind up with an art unit?’
‘According to J. P.…
‘Jennings Price?’
‘Yes. According to Jennings he had been seconded by the Art Looting Investigation Unit.’
‘This was part of your Monuments and Fine Arts people?’
‘No, no!’ van Plaut answered. ‘Most definitely not. ALIU were part of the Office of Strategic Services. We were under the umbrella of Army G2 Intelligence.’
‘Cooper was in the OSS?’ Christ, now we’ve got the CIA involved, thought Ray.
‘I do not think he was actually with them per se, Detective. He was just extremely good with books and documents. He could tell vellum from paper at a glance and had an intimate, expert knowledge of the structure of books and how to fix them, sometimes invisibly. That’s what he was doing at Alt Aussee for the Art Looting unit – repairing damage to books and documents.’
‘So Price stole him away?’
‘It wasn’t difficult. From what Jennings told me, Coop was not well liked.’
‘Why not?’
‘With the exception of an officer from the Naval Intelligence Department who tended to day-to-day operations, the ALIU was entirely made up of academics. Theodore Rousseau from the National Gallery of Art, Lane Faison from Williams College, John Phillips from Yale. Coop had one of your Texas drawls and no formal education. They looked down on him. He was something of an idiot savant, I think.’
Wisdom of the Bones Page 27
