“But it takes a while to track it down.”
“Yeah,” Mathesson said, “but look at it this way: I once had a buddy who lived in a building on East 72nd Street. Now, normally he wouldn’t know who his landlord was. Just some corporation, you know what I mean? But it so happened that his building was owned by some movie star – I forget who it was exactly – but a big Hollywood star, you know? So my buddy knew who owned the building. Kind of took pride in it, you know? Like it made him kind of different, kind of important or special or something, living in a building owned by a famous person.”
“Yeah,” Reardon said.
“Well, Wallace Van Allen is a big name, you know what I mean? So Petrakis could have known who his landlord was without going through the hassle of researching it. I’d be willing to bet that if you canvassed Petrakis’ old building the tenants would know that Wallace Van Allen owned the building they live in.”
This made sense to Reardon. He leaned on the metal table and concentrated his attention on Mathesson. “Go on.”
“Well,” Mathesson said, “Petrakis goes to the zoo. Now remember, he’s goofy. He takes the ax and decides to get even with Van Allen. So he kills the deer in a crazy rage. Uncontrollable, you might say.”
“Why did he kill them like he did?”
“What do you mean?”
“Why did he cut one of them to ribbons with fifty-seven different wounds and then kill the other one with a single blow?”
“Maybe he was tired,” Mathesson said. “What he did to that first deer would take a lot out of you. In any case, after he’s through with the killing, he starts cleaning the fingerprints off the ax. He probably plans to put the ax back in the toolshed. Then he hears something, maybe that muffled and grating sound Noble heard. Anyway, he panics. He forgets about cleaning the goddamn ax and just decides to ditch it.”
“On Fifth Avenue?”
“That’s right,” Mathesson said, visibly warming to the narrative. “But he sees he’s on a city street that could have witnesses, and there he is holding a goddamn ax that’s dripping with blood, so he pitches it in the sewer drain under the street. And that’s it. He takes off for home.” Mathesson took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, clearly pleased with his account.
For a moment there was silence, while Reardon thought about the scenario just presented by Mathesson. “So Petrakis took off toward home?” he asked finally. “Remember, we don’t know where he lives since he was evicted.”
“The chances are he stayed on the East Side. I’ll bet when you find his new address, it’ll be on the East Side.”
“It may be,” Reardon admitted.
“May be, bullshit!” Mathesson laughed, shrugging off the frustration that Reardon could see building in him. “Well,” he said, “we may have the clincher anyway.”
“What clincher?”
“It may not be sure,” Mathesson said with a teasing smile, “but it’s a chance. That kid, Daniels.”
“The kid with the cocaine bust?”
“That’s right. I finally got through to him.”
“So?”
“I got through that goddamn wall of legal eagles his rich papa hired to get the little prick off the hook,” Mathesson said proudly. “He’s coming in to talk to us. He may have seen something.”
Daniels might have the answer, Reardon thought. Cases had been broken that way before, and Reardon hoped the killing of the fallow deer and of the women in the Village could be solved quickly. He was not sure why this case disturbed him so particularly. He only knew that it did, and he wanted to escape the pressures he could feel building in himself with every hour it remained unsolved. “When’s he coming in?” he asked.
“He should be here in an hour or so. Piccolini offered to have the questioning done at the kid’s place, but the kid’s father said that he’d rather it all be done down here.” Mathesson grinned. “He probably thought we’d come roaring up with our sirens blasting, and that wouldn’t look too good on Fifth Avenue.”
Reardon pulled out the arrest sheet for the morning the fallow deer were killed and looked at it. “Winthrop Lewis Daniels,” he said.
“His father must be scared shitless.” Mathesson popped a piece of hard candy into his mouth and started moving it from one side of his mouth to the other. “The old man probably figures we’re gonna try to pin a heavy rap on his darling boy.”
“Heavier than possession of cocaine?”
Mathesson flicked his hand in a gesture of dismissal. “Ah, they won’t even pin that on him. This will be strictly a probation rap. You don’t stick a possession charge on an Upper East Side kid. You know what I mean. This is strictly a bad bust, a lot of paperwork for nothing.” Mathesson winked at Reardon. “Like the Spics say in the Barrio, ‘Nada, nada and more nada.’”
Reardon nodded. It had always been this way, he thought. But it was becoming more difficult for him to accept it.
Mathesson started buttoning his overcoat. “Well,” he said, “have a jolly time of it. I got to be in court this morning. I got to testify against this nigger whore.” He smiled. “She wasted her pimp – stuck a blade in his guts and pulled up on it.” He thrust an imaginary blade in his abdomen and jerked upward. “Hari kari pickaninny style.” He shook his head in disgust. “Hell, I don’t know why they bother to charge her. Son of a bitch got what he deserved. He was a white dude, too – honky, ofay, you know what I mean? Probably a lot of goddamn feeling went into that blade, you know what I mean? Getting even in spades you might say.” Mathesson shook with laughter and slapped his leg. “Goddamn, I’m in a good mood,” he said.
Reardon could not imagine why.
Mathesson told him. “I believe we busted this case. I believe we got that Petrakis cold.”
“Yeah,” Reardon said weakly.
Mathesson straightened his tie and stood erect. “Well,” he said, “do I look – what do the lawyers call it? – credible?”
Reardon nodded.
“Well, take it easy.” Mathesson started toward the door. “I’ll see you this afternoon.”
“Right,” Reardon said. Or wrong, he thought, dead wrong.
15
When Reardon returned to his desk, he stared down at the night update for the day the fallow deer were killed. It was full of names that ended in “a” and “o” and “ski,” along with a number of names that were familiar enough; in most cases, Reardon knew, these were black names, old slave names like Johnson or Phillips. Beside these, the clean contours of the name Winthrop Lewis Daniels stood out like a silver spoon in a dung heap. Winthrop Lewis Daniels was the kind of name that had a stiff upper lip, knew its whereabouts at all times, and moved about with its own predetermined and resolute self-confidence. It was the kind of name that had an opinion on every issue and expected to be heard whenever it wished. It was not the kind of name that waited bleeding in the chaotic emergency receiving room of Bellevue Hospital or held close affection for a mongrel dog.
When Winthrop Lewis Daniels finally arrived at the precinct house, he was not alone. Reardon recognized him instantly even though he had never seen him before. Daniels was flanked on either side by two well dressed men, each holding tightly to a briefcase. Not many teenage offenders came through the precinct house doors like that. From his desk Reardon watched as the three men approached the desk sergeant, who responded to one of their questions by pointing to Reardon.
“Detective Reardon?” one of the men asked as they approached his desk.
“That’s right.”
“My name is Colin Tower.” He was a very tall, very thin man with coal black hair slicked down flat across his head. He did not offer his hand.
The bald, stocky man on his left Mr. Tower introduced as Mr. Arington. “We are here to represent Mr. Daniels in this matter,” Mr. Tower said. He nodded toward the tall, thin young man to his right.
“Have a seat,” Reardon said. He did not expect this to be easy. He had dealt with lawyers of the Tower-Arington variety before. It would be part of their strategy to frustrate him as much as possible. Once they had taken seats across from his desk, however, they looked somewhat less formidable.