A Long Line of Dead Men (Matthew Scudder #12)

A Long Line of Dead Men (Matthew Scudder #12) Page 39

"Are you a collector, Jim?"

"Am I collecting the members, is that what you mean? Scooping 'em up in a butterfly net? Can't let up for a minute until the set's complete?" He laughed. "It's a nice idea, but no, that's not it. Here, I'll tell you this much. I got my reasons."

"But you won't say what they are."

"Nope."

"So I guess they're not rational," I said. "Otherwise you wouldn't have a problem putting them on the table."

"Hey, that's a nice one," he said appreciatively. "Make the man prove he's sane. Trouble is, I'd have to be crazy to fall for it."

"Well, that's one of the things I'm a little worried about, Jim."

"That I'm crazy?"

"That you're losing control."

"How do you figure that?"

"The cabdriver."

"The cabdriver? Oh, the Arab."

"Bengali, wasn't he?"

"Who gives a fuck? Ali something or other. What about him?"

"Why kill him? He wasn't in the club."

"He got in the way."

"You rammed his cab."

"So? They lie their way through Customs at JFK and ten minutes later they're on the street with a temporary hack license. Can't find Penn Station but they're out there taking a job away from a real American."

"And that made you angry?"

"Are you kidding? What do I give a fuck? Ali's number was up and he was in the way. Sayonara, baby. All she wrote."

"See, that's my point. You sound out of control."

"You're completely wrong about that," he said. "I'm a hundred percent in control."

"You used to limit yourself to members of the club."

"What about Diana Shipton? She wasn't in the club. I had plenty of chances to take Boyd out when he was alone."

"Why didn't you?"

"Sometimes you want to make a splash. And that wasn't the only time. What about- no, forget it."

"What?"

"Never mind. I'm telling you too much."

"Why'd you go after Helen Watson?"

"Oh, you know about that, huh?"

"Why?"

"You were going to get in touch with her. She might have remembered."

"What could she remember?"

"Christ, I was fucking her, wasn't I? Think she might remember that?"

"I guess she would."

"You didn't know about that, did you?"

"No."

"And now you don't know if you should believe me."

"I don't even know if you killed her," I said. "Maybe she drank too much and drowned."

"The scotch in the bathroom. I thought you'd like that touch. That was me tipping you a wink, Matt. Saying hello."

"Like the meeting book under the pillow."

"Something like that. I appreciated the meeting book, you know. I appreciated your kindness. I'm not used to people going out of their way to do me a good turn."

"Have people been hard on you, Jim?"

"What's this, Psych 101? 'Oh, yes, nurse, people have been hardhearted and cruel.' "

"Just trying to understand, that's all."

"Trying to crack the code."

"I suppose so."

"What's the point? Your buddies can kick back and relax. I'm going into voluntary retirement."

"Oh?"

"Tell you the truth, I was getting a little tired of Jim Shorter. Tired of that little room on Ninety-fourth Street. You know what I might do? I might leave town."

"Where would you go?"

"Hey, it's a big world out there. If I'm ever gonna see some of it, I better get my ass in gear. You know how old I am?"

"Forty-eight."

A pause. "Yeah, right. Well, I'm not getting any younger."

"Not too many people are."

"And some of 'em ain't getting any older, either." His laughter was harsh, nasty, and it broke off abruptly, as if he'd realized how it must sound. "Point is," he said, "there won't be any more deaths for a while."

"How long is a while?"

"Why do you want to pin a guy down all the time? No more deaths until the next dinner."

"And when would that be?"

"What are you, checking me out? First Thursday in May, remember? Until then I'm on the shelf."

"And I've got your word on that?"

"Absolutely," he said. "My word as a gentleman. What do you figure it's worth?"

"I don't know. How did you even learn about the club, Jim?"

"Good question."

"Why do you hate the members?"

"Who says I hate 'em?"

"I wish you'd explain it so I can understand."

"I wish you'd quit trying."

"No you don't."

"I don't?"

"No, or you wouldn't have called."

"I called because you were nice to me. I want to be nice back."

"You called because you want to keep the game going."

"You think it's a game?"

"You think it's a game."

"Ha! I should hang up right now."

"Unless you're enjoying this."

"I am, but why stay too long at the fair? Enough's enough. But you want a hint, don't you?"

"Sure."

"No, not a hint. You're a detective. What you want is a clue, right?"

"I don't know. I'm not too good at working with clues."

"Oh, sure you are. Sherlock Holmes."

"Is that the clue?"

"No, that's what you are. Sherlock fucking Holmes. Rumpelstiltskin. That's the clue."

"Rumpelstiltskin?"

"There's hope for you yet," he said. "Bye."

28

I arranged to meet Felicia Karp at four o'clock. I got to the house on Stafford Avenue ten minutes early, and at 4:20 I was beginning to worry. Fifteen minutes later I was in the vestibule examining the lock on the door leading up to her second-floor flat and wondering how much trouble it would be to let myself in. The possibility of getting nailed for illegal entry scared me less than the thought of what I might find. She lived, after all, just a fifteen-minute walk from where Helen Watson had drowned in her bath.

I got a flat strip of flexible steel from my wallet and turned to make sure no one was watching me when I took a shot at the door. Across the street, someone was maneuvering a Ford Escort into a tight space. I could have been through the door and up the stairs before the car was parked, but I waited, and Felicia Karp emerged from the car. I put my burglar's tool away and went to meet her.

"I'm sorry," she said. "They sprang a meeting on us literally at the last minute and there was no way to reach you." She gave me her canvas tote bag to hold while she unlocked the door. Inside, she led me to the kitchen and heated two cups of the morning's coffee in the microwave. From the wall, the black cat swung its pendulum tail and rolled its eyes at me.

I showed her Ray Galindez's sketch. She held it at arm's length and asked who it was supposed to be.

"Do you recognize him?"

"He looks familiar. Who is he?"

"He worked as a patrol officer for a private security firm. Back in February he discovered the body of Alan Watson while making his rounds a few blocks the other side of Continental Avenue. Watson had been stabbed, and it wasn't hard for this man to be the first person on the scene."

"You're implying that he killed him."

"Yes."

"Was Alan Watson one of the men my husband had dinner with once a year?" I said that he was. "And this man? Did he kill my husband?"

"I believe so."

"My God," she said, and stared at the sketch, and shuddered. "I knew Fred Karp would never kill himself," she said. "My God."

I said, "You say this man looks familiar."

"I know him."

"Oh?"

"I know I've seen him. Where did he patrol? We don't have private guards around here, although the neighborhood association has been talking about hiring them. You said the other side of Continental Avenue? I wouldn't have seen him there. It's a nice section, upscale compared to this, but I don't have any reason to go there. Anyway, I know his face, and I wouldn't know it from glimpsing it through the window of a patrol car. Why do I know his face? Help me."

"Have you seen him in the neighborhood recently?"

"No."

"Has he come to the house?" She shook her head. "Have you seen him at the school? He could have posed as a parent."

"Why would he do that? Am I in danger?"

"It's possible."

"For God's sake," she said. She studied the picture. "He looks so damn ordinary," she said. "To look at him, you'd think he was too much of a nebbish to be a policeman."

"What could you picture him doing?"

"I don't know. Something menial, something completely pedestrian."

"Close your eyes. He's doing something. What do you see him doing?"

"What's this, some new guided-imaging technique? It's not going to work. I intellectualize too much, that's my problem."

"Try it anyway. What's he doing?"

"I can't see him."

"If you could see him, what would he be doing?"

"I don't-"

"Don't figure it out. Just answer it. What's he doing?"

"Pushing a broom. My God, I don't believe it."

"What?"

"That's it. He was a janitor in the Kashin Building where Fred had his office. He wore a uniform, matching pants and a shirt in greenish gray. How would I remember that?"

"I don't know."

"Sometimes I would meet Fred at his office and we would have dinner and go to a play. And one time I saw this man. I think-"

"Yes?"

"I seem to remember that he was in Fred's office when I got there, and they were talking. He was sweeping the floor and he was emptying a wastebasket."

"What was his name?"

"How would I know?"

"Your husband might have introduced you."

"I'm afraid… John. His name was John!"

"That's very good."

"Nobody introduced him. It was on his shirt." She traced a short horizontal line above her left breast. "Over the pocket, embroidered in white. No! Not white, yellow." She shook her head. "It's just amazing the things you remember."

"And his name was John."

"Yes. I didn't like him."

"Why not?"

"There was something about him. I thought he was sly. In fact I almost said something to Fred, but I let it go."

"What would you have said?"

"I would have warned him."

"You thought the man was dangerous?"

She shook her head. "Not physically dangerous. I thought he would steal something. There was a furtive quality about him. Do you know what I mean?"

"Yes."

"But it wasn't so pronounced that it stayed in my mind. I don't believe I ever gave him another thought from that day to this. And I'm positive I never saw him again."