On the Other Hand, Death - Stevenson Richard (читать книги полные txt) 📗

Bowman arrived within twenty minutes. He examined the new ransom note.

"Oy vey."

"You think McWhirter sent it?" I asked. "That it's part of the plot, the big production?"

"Maybe not. I guess not." He scratched his head.

"Did you get prints off the first note?"

"Yeah. Yours, Mrs. Fisher's, and Kay Wilson's. These people are dumb, but they're not that dumb. There were traces of latex on the note. Bastards wore rubber gloves. But I'll have this one checked anyway, just in case."

"What about the finger?"

"Nah, no prints on that. Just its own."

"Whose was it?"

"No record. The lab guys did come up with one thing though. The finger had been washed up with Albany tap water—you can't miss that stuff—but there were still traces of formaldehyde in it too."

"Is that a fact? So. That suggests a hospital or lab."

"We managed to deduce that on our own, Strachey. We're asking around."

"And nobody's reported a stolen finger?"

"Of course not. You think I wouldn't have heard about that?"

"Maybe it's Rockefeller's. Middle, upraised. Have you checked the state museum?"

He blanched at the sacrilege.

"And Greco's both hands were intact when he was found?"

He grunted.

"What did the coroner have to say? Is his report in yet?"

He rolled his eyes. "Asphyxiation," he said disgustedly. "So far, that's it."

"From drowning, or what?"

"I said, that is it. No. Greco did not drown. No water in the lungs. And no signs of strangulation. He'd been bound at his wrists and ankles, and it looked like he'd tried hard to get loose. There were cuts and rope burns where he'd been tied. And he'd been gagged, but not so tightly that he couldn't have breathed. His nose hadn't been covered, and he hadn't swallowed his tongue. The

coroner hasn't figured it out yet. He's working on it, narrowing it down."

"Drugs?"

"No sign of any. They're still checking. He could've been locked in an airtight enclosure. Car trunk or something. Don't know yet."

"How long had he been dead?"

"Twelve, fourteen hours. That'd put it between ten and midnight last night."

I said, "I don't get it."

"Me neither."

"He died from three to five hours before the ransom was to have been picked up. Why would they kill him then? Even if they'd decided Greco would have to die to prevent his identifying them, why risk doing it before the cash was in hand?"

"So, they got cocky, overconfident. We know they're stupid."

"No, we don't know that, Ned. We only know they're poorly educated, can't spell."

"Jesus. You liberals."

"Or they want us to think that they never got past sixth grade. I want to hear the tape again. The call from the pay phone to McWhirter."

He shrugged. "Suit yourself."

"I'd like to hear the original. Is it in your office?"

"Nnn. I'll set it up. I'm hanging in out here in case they call again. Some of my crew will be joining me. Are you putting up the hundred grand again this time, or what?"

A shiver went up my back, then down again. I said, "Stuff a box with Monopoly money. It looks as if it hardly matters at this point. Christ, these people are vicious beyond belief."

"Maybe Mrs. Fisher wants to cough up the dough this

time. She really is kind of a nice batty old broad. I like her. Wouldn't mind having her on my side if I ever got in a tight spot."

"She doesn't know yet what the tab is this time. When she finds out, don't let her call her lawyer. Ask her to talk to me first."

"Well, now. I'd say that'd be up to her."

Watching him, I said, "Have you spoken with Crane Trefusis today, Ned?"

"We chatted," he said nonchalantly. "He's clean."

"Sure. No one in Albany with an income of more than a hundred grand a year has ever committed a crime. That's a given."

"I didn't say that."

I studied him again. I was nearly certain that he was just acting cute to irritate me, but not entirely certain. I waited, but he had nothing to add on the subject.

In the gathering dusk, I drove back into the city. My car still stank in the heat, as did I.

A police technician in Bowman's office played the tape for me five times.

"Hello?"

"You want your lover back?"

"Y-yes."

"In three minutes, call this number I'm gonna give you. Call from another phone. Call 555-8107. And bring the fuckin' money!"

"Let me write it down—"

Click.

I had heard the voice. Where? In another case I'd been involved in? In a public place? A bar, restaurant, airport, bus station, shopping mall? Why did I think it had to have been a public place? Because it was not someone I'd known well enough to meet, or even just overhear, in a private place? Or was it because of—noise. That was it.

I associated the sound of that voice—harsh, sullen, unappealing—with background noise. The sounds of people talking at a large gathering in a public place. But which one? When?

I couldn't remember.

On the way out of Division Two Headquarters I passed Sandra and Joey Deem seated morosely on a wooden bench near the front door. Sandra's eyes were bloodshot, the only color in her entire being. Her son wore a jacket and tie and looked frightened. Sandra explained that Joey had just been booked on the vandalism charge and would appear in juvenile court in late September.

"It's his first time," I said. "The judge will go easy. Just don't show up there a second time." This wasn't quite true. It was only about the fifty-seventh offense of this type that could get you into real trouble.

"There won't be a second time," Mrs. Deem said wanly. "Will there, Joey?"

He shook his head once and stared at the floor. I didn't envy him his necktie in the heat

"Joey's father is pretty upset with him, ' Mu. Deem said with a cracked smile. "But if Joey stays out of trouble for a year, his dad is going to buy him that transmission. He told him that this morning. Didn't he, Joey? That's what Dad promised."

The boy nodded, didn't look up.

I offered what encouragement I could, then left them there in the Arch Street gloom.

The apartment was empty, undisturbed, unvisited.

I stood in the bedroom and screamed, "Timmy, you asshole! You finicky mama's boy! You tight-assed Papist! You creep!"

There was no response.

* * *

My service had no messages. I dialed Lyle Barner's number and got no answer. I reached Bowman at Dot Fisher's. He said the kidnappers had made no further contact and that the coroner had not yet established the exact cause of Peter Greco's death.

I thought of Greco alive. I felt his fingers brushing my face. I went into the bathroom and threw up. Go-Buick week on the Hudson.

I showered and changed clothes for the first time in two and a half days. The improvement was noticeable. I phoned Tad Purcell's number but got no answer. I checked my watch. It was seven-forty. I drove out to the Green Room and found Purcell at the piano bar. Artur Rubinstein in white bucks was pounding out a medley from Finian's Rainbow.

I slid onto the stool beside Purcell and said, "Did you hear about Peter, Tad?"

Weakly: "Yes." He looked it. His face was as white as Pat Boone's shoes. His eyes were pinholes. His hair was slick with sweat and spraynet.