A Stab in the Dark (13 page)

A woman answered it. Same woman who'd just told me to leave the dead alone. I'd heard her voice once before that, and remembered it now.

I had nothing to say to her that wouldn't wait a day or two. Without saying anything, I replaced the receiver and went back to bed.

After breakfast the next day I called Charles London's office. He hadn't come in yet. I gave my name and said I'd call later.

I spent another dime calling Frank Fitzroy at the Eighteenth Precinct. "Scudder," I said. "Where are they holding Pinell?"

"They had him downtown. Then I think they shunted him out to Rikers Island. Why?"

"I'd like to see him. What are my chances?"

"Not good."

"You could go out there," I suggested. "I could just be a fellow officer along for the ride."

"I don't know, Matt."

"You'd get something for your time."

"That's not it. Believe me. Thing is, this fucker fell in our laps and I'd hate to see him walk on a technicality. We ring in an unauthorized visitor and his lawyer gets wind of it and gets a wild hair up his ass and it could screw up the whole case. You follow me?"

"It doesn't seem very likely."

"Maybe not, but it's a chance I'm in no rush to take. What do you want from him, anyway?"

"I don't know."

"Maybe I could ask him a question or two for you. Assuming I could get to see him, which I'm not sure I could. His lawyer may have cut off the flow. But if you've got a specific question-"

I was in the phone booth in my hotel lobby and someone was knocking on the door. I told Frank to hang on for a second and opened the door a crack. It was Vinnie, the desk man, to tell me I had a call. I asked who it was and he said it was a woman and she hadn't given her name. I wondered if it was the same one who'd called last night.

I told him to switch it to the house phone and I'd take it in a minute. I uncovered the mouthpiece of the phone I was holding and told Frank I couldn't think of anything in particular that I wanted to ask Louis Pinell, but that I'd keep his offer in mind. He asked if I was getting anyplace with my investigation.

"I don't know," I said. "It's hard to tell. I'm putting in the hours."

"Giving what's-his-name his money's worth. London."

"I suppose so. I have a feeling most of it is wasted motion."

"It's always that way, isn't it? There's days when I figure I must waste ninety percent of my time. But you have to do that to come up with the ten percent that's not a waste."

"That's a point."

"Even if you could see Pinell, that'd be part of the wasted ninety percent. Don't you think?"

"Probably."

I finished up with him, went over to the desk and picked up the house phone. It was Anita.

She said, "Matt? I just wanted to tell you that the check came."

"That's good. I'm sorry it's not more."

"It came at a good time."

I sent money for her and the boys when I had it to send. She never called just to say it had arrived.

I asked how the boys were.

"They're fine," she said. "Of course they're in school now."

"Of course."

"I guess it's been a while since you've seen them."

I felt a little red pinprick of anger. Had she called just to tell me that? Just to push a little guilt button?

"I'm on a case," I said. "Soon as it's finished, whenever that is, maybe they can come in and we'll catch a game at the Garden. Or a boxing match."

"They'd like that."

"So would I." I thought of Jan, relieved that her kids were on the other side of the country, relieved she didn't have to visit them anymore, and guilty over her relief. "I'd like that very much," I said.

"Matt, the reason I called-"

"Yes?"

"Oh, God," she said. She sounded sad and tired. "It's Bandy," she said.

"Bandy?"

"The dog. You remember Bandy."

"Of course. What about him?"

"Oh, it's sad," she said. "The vet said he ought to be put to sleep.

He said there's really nothing to be done for him at this point."

"Oh," I said. "Well, I suppose if that's what has to be done-"

"I already had him put to sleep. On Friday."

"Oh."

"I guess I thought you would want to know."

"Poor Bandy," I said. "He must have been twelve years old."

"He was fourteen."

"I didn't realize he was that old. That's a long life for a dog."

"It's supposed to be the equivalent of ninety-eight for a human being."

"What was the matter with him?"

"The vet said he just wore out. His kidneys were in bad shape. And he was almost blind. You knew that, didn't you?"

"No."

"For the past year or two his eyesight was failing. It was so sad, Matt. The boys sort of lost interest in him. I think that was the saddest part. They loved him when they were younger but they grew up and he got old and they lost interest." She started to cry. I stood there and held the phone to my ear and didn't say anything.

She said, "I'm sorry, Matt."

"Don't be silly."

"I called you because I wanted to tell somebody and who else could I tell? Do you remember when we got him?"

"I remember."

"I wanted to call him Bandit because of his facial markings, his mask. You said something about give-a-dog-a-bad-name, but we were already calling him Bandy. So we decided it was short for Bandersnatch."

"From Alice in Wonderland."

"The vet said he didn't feel anything. He just went to sleep. He took care of disposing of the body for me."

"That's good."

"He had a good life, don't you think? And he was a good dog. He was such a clown. He could always break me up."

She talked for a few more minutes. The conversation just wore out, like the dog. She thanked me again for the check and I said again that I wished it could have been more. I told her to tell the boys I'd be seeing them as soon as I was finished with my current case. She said she'd be sure to tell them. I hung up the phone and went outside.

The sun was screened by clouds and there was a chill wind blowing. Two doors down from the hotel is a bar called McGovern's.

They open early.

I went in. The place was empty except for two old men, one behind the bar, one in front of it. The bartender's hand trembled slightly as he poured me a double shot of Early Times and backed it up with a glass of water.

I hoisted the glass, wondered at the wisdom of paying an early visit to London's office with bourbon on my breath, then decided it was a pardonable eccentricity in an unofficial private detective. I thought about poor old Bandy, but of course I wasn't really thinking about the dog. For me, and probably for Anita, he was one of the few threads that had still linked us. Rather like the marriage, he'd taken his sweet time dying.

I drank the drink and got out of there.

LONDON'S office was on the sixteenth floor of a twenty-eight-story building on Pine Street. I shared the elevator with two men in forest-green work clothing. One carried a clipboard, the other a tool kit.

Neither spoke, nor did I.

I felt like a rat in a maze by the time I found London's office. His name was the first of four lettered on the frosted glass door. Inside, a receptionist with a slight British accent invited me to have a seat, then spoke quietly into a telephone. I looked at a copy of Sports Illustrated until a door opened and Charles London beckoned me into his private office.

It was a fair-sized room, comfortable without being luxurious.

There was a view of the harbor from his window, only partially blocked by surrounding buildings. We stood on either side of his desk, and I sensed something in the air between us. For a moment I regretted that bourbon at McGovern's, then realized it had nothing to do with the screen that seemed to separate us.

"I wish you'd called," he said. "You'd have been able to save a trip down here."

"I called and they told me you hadn't come in yet."

"I got a message that you would call later."

"I thought I'd save a call."

He nodded. His outfit looked the same as he'd worn to Armstrong's, except that the tie was different.

I'm sure the suit and shirt were different, too. He probably had six identical suits, and two drawers of white shirts.

He said, "I'm going to have to ask you to drop the case, Mr.

Scudder."

"Oh?"

"You seem unsurprised."

"I picked up the vibration walking in here. Why?"

"My reasons aren't important."

"They are to me."

He shrugged. "I made a mistake," he said. "I sent you on a fool's errand. It was a waste of money."

"You already wasted the money. You might as well let me give you something for it. I can't give it back because I already spent it."

"I wasn't expecting a refund."

"And I didn't come here to ask for any additional money. So what are you saving by telling me to drop the case?"

The pale blue eyes blinked twice behind the rimless glasses. He asked me if I wouldn't sit down. I said I was comfortable standing. He remained standing himself.

He said, "I behaved foolishly. Seeking vengeance, retribution.

Troubling the waters. Either that man killed her or some other maniac did and there's probably no way we'll ever know for sure. I was wrong to set you to work raking up the past and disturbing the present."

"Is that what I've been doing?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Raking up the past and disturbing the present? Maybe that's a good definition of my role. When did you decide to call me off?"

"That's not important."

"Ettinger got to you, didn't he? It must have been yesterday.

Saturday's a busy day at the store, they sell a lot of tennis rackets. He probably called you last night, didn't he?" When he hesitated I said, "Go ahead. Tell me it's not important."

"It's not. More to the point, it's not your business, Mr. Scudder."

"I got a wake-up call around one thirty last night from the second Mrs. Ettinger. Did she give you a call about the same time?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"She's got a distinctive voice. I heard it the day before when I called Ettinger at home and she told me he was at the Hicksville store.

She called last night to tell me to let the dead stay buried. That seems to be what you want, too."

"Yes," he said. "That's what I want."

I picked a paperweight from the top of his desk. An inch-long brass label identified it as a piece of petrified wood from the Arizona desert.

"I can understand what Karen Ettinger's afraid of. Her husband might turn out to be the killer, and that would really turn her world upside down. You'd think a woman in her position would want to know one way or the other. How comfortable could she be from here on in, living with a man she half-suspects of killing his first wife? But people are funny that way. They can push things out of their minds. Whatever happened was years ago and in Brooklyn. And the wench is dead, right?

People move and their lives change, so there's nothing for her to worry about, is there?"

He didn't say anything. His paperweight had a piece of black felt on its bottom to keep it from scratching his desk. I replaced it, felt-side down.

I said, "You wouldn't be worried about Ettinger's world, or his wife's world. What's it to you if they get hassled a little? Unless Ettinger had a way to put pressure on you, but I don't think that's it. I don't think you'd be all that easy to push around."

"Mr. Scudder-"

"It's something else, but what? Not money, not a physical threat.

Oh, hell, I know what it is."

He avoided my eyes.

"Her reputation. You're afraid of what I'll find in the grave with her. Ettinger must have told you she was having an affair. He told me she wasn't, but I don't think he's that deeply committed to the truth.

As a matter of fact, it does look as though she was seeing a man.

Maybe more than one man. That may go against the grain of your sense of propriety, but it doesn't weigh too much against the fact that she was murdered. She may have been killed by a lover. She may have been killed by her husband. There are all sorts of possibilities but you don't want to look at any of them because in the course of it the world might find out that your daughter wasn't a virgin."

For a moment I thought he was going to lose his temper. Then something went out of his eyes. "I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to leave now," he said. "I have some calls to make and I have an appointment scheduled in fifteen minutes."

"I guess Mondays are busy in insurance. Like Saturdays in sporting goods."

"I'm sorry that you're embittered. Perhaps later you'll appreciate my position, but-"

"Oh, I appreciate your position," I said. "Your daughter was killed for no reason by a madman and you adjusted to that reality. Then you had a new reality to adjust to, and that turned out to mean coming to grips with the possibility that someone had a reason to kill her, and that it might be a good reason." I shook my head, impatient with myself for talking too much. "I came here to pick up a picture of your daughter," I said. "I don't suppose you happened to bring it."

"Why would you want it?"

"Didn't I tell you the other day?"

"But you're off the case now," he said. He might have been explaining something to a slow child. "I don't expect a refund, but I want you to discontinue your investigation."

"You want to fire me."

"If you'd prefer to put it that way."

"But you never hired me in the first place. So how can you fire me?"