“When you went in there today,” Gwen said, “what did you find?”
“Three boxes of hymnals on the floor,” Oleski said. “But when we opened them, it was all money. And when I opened the basement door, the smell came up.”
“It was Dalesia,” Davies said. “We’ve got a positive ID now.”
“I keep thinking,” Rawburton said, “we should have done more, but what more? We checked the driver’s ID, the car registration, looked in boxes.”
“That you opened?” Gwen asked. “Or that they opened?”
Oleski said, “One I opened, two they opened, the second one when the woman gave Louise the hymnbook.”
“That’s a nice touch, isn’t it?” said Davies, the hanging judge.
Gwen said, “And the two men? Any idea who they were?”
Rawburton, looking and sounding more sheepish than ever, said, “They’re the two from the posters.”
“But that new one, of the guy that was in the basement,” Oleski said, “we didn’t get to see that until after we’d met them. And it was a lot closer than the first one.”
Gwen shook her head and said to Davies, “Nine days ago. They were here, just the way you said, and so was the money, and nine days ago it all left.”
“There’s no trail,” Davies said.
“When I think how many times,” Gwen said, “they just slid right through.” The idea she never would be calling Bob Modale over in New York to describe the arrest of John B. Allen and Mac Somebody grated on her, but she’d get over it. “Inspector,” she said, “I should get back to my Chinese slaves. At least there, I think I can deliver a happy ending.”
Four
1
Tuesday afternoon, Parker tried calling the phone number in Corpus Christi that had once belonged to Julius Norte, the ID expert, now dead. Had his business been taken over by somebody else?
No; it was a Chinese restaurant now. And when he looked for Norte’s legitimate front business, a print shop called Poco Repro, through information, there was no listing.
So he’d have to start again. The guy who’d given him Norte’s name in the first place was an old partner named Ed Mackey, who didn’t have a direct number but did have cutouts, where messages could be left. Parker used the name Willis, which Mackey would know, left the gas station phone booth number, and said he could be called there Wednesday morning at eleven.
He was seated in position in the car at that time, when the phone rang, and got to it before it could ring again. “Yes.”
“Mr. Willis.” It was Mackey’s voice. “I guess you’re doing fine.”
“I’m all right. How’s Brenda?”
“Better than all right. She doesn’t want me to take any trips for a while.”
“This isn’t about that. Remember Julius Norte?”
“Down in Texas? That was a sad story.”
“Yeah, it was. I wondered if anybody else you know was in that business?”
“Time for a new wardrobe, huh?” Mackey chuckled. “I wish I could say yes, but I’ve been making do with the old duds myself.”
“Well, that’s okay.”
“No, wait. Let me ask around, there might be somebody. Why don’t I do that, ask some people I know, call you tomorrow afternoon if I’ve got anything?”
“That would be good.”
“If I don’t get anything, I won’t call.”
“No, I know.”
“Three o’clock all right?”
“I got another phone thing at three tomorrow. Make it two forty-five.”
Again Mackey chuckled, saying, “All at once, you sound like a lawyer. I hope I have reason to call you tomorrow.”
“Thanks.”
On Thursday afternoon, he was parked beside the phone-on-a-stick a few minutes early. At quarter to three the phone did ring and it was Mackey. “I got a maybe,” he said.
“Good.”
“It’s a friend-of-a-friend kind of thing, so there’s no guarantees.”
“I got it.”
“He’s outside Baltimore, the story is he’s a portrait painter.”
“Okay.”
“You call him, it’s because you want a picture of yourself or the missus or the dog or the parakeet.”
“Uh-huh. What name do I use?”
“Oh, with him? Forbes recommended him, Paul Forbes.”
“Okay.”
“Here’s his cell.” Mackey gave him a phone number. “His name, he says his name, is Kazimierz Robbins. Two Bs.”
“Kazimierz Robbins.”
“I don’t know him,” Mackey warned. “I only heard he’s been around a few years, people seem to trust him.”
“Maybe I will, too,” Parker said.
“Hell-lo.” It was an old man’s voice, speaking with a heavy accent, as though he were talking and clearing his throat at the same time.
“Kazimierz Robbins?”
“That’s me.”
“A friend of mine told me you do portraits.”
“From time to time, that’s what I do, although I am to some extent retired. Which friend told you about me?”
“Paul Forbes.”
“Ah. You want a special portrait.”
“Very special.”
“Special portraits, you know, are special expensive. Is this a portrait of yourself, or of your wife, or of someone close to you?”
“Me.”
“I would have to look at you, you see.”
“I know that.”
“Are you in Baltimore?”
“No, I’m north of you, but I can get there. You give me an address and a time.”
“You understand, my studio is not in my home.”
“Okay.”
“I use the daylight hours to do my work. Artificial light is no good for realistic painting.”
“Okay.”
“These clumpers and streakers, they don’t care what the color is. But I care.”
“That’s good.”
“So my consultations are at night, not to interfere with my work. I return to my studio to discuss the client’s needs. Could you come here tonight?”
“Tomorrow night.”
“That is also good. Would nine o’clock be all right for you?”
“Yes.”
“Excellent. And when you come here, sir, what is your name?”
“Willis.”
“Willis.” There was a hint of “v” in the name. “We will see you then, Mr. Willis,” he said, and gave the address.
Five minutes later, Parker called Cosmopolitan Beverages and was put through to Meany, who said, “Mr. Albert said, if I want to deal with a son of a bitch like you, it’s okay with him.”
“Good.”
“The price is acceptable, and we’ll work out delivery.”
“Good.”
“One step first.”
“What’s that?”
“We have to see what we’re getting. We need a sample.”
“Fine. It’s still ten for one.”
Meany sounded doubtful. “Meaning?”
“We give you ten K, you give us one K.”
Meany laughed. “I love how we trust each other,” he said.
“Or,” Parker said, “you could just give me your cash, and hope for the best.”
“No, we’ll do it your way. How do you want to work this?”
“I’m busy the next couple of days,” Parker told him. “A guy I know will call and set up the switch.”
“I’ve probably seen this guy.”
“Maybe.”
“In a red pickup?”
Parker waited.
“Okay,” Meany said. “This guy will call me. What’s his name?”
Parker thought. “Red,” he said.
“Red. I like that. You’re easier to deal with,” Meany said, “when you’re not trying to prove a point.”