A Stab in the Dark (Matthew Scudder #4)

A Stab in the Dark (Matthew Scudder #4) Page 19

"He'd do it again."

"Of course he'd do it again. He had a fucking icepick in his pocket when they collared him. Again between ourselves, I think lawyers with that attitude ought to be in jail alongside their clients. But in the meantime here I am, playing God. What do you want to ask Lou?"

"There was another Brooklyn killing. I might ask him a few questions about that."

"Sheepshead Bay. He copped to that one."

"That's right. I don't know what else I'll ask him. I'm probably wasting my time. And yours."

"Don't worry about it."

Thirty or forty minutes later we were driving back to the mainland and I was apologizing again for wasting his time.

"You did me a favor," he said. "I'm going to have to make another dentist's appointment. You ever have periodontal surgery?"

"No."

"You're a wise man. This guy's my wife's cousin and he's pretty good, but what they do is they carve your gums. They do a section of your mouth at a time. Last time I went I wound up taking codeine every four hours for a week. I walked around in this perpetual fog. I suppose it's worth it in the long run, but don't feel you took me away from something enjoyable."

"If you say so."

I told him he could drop me anywhere but he insisted on giving me a lift to the subway stop at Northern Boulevard. On the way we talked a little about Pinell. "You can see why they picked him up on the street," he said. "That craziness is right there in his eyes. One look and you see it."

"There are a lot of street crazies."

"But he's dangerous-crazy and it shows. And yet I'm never nervous in his presence. Well, I'm not a woman and he hasn't got an icepick. That might have something to do with it."

At the subway entrance I got out of the car and hesitated for a moment, and he leaned toward me, one arm over the back of the seat. We both seemed reluctant to take leave of each other. I liked him and sensed that he held me in similar regard.

"You're not licensed," he said. "Isn't that what you said?"

"That's right."

"Couldn't you get a license?"

"I don't want one."

"Well, maybe I could throw some work your way all the same, if the right sort of thing came along."

"Why would you want to?"

"I don't know. I liked your manner with Lou. And I get the feeling with you that you think the truth is important." He chuckled. "Besides, I owe you. You spared me a half-hour in the dentist's chair."

"Well, if I ever need a lawyer-"

"Right. You know who to call."

I just missed a Manhattan-bound train. While I waited for the next one on the elevated platform I managed to find a phone in working order and tried Lynn London's number. I'd checked the hotel desk before I called Hiller, and there'd been a message from her the night before, probably wondering why I hadn't shown up. I wondered if she'd been the one who called during my shower. Whoever it was hadn't elected to leave a message. The desk man said the caller had been a woman, but I'd learned not to count too heavily on his powers of recollection.

Lynn's number didn't answer. No surprise. She was probably still in school, or on her way home. Had she mentioned any afternoon plans? I couldn't remember.

I retrieved my dime, started to put it and my notebook away. Was there anyone else I should call? I flipped pages in my notebook, struck by how many names and numbers and addresses I'd written down, considering how little I'd managed to accomplish.

Karen Ettinger? I could ask her what she was afraid of. Hiller had just told me he sensed that I thought the truth was important. Evidently she thought it was worth hiding.

It'd be a toll call, though. And I didn't have much change.

Charles London? Frank Fitzroy? An ex-cop on the Upper West Side? His ex-wife on the Lower East Side?

Mitzi Pomerance? Jan Keane?

Probably still had the phone off the hook.

I put the notebook away, and the dime. I could have used a drink. I'd had nothing since that one eye-opener at McGovern's. I'd eaten a late breakfast since then, had drunk several cups of coffee, but that was it.

I looked over the low wall at the rear of the platform. My eye fastened on red neon in a tavern window. I'd just missed a train. I could have a quick one and be back in plenty of time for the next one.

I sat down on a bench and waited for my train.

I changed trains twice and wound up at Columbus Circle. The sky was darkening by the time I hit the street, turning that particular cobalt blue that it gets over New York. There were no messages waiting for me at my hotel. I called Lynn London from the lobby.

This time I reached her. "The elusive Mr. Scudder," she said. "You stood me up."

"I'm sorry."

"I waited for you yesterday afternoon. Not for long, because I didn't have too much time available. I suppose something came up, but you didn't call, either."

I remembered how I had considered keeping the appointment and how I'd decided against it. Alcohol had made the decision for me. I'd been in a warm bar and it was cold outside.

"I'd just spoken to your father," I said. "He asked me to drop the case. I figured he'd have been in touch with you to tell you not to cooperate with me."

"So you just decided to write off the Londons, is that it?" There was a trace of amusement in her voice. "I was here waiting, as I said. Then I went out and kept my date for the evening, and when I got home my father called. To tell me he'd ordered you off the case but that you intended to persist with it all the same."

So I could have seen her. Alcohol had made the decision, and had made it badly.

"He told me not to offer you any encouragement. He said he'd made a mistake raking up the past to begin with."

"But you called me. Or was that before you spoke to him?"

"Once before and once after. The first call was because I was angry with you for standing me up. The second call was because I was angry with my father."

"Why?"

"Because I don't like being told what to do. I'm funny that way. He says you wanted a picture of Barbara. I gather he refused to give it to you. Do you still want one?"

Did I? I couldn't recall now what I'd planned to do with it. Maybe I'd make the rounds of hardware stores, showing it to everyone who sold icepicks.

"Yes," I said. "I still want one."

"Well, I can supply that much. I don't know what else I can give you. But one thing I can't give you at the moment is time. I was on my way out the door when the phone rang. I've got my coat on. I'm meeting a friend for dinner, and then I'm going to be busy this evening."

"With group therapy."

"How did you know that? Did I mention it the last time we talked? You have a good memory."

"Sometimes."

"Just let me think. Tomorrow night's also impossible. I'd say come over tonight after therapy but by then I generally feel as though I've been through the wringer. After school tomorrow there's a faculty meeting, and by the time that's over- Look, could you come to the school?"

"Tomorrow?"

"I've got a free period from one to two. Do you know where I teach?"

"A private school in the Village, but I don't know which one."

"It's the Devonhurst School. Sounds very preppy, doesn't it? Actually it's anything but. And it's in the East Village. Second Avenue between Tenth and Eleventh. The east side of the street closer to Eleventh than Tenth."

"I'll find it."

"I'll be in Room Forty-one. And Mr. Scudder? I wouldn't want to be stood up a second time."

I went around the corner to Armstrong's. I had a hamburger and a small salad, then some bourbon in coffee. They switch bartenders at eight, and when Billie came in a half-hour before his shift started I went over to him.

"I guess I was pretty bad last night," I said.

"Oh, you were okay," he said.

"It was a long day and night."

"You were talking a little loud," he said. "Aside from that you were your usual self. And you knew to leave here and make it an early night."

Except I hadn't made it an early night.

I went back to my table and had another bourbon and coffee. By the time I was finished with it, the last of my hangover was gone. I'd shaken off the headache fairly early on, but the feeling of being a step or two off the pace had persisted throughout the day.

Great system: The poison and the antidote come in the same bottle.

I went to the phone, dropped a dime. I almost dialed Anita's number and sat there wondering why. I didn't want to talk about a dead dog, and that was as close as we'd come to a meaningful conversation in years.

I dialed Jan's number. My notebook was in my pocket but I didn't have to get it out. The number was just right there at hand.

"It's Matthew," I said. "I wondered if you felt like company."

"Oh."

"Unless you're busy."

"No, I'm not. As a matter of fact, I'm a little under the weather. I was just settling in for a quiet evening in front of the television set."

"Well, if you'd rather be alone-"

"I didn't say that." There was a pause. "I wouldn't want to make it a late evening."

"Neither would I."

"You remember how to get here?"

"I remember."

On the way there I felt like a kid on a date. I rang her bell according to the code and stood at the curb. She tossed me the key. I went inside and rode up in the big elevator.

She was wearing a skirt and sweater and had doeskin slippers on her feet. We stood looking at each other for a moment and then I handed her the paper bag I was carrying. She took out the two bottles, one of Teacher's Scotch, the other of the brand of Russian vodka she favored.

"The perfect hostess gift," she said. "I thought you were a bourbon drinker."

"Well, it's a funny thing. I had a clear head the other morning, and it occurred to me that Scotch might be less likely to give me a hangover."

She put the bottles down. "I wasn't going to drink tonight," she said.

"Well, it'll keep. Vodka doesn't go bad."

"Not if you don't drink it. Let me fix you something. Straight, right?"

"Right."

It was stilted at first. We'd been close to one another, we'd spent a night in bed together, but we were nevertheless stiff and awkward with each other. I started talking about the case, partly because I wanted to talk to someone about it, partly because it was what we had in common. I told her how my client had tried to take me off the case and how I was staying with it anyway. She didn't seem to find this unusual.

Then I talked about Pinell.

"He definitely didn't kill Barbara Ettinger," I said, "and he definitely did commit the icepick murder in Sheepshead Bay. I didn't really have much doubt about either of those points but I wanted to have my own impressions to work with. And I just plain wanted to see him. I wanted some sense of the man."

"What was he like?"

"Ordinary. They're always ordinary, aren't they? Except I don't know that that's the right word for it. The thing about Pinell is that he looked insignificant."