So Long As You Both Shall Live (87th Precinct) (6 page)

BOOK: So Long As You Both Shall Live (87th Precinct)
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The Gaucho looked up as the bell over his door rang. It was raining outside, and he normally did a brisk trade on rainy days. But the man approaching the counter was not a customer. He was a black detective from the 87th Precinct, and his name was Arthur Brown, and The Gaucho had done business with him before.

“Good afternoon, señor,” he said. “Something I can help you with?”

“Let’s go in the back, Cowboy,” Brown said.

In the back room, surrounded by a sophisticated array of dildoes, French ticklers, open-crotch panties, vibrators (eight-inch and ten-inch), leather executioner’s masks, chastity belts, whips with leather thongs, and ben-wa balls in both plastic and gold plate, Brown described the two men they were looking for.

The Gaucho nodded, and said, “I try, eh?”

Fat Ollie Weeks came up to the squadroom at 2:00 that afternoon.

He was not to be confused with Fats Donner, not that he ever was. When they stood side by side (a proximity neither of the men had ever achieved), one could easily discern a sizable difference between them: Fat Ollie was fat in the singular; Fats Donner was fat in the plural. There were other differences as well. Fats Donner was an informer, but Fat Ollie Weeks was a detective working out of the Eight-Three. Fats Donner, because he could be found more often than not in the nearest neighborhood steam bath, was as clean as a whistle and smelled like a freshly bathed baby. Fat Ollie Weeks stank to high heaven, and those who stood close to him sometimes wondered why he did not draw flies. Fats Donner was a tolerant man; his friends over the years had included black girls, Mexican girls, Chinese girls, and (on one occasion) a full-blooded Cherokee Indian girl who was fifteen years old. Fat Ollie Weeks was a raging bigot. “Screw your sister?” he might have remarked to anyone of a duskier shade. “I won’t even drink your water!”

When Carella saw him walking toward the slatted rail divider that separated the squadroom from the corridor outside, he wanted to hide. The squadroom was as open as a flasher’s raincoat. Ollie came through the gate in the railing and walked heavily toward Carella’s desk, his hand extended.

“Hi there, Steve-a-reeno,” he said, and Carella winced. “What’s this I hear?”

“What do you hear?” Carella asked. Ollie had grasped his hand and was shaking it the way a terrier shakes a rodent. He dropped it suddenly, apparently mistaking it for dead, and immediately pulled a chair out from the desk near Carella’s. Drawing it up close to where Carella was sitting, Ollie lowered his voice and said, “Is it true about this guy Kling?”

“Yes,” Carella said. “Word travels fast, doesn’t it?”

“It’s all over the city. If you guys’re trying to keep it a secret or something, forget it.”

“Where’d
you
hear it?”

“Desk sergeant gave it to me. I’m gonna tell you something, Steve, case you don’t know it. The desk sergeants in this city, they’ve got like a party line, you understand me? You know, like in those movies about Vermont or New Hampshire, they show everybody gossiping on the party line? That’s what it is with the desk sergeants here in this city. A man farts in Midtown East, you can bet they’ll hear about it ten minutes later up at the Hun’ Third in Riverhead. That’s the way it works. Who’s this guy Kling, anyway? I don’t think I ever met him.”

“He’s a good cop,” Carella said simply.

“So he lets somebody steal his wife from right under his nose?” Ollie said, and snorted derogatively. “What is he, a Jew, this Kling? That sounds Jewish, Kling.”

“No, he’s not Jewish.”

“You sure? Some of these kikes, they try to make out they’re—”

“Ollie, we have all kinds of people in this squadroom,” Carella said, “and we don’t usually—”

“Oh sure, it takes all kinds,” Ollie said. “Kikes, spies, niggers…Listen, don’t you think I know? We got all kinds up at the Eight-Three, too.”

Carella sighed.

“So what’ve you got so far?” Ollie asked.

“Nothing.”

“That’s what I figured. That’s why I come up here, figured I’d lend you guys a hand.”

“Well, we appreciate that, Ollie, but…”

“What would you guys do without me, huh?” Ollie said, and grinned.

“We’ve got the thing sort of organized, you know, so…”

“Yeah, how?”

“What do you mean, how?”

“How have you got it organized?” Ollie said, and then held out his left hand and with his right hand began ticking off points on his fingers. “Have you got the phone wired, and the phone company alerted? Have you put out bulletins and teletypes to all neighboring police forces, all airports, railroad stations, and bus depots? Have you checked your files for arrests Kling may have made in the past? Who’s still in jail? Who’s out on the street? Have you checked whether him or his new wife were fucking around with anybody else on the side? Either of them owe large sums of money to anybody? Any threatening letters or phone calls? Anybody lurking around in recent weeks? Or following either one of them? Anybody at the church or the reception who wasn’t invited? Did you do all those things, Steve?”

“Most of them. We know Kling pretty well, so some of them—”

“Yeah, you
think
you know somebody till you open the closet door and find the skeleton hanging there.”

“Well, I can tell you, for example, that Kling wasn’t fooling around with anybody. He’s a one-woman man, he—”

“How about
her?

“Well, I didn’t ask him that.”

“So why don’t you ask him that?”

“Well, frankly, it would embarrass me to ask him something like that.”

“It wouldn’t embarrass me,” Ollie said. “You want me to ask him?”

“No.”

“It might be important.”

“I don’t think Augusta—”

“Is that her name?”

“Augusta, yes.”

“What was her maiden name?”

“Blair.”

“Augusta Blair, right,” Ollie said, and wrote the name down in his little black book. “Her parents at the wedding?”

“Her father was. Her mother is dead.”

“He live here in this city?”

“Seattle, Washington.”

“Does he know his daughter’s been snatched?” Ollie asked, writing.

“Yes.”

“Where’s he staying, Steve?”

“At the Hollister.”

“Any ransom demand yet?”

“No.”

“Not to either of them? Kling
or
the old man?”

“Nothing.”

“What time was she snatched?”

“Eleven-thirty last night.”

Ollie looked up at the clock. “Getting late for a ransom call, ain’t it?” he said.

“A little.”

“A
lot,
” Ollie said. “You wouldn’t have a copy of the guest list, would you?”

“Yeah, we picked one up at Kling’s apartment.”

“Can you get it Xeroxed for me? How many people were at the reception, anyway?”

“About two hundred.”

“All of them go to the church first?”

“I don’t know.”

“Anybody taking pictures?”

“Yes, there were a lot of photographers there. Augusta’s a model, she knows—”

“Oh yeah?” Ollie said. “A model?”

“—knows lots of photographers.”

“Would I know her if I saw her picture?”

“I think so, yes.”

“How about that?” Ollie said. “Last celebrity case I had was four years ago.”

Carella did not bother mentioning that this was
not
Ollie’s case. Instead he said, “We don’t think of Augusta as a celebrity.”

“Oh sure,” Ollie said. “But you say there were photographers there, huh?”

“Yes. Man taking the official wedding pictures was—”

“Yeah, that’s the one I’m looking for.” Ollie wet the tip of his pencil and looked up expectantly.

“His name is Alex Pike.”

“Alexander, would that be?”

“Yes.”

“Alexander Pike,” Ollie said, and wrote down the name. “You wouldn’t have an address for him, would you, Steve?”

“No. He’s probably in the book, though. He’s a well-known photographer.”

“Alexander Pike, right,” Ollie said. “You mind if I talk to him?”

“What about?”

“Some of those pictures he took. But first I want a copy of the guest list, okay?”

“Ollie,” Carella said, and leaned over the desk toward him. “This case is very personal to us, you understand?”

“Oh sure,” Ollie said.

“Things may look pretty calm up here, business as usual, but let me tell you there isn’t a man on this squad who isn’t sweating. You understand me, Ollie?”

“Oh sure. You don’t have to worry, Steve.” He grinned again, and said, “I’m a good cop, don’t you know that?”

Carella
did
know it. He had recognized it reluctantly the last time the 87th worked with Ollie Weeks, and he accepted it as undeniable truth now. Ollie had been of tremendous assistance on an investigation involving both arson and murder, and whereas he was a bigot and a pain in the ass, he was also a very good cop. This contradictory input filled Carella with confusion. It was rather like being asked to forgive Hitler for genocide because he happened to be an excellent public speaker. Well, Carella supposed the analogy wasn’t quite
that
strong. Still, he didn’t like Ollie, and he felt uncomfortable in his presence. The fact that Ollie seemed to like
him
only made matters worse. Respecting Ollie as a cop, disliking him as a man whose personal beliefs were anathema to everything Carella had come to accept as inviolable tenets, the best Carella could hope for was a quiet disappearing act. No one had invited Ollie downtown to the Eight-Seven, and Carella wished with all his might that Ollie would simply crawl back into the woodwork until such time as he was willing to wash out his socks, his mouth, and his prejudice-riddled head. The one thing Carella did not want was Ollie doing anything that might jeopardize Augusta’s safety, or send Kling off the deep end. Kling was barely hanging on, that was the best that could be said for him right now. That telephone in the hotel room hadn’t rung since 2:00 in the morning, when the installer checked it out to make certain the recorder was working. It was now more than twelve hours later, and Carella was beginning to worry. He did not need Fat Ollie Weeks to compound the anxiety. He decided to put it to him a bit more bluntly. Sock it to him in words even thick-headed Ollie might understand.

“Ollie,” he said, “keep out of this case.”

“Huh?” Ollie said, a surprised look on his face. And then he burst out laughing, and said, “You’re hot stuff, Steve, I got to tell you. I almost believed you there for a minute.”


Believe
me, Ollie,” Carella said. He was leaning forward, both his arms on the desktop, his eyes level with Ollie’s, his eyes refusing to let go of Ollie’s. “Believe me. And stay out of it.”

“I only want to talk to the photographer,” Ollie said, looking injured.

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

“Because, you see, if I can get those pictures from him, the ones he took at the wedding and the reception—”

“Ollie…”

“—and then show them to Kling…Why, we could go down the guest list together, and if there’s anybody in the pictures who wasn’t on the list…You see what I mean, Steve?”

Carella was silent for several moments. Then he said, “Kling might not know everybody on the list. A lot of them were Augusta’s friends, he might not have met all of them.”

“Models, you mean? Like that?”

“Yes,” Carella said. “And photographers. And people from advertising agencies.”

“Like art directors, huh?”

“Yes. And fashion editors.”

“Yeah, I see what you mean,” Ollie said. “Kling would only know the people from the police department, huh? And their wives, huh? And their girlfriends.”

“Yes,” Carella said.

“But
somebody
has to know these other people, no? I mean, besides Augusta. Wouldn’t the photographer know them? This Alexander Pike?”

“Maybe,” Carella said. “Or maybe…”

“Yeah?”

“Maybe Cutler would be able to identify them for us.”

“Who’s Cutler?”

“He runs the modeling agency that represents Augusta.”

“So what do you think?” Ollie asked. “It’s a good idea, ain’t it, Steve?”

“It might be worth a shot,” Carella said.

His voice startled her.

She had not known he was in the room until she heard him speak, and she reacted sharply to the sound of his voice, almost as though someone had suddenly slapped her in the dark.

“You must be hungry,” he said. “It is almost three-thirty.”

She wondered instantly whether it was 3:30 in the morning or 3:30 in the afternoon, and then she wondered how long he had been standing there, watching her silently.

“Are you hungry?” he asked.

There was a faint foreign accent to his speech; she suspected his first language was German. In response to his question, she shook her head from side to side. She was violently hungry, but she dared not eat anything he might offer her.

“Well, then,” he said.

She listened. She could not hear him breathing. She did not know whether he had left the room or not. She waited.

“I will have something to eat,” he said.

Again there was silence. Not a board creaked, not a footfall sounded. She assumed he had left the room, but she did not know for certain. In a while she smelled the aroma of coffee perking. She listened more intently, detected sounds she associated with bacon crisping in a pan, heard a click that might have been a toaster popping, and then a sound she identified positively as that of a refrigerator door being opened and then closed again not a moment later. There was another click, and then a hum, and then a man’s voice saying, “…in the low thirties, dropping to below freezing tonight. The present temperature here on Hall Avenue is thirty-four degrees.” There was a brief, static-riddled pause, and then the sound of canned music, and then another click that cut off the music abruptly—he had apparently been hoping to catch the 3:30 news report, had only got the last few seconds of it, and had now turned off the radio. From the kitchen (she assumed it was the kitchen), she heard the sound of cutlery clinking against china. He was eating. She suddenly became furious with him. Struggling against her bonds, she tried to twist free of them. The air in the room was stale, and the cooking smells from the kitchen, so tantalizing a few minutes before, now began to sicken her. She warned herself against becoming nauseated; she did not want to choke on her own vomit. She heard dishes clattering in the kitchen; he was cleaning up after himself. There, yes, the sound of water running. She waited, certain he would come into the room again.

She did not hear his approach. She assumed that he walked lightly and that the apartment or the house or the hotel suite (or whatever it was) had thickly carpeted floors. Again, she did not know how long he’d been standing there. She had heard the water being turned off, and then silence, and now, suddenly, his voice again.

“Are you sure you are not hungry? Well, you will be hungry sooner or later,” he said.

BOOK: So Long As You Both Shall Live (87th Precinct)
11.56Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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