The Goldfish Bowl (8 page)

Atkinson looped the cord around the phone and tossed the phone on the bed. A spring creaked. Atkinson walked over to the bureau and pulled open the top drawer. Several bundles of letters, each neatly tied with a pink ribbon, lay beside the folded piles of Phasia Palinkas’ sturdy underwear. Atkinson holstered the Colt and picked up one of the bundles. The Greek stamps were ornate, sombre. “Why don’t you go take a look in the other bedroom?” Atkinson said to Franklin.

Franklin hesitated, and then nodded.

Atkinson picked at the tight knot of the ribbon. He was hardly aware that Franklin had left the room until the stillness of the apartment was shattered by the insane mechanical quacking of a toy duck. He glanced up, startled, and then realized the sound was coming from the children’s room. He returned his attention to the ribbon, and at that exact instant, as if by magic, the knot came undone. Atkinson opened the topmost envelope and unfolded the sheets of flimsy, yellowed paper.

The letter was written in Greek.

Atkinson was stuffing the letter back in the envelope when a small black and white photograph slipped from between the pages and into the open drawer. The photograph was of Phasia Palinkas, aged sixteen. She was standing in front of a squat white house with a flat roof and thick plaster walls. The windows were shuttered against the heat of the sun. An old woman dressed all in black sat on a wooden stool in the deep shadow of the doorway.

The photographer had adjusted the aperture and shutter speed of his camera correctly to expose his subject’s skin tone. Because of this the background was badly over-exposed, bleached an almost featureless white except for the old woman and a rhomboid of pale grey in the upper left-hand corner. Atkinson studied this unlikely shape. Finally he decided it was nothing but a slice of thin air wedged between the house and a neighbouring building, slightly distorted by the camera’s lens.

A gust of wind made the bedroom window rattle in its frame. Rain danced across the glass. Atkinson rubbed the back of his neck.

Phasia Palinkas, aged sixteen, had posed with her hands clasped modestly in front of her, all but lost in the voluminous folds of her long black skirt. She was wearing a loose white blouse with puff sleeves. At her throat a chip of metal glinted brightly in the sun. A wealth of straight black hair cascaded from her shoulders to her breasts, artfully defined by the accidental pattern of light and shadow. Her face was heart-shaped — wide cheekbones above a firm but gently rounded chin. Dark eyebrows gave balance to her prominent nose. Her mouth was full, the lips slightly parted.

There was strength in that small, carefully composed face, and a quality of innocence that Atkinson found intriguing. He stared down at the girl’s image, an image seen through the translucent summer air of Greece, a lifetime of lost and irretrievable years. And perhaps because he had nothing to lose, he allowed himself to be touched.

A sharp movement in the bureau’s oval mirror distracted him from his reverie. He saw the barrel of a rifle sweep across the silvered glass, heard the soft click of a released safety-catch. His stomach muscles contracted. He twisted clumsily around, his hand clawing at his Colt.

In the other bedroom, the mechanical duck howled with laughter.

Atkinson cried out, but his words were drowned in the enormous roar of the .460 Magnum.

He watched the photograph of Phasia Palinkas flutter lazily through the air and come to rest on the carpet near his feet. He had ended up, somehow, sitting on the floor with his back against the footboard of the bed.

His body was numb. There was no pain, not yet. He peered down at his spotless white shirt and saw a spreading red stain. He’d been gutshot, hit low. The red stain was creeping up the front of his shirt, crawling swiftly across his belly towards his chest. Fucking osmosis. There was a lot of blood on his pants, too. And his jacket. He was going to have a hell of a dry-cleaning bill. He tried to laugh. His mouth gaped open and his upper plate fell out. A rope of saliva trailed from his chin.

On the far side of the room, the window slid open. He felt a wash of cold air across his face. The room vibrated with a flurry of shots.

To Atkinson, they seemed impossibly far away.

VIII

ATKINSON SEEMED TO have reacted to death by physically shrinking away from it, so that he appeared even smaller now than he had been in life. Despite the crisp white shirt, expensive tailored suit and new Hart shoes, his corpse somehow managed to look ill-dressed.

Willows put the snapshot of Phasia Palinkas down on the bureau, and crouched beside the body. The toe of his brogue rested less than an inch from the kidney-shaped pool of blood that continued, almost an hour after the shoot, to leak from the terrible excavation in the dead man’s body. Willows was acutely aware of the steady thud of blood dripping on the sodden carpet, in time with the slow beating of his heart.

Behind Willows, a detective named Farley Spears leaned out of the bedroom window, his face tilted to the rain.

As he had exited the sniper had pushed the window frame up as far as it would go, creating a gap roughly twenty inches wide by eighteen inches high. Franklin’s first three rounds had punctured the glass. There were two more closely spaced holes in the frame. The bullets had splintered the wood, exposing several layers of paint — strata of green, yellow, turquoise and mauve. Spears thought that the multiple laminations of colour looked a little like a cross-section of an improperly constructed rainbow. The thought cheered him. He turned around, and covertly stared at Franklin.

Franklin sat on the edge of the big mahogany bed. Claire Parker sat next to him. The simple act of witnessing Franklin’s grief had left her feeling empty, exhausted. For half an hour or more Franklin had rocked gently back and forth, hugging himself, the tears streaming down his cheeks. Every few minutes an unnerving high-pitched whine of despair had escaped from between his clenched teeth. Parker had hugged him and held him and never stopped talking to him, using her voice as a sedative. Franklin had gradually managed to bring himself under control. Now he was just sitting there, drained, motionless.

Parker glanced up as the cop slouching at the door suddenly pulled himself erect.

A moment later Bradley came into the room, an unlit cigar in one hand and a match in the other. He stared impassively down at Atkinson’s corpse and then struck the match viciously against the side of the bureau. When he had the cigar burning to his satisfaction he looked up from Atkinson’s body and nodded tersely at his four detectives.

His eyes lingered on Parker. She looked pale, badly shaken. Give them too much meat, he thought, and they won’t mouse. He put an expression of fatherly concern on his face, fitting it in around the cigar.

“You okay?”

“Fine,” said Parker, rejecting the overture.

Bradley glanced at Franklin, at the bowed shoulders and the big wet face etched with tension and dismay. He went over to the body and hunkered down next to Willows.

“What happened, Jack?”

Willows shrugged. “Ask George.”

“You haven’t talked to him yet?”

“He wasn’t ready.” Atkinson was still dripping, but more slowly now. There were stalactites of dark congealing blood in the folds and creases of his trousers. His face was white. The eyes were dull, gelatinous, monumentally disinterested.

Bradley stirred as a tall, gaunt man with a grey pencil moustache came briskly into the room. He was carrying a black leather Gladstone bag, and he looked as if he wouldn’t know what to do with himself if he wasn’t in a hurry.

Bradley stood up, knees creaking. “Coroner’s office?”

The man nodded. “Milne,” he said. Frowning at Farley Spears, he said, “Would you mind closing that window?”

Spears shot Bradley an enquiring look, which Bradley blandly ignored. Spears shut the window.

Milne unbuttoned Atkinson’s shirt and stuck a thermometer under his armpit. While he was waiting for the mercury to climb, he took an eyedropper out of the black bag and dribbled a clear liquid on to Atkinson’s eyes, then gently shut the lids

Jerry Goldstein and a police photographer named Mel Dutton squeezed past the cop at the door. Goldstein was carrying a Heinkens portable fingerprint kit. Dutton had two Nikons and an old Speed Graphic slung around his neck. Behind them, two men wheeled a stretcher into the room. It was getting crowded, and it was getting hot.

“Would you open that window, Farley?” said Goldstein loudly.

Milne looked up, annoyed.

Bradley went over to the bed and touched Franklin on the shoulder. “Let’s get out of here, George.”

Franklin contemplated Bradley’s splayed fingers, the bright red spark of his ruby ring. He blew into his handkerchief, scrubbed at his nose.

Bradley motioned Willows over. Together the two men helped Franklin to his feet and led him out of the room.

Mel Dutton began to circle the body in an artistic crouch, the power winder of his Nikon whirring and clicking as it pulled frame after frame of film through the spools. To Parker, sitting alone on the edge of the bed, it seemed as if the effect of the camera’s electronic flash was to suck all the remaining traces of colour right out of Dave Atkinson’s slack and pallid face.

*

Bradley waved his cigar at the bathroom door, and Willows pushed it shut with the flat of his hand. Franklin dropped the toilet lid and sat down heavily. Bradley perched on the rim of the big cast-iron bathtub. Willows went over to the sink and ran the cold water. He soaked one end of a threadbare orange towel and then handed the towel to Franklin.

“Wipe your face, George.”

Franklin nodded, and methodically washed and dried his face.

“That feel better?” said Bradley.

“Sure,” said Franklin affably.

Bradley chewed on his cigar, waiting for Franklin to get started. Franklin shut his eyes. “Why don’t you tell us what happened?” Bradley said.

“Okay,” said Franklin, opening his eyes. He wiped the back of his neck with the towel and then neatly folded it upon itself until it wouldn’t fold any smaller. “I was in the other bedroom when I heard the shot,” he finally said.

“In the kids’ bedroom?” said Bradley, making sure he had it right.

“Yeah, in the kids’ bedroom.”

“What were you doing in there, George?”

“Playing.”

Bradley glanced at Willows and then back at Franklin. “What’s that again?”

“Playing. I was playing with a little yellow duck I found in there.”

Bradley frowned down at Franklin through the smoke from his cigar.

“Maybe we ought to back up a little,” suggested Willows.

Franklin shrugged. “Whatever you say.”

“When you first entered the apartment,” said Bradley, “did you lock the door after you?”

“Yeah, sure. Of course we did.”

“Then the killer must’ve already been inside when you and Dave arrived on the scene.”

“Well, yeah. The way I figure it, we must’ve taken him by surprise. Otherwise, why would he have shot Dave?”

“Where do you think he might have been hiding?” said Bradley. Franklin thought about it at length, his eyes on the floor. “I got no idea,” he said at last. “Between us, Dave and I went through every room in the place.”

“What about the closets?” said Willows.

“There’s only a couple in the apartment. One in the kitchen and another in the bedroom.”

“You look inside?” said Bradley.

“The one in the kitchen had the door open when we were in there. As for the big walk-in closet in the bedroom, Dave was rummaging around in there for a couple of minutes at least.”

“Doing what?”

“I don’t know. Maybe looking for a little present for his girlfriend. A dress, blouse, whatever.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“Not today,” said Franklin.

The silence that followed was punctuated by the steady dripping of the cold water tap. Willows had recently heard that sound before. He leaned across Franklin and twisted the handle. A last drop trembled on the lip of the tap, and reluctantly fell.

“At what point did you and Dave split up?” said Bradley.

“Just before he got shot. A minute, maybe less. We were both in the bedroom, poking around. Dave got interested in some letters he found, and suggested I go take a look in the kids’ room.”

“You sure it was his idea to separate, George?”

Franklin nodded. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

“Was that after he went through the clothes closet?”

“Had to be, didn’t it.” Franklin took out his pack of cigarettes and offered them around. Bradley held up his cigar. Willows politely declined; he hadn’t smoked in five years. Franklin stuck a cigarette in his mouth and patted himself down in a futile search for a light. Bradley handed Franklin one of his big kitchen matches. Franklin struck the match against the heel of his shoe. The stench of burning sulphur soured the air.

“Tell us about the shoot,” said Bradley.

Franklin inhaled deeply, exhaled slowly. “Like I said, I was in the other bedroom.”

“Playing with a duck.”

Franklin blew out the match and tossed it in the sink. “There was a whole bunch of toy animals lined up in a row on a shelf above the beds. And right at the end there was this little yellow duck with a key sticking out of its back. I picked it up and went over to the window, looked out at the rain. And without thinking about what I was doing, I wound that duck up good and tight and put it down on the windowsill. It started making this really weird sound, jumping around like it had pogo sticks for legs.

“I was trying to figure out if there was any way to turn it off when I heard the shot.”

Franklin took a long pull on his cigarette. Smoke dribbled out of his nostrils, into his eyes.

“I shouted Dave’s name, but I didn’t get a response. The duck was making a hell of a racket. I pulled my gun and ran back into the other bedroom.

“Dave was lying on his back on the floor. His arms were at his sides. He was looking down at his stomach, all that blood. He had a look in his eyes, I don’t know what it was. Like he was seeing something only a dying man could see.”

Bradley flicked cigar ash into the sink. “The shooter was over by the window, is that right?”

Franklin stared up at him, perplexed. “How did you know that?”

“The bullet holes. I assumed you were shooting at someone.”

“That’s right, I was.”

“Any luck?”

“What d’you mean?”

“You score any hits, George?”

“No, I don’t think so. I don’t think I even came close to hitting the guy.”

“It was a man?” Bradley had spoken more sharply than he’d intended, but Franklin hadn’t seemed to notice.

“Yeah, it was a man.”

“What’d he look like, George?”

“I remember exactly what he looked like.”

“That’s good,” said Bradley. “Do you think you could describe him for us?”

“He was wearing a shoulder-length wig.”

Bradley nodded, waiting. Franklin crossed his legs and leaned back against the tank of the toilet.

Finally Willows said, “What colour was the wig?”

“Silvery blonde.”

“Platinum?” said Bradley.

“Yeah, platinum. A wig. Shiny, artificial. Like that stuff they put on Christmas trees, almost.”

“Okay,” said Bradley. “We’re doing pretty good so far. What else can you give us?”

“What else do you want to know?”

“Well, what was he wearing?”

“You mean, other than the wig?”

“Yes.”

“He had a mauve raincoat made out of some kind of plastic material, and a pair of gloves.”

“What kind of gloves?”

“White ones.”

“Leather?”

“I don’t remember. His shoes were leather, though. White leather, with high heels. Spikes.”

“He was wearing women’s shoes?”

“Of course.”

“But you’re sure it was a man.”

Franklin nodded.

“A man in drag,” said Bradley.

“You got it, Inspector.”

“Now that we know what he was wearing, George, why don’t we see if we can remember what he looked like.”

“Good idea,” said Franklin.

Bradley darted Willows a quick, indecipherable look, and then said, “Was he wearing any makeup?”

“A lot,” said Franklin.

“How tall would you say he was?”

“Hard to say.” Franklin took the cigarette out of his mouth. Ash tumbled down his chest and across his stomach. He brushed at it ineffectually.

“Take a guess,” prompted Bradley.

“The guy was half out of the window when I came into the room. He could’ve been a midget for all I know. All I saw was his clothes and his face under the hat.”

“What hat?” said Bradley.

“Didn’t I tell you he was wearing a hat?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

Franklin looked at Willows, seeking confirmation.

“Tell us about the hat,” said Willows.

“Sure,” said Franklin.