"And between now and then?"
"The gun," I said. "Somebody stole it from a Central Park West psychiatrist's office."
"Maybe the gun was ready to be stolen."
I gave him a look. "The way it appeared on the surface," I said, "Bierman was the shooter, so it seemed logical to assume he brought the gun. Which meant either he stole it himself or someone else stole it and sold it to him."
"But all Bierman really got," he said, "was the bullet."
"Right, so somebody else supplied the gun, and it wouldn't have been Ivanko or it would have been in his hand during the burglary and not his partner's."
"Ivanko coulda had two guns. Didn't need both, so he kept one and gave the other to the mystery man."
"Ivanko didn't have a gun on him when they found him," I said, "but the killer could always have taken it off his body on his way out. Simplest explanation, though, is that there was only one gun, and the man who used it is the man who brought it along."
"The dude himself. Where'd he get it? From the shrink's office?"
"That's where it came from, and he must have been the one who took it."
"Why couldn't he buy it on the street? Not the hardest thing in the world to do, if you know your way around."
"The pillowcases," I said.
"Forgot about them. Same deal in both break-ins, at the shrink's and at the Hollanders'. Stripped the pillows, used the cases to carry off the goods."
"It's a fairly natural thing to do," I said, "and it saves hunting in the closet for tote bags, but when it pops up in both burglaries- "
"Likely the same person done both."
"Seems that way."
"If it was Ivanko, well, ain't burglary what he went away for? Maybe that's something he always did, strip the pillows an' turn the cases into sacks for Santa."
"Full of toys for girls and boys. I can't see Ivanko picking that apartment to break into. It's a doorman building facing the park. Ivanko was street-smart, but street's all he was. How would he get past the doorman?"
"Or even know about the shrink's place to begin with?"
"The burglar knew about the gun. That's the only thing he took from the office, and he took it out of a locked drawer. And he did it without making a mess, because the shrink didn't even miss the gun until a couple of days after the burglary."
"Burglar knew the shrink."
"I think so."
"Knew the office, knew how to get past the doorman. Knew about the gun."
"That's probably what brought him. He wanted a gun, so he broke in and took one."
"From the drawer where he already knew the shrink kept it. He knows the office, then he most likely knows the shrink."
"Stands to reason," I said.
"You tried with the shrink, didn't you? Called him or something?"
"I think a more imaginative approach might yield better results."
"Well," he said, "you imaginative, when you puts your mind to it. That what you gonna do today?"
"I think so."
"I disremember the doctor's name. Keep thinking Adler, but that ain't right."
"Nadler."
"Nadler. There was an Adler 'round the time Freud started the whole thing. What's the matter?"
"Nothing, why?"
"The look on your face. You didn't think I knew that, did you?"
"It's surprising, what you know and what you don't."
He nodded, as if he could accept the truth in that. He said, "Psychoanalysis. Anything to it, you figure?"
"You're asking the wrong person. I think they've gotten away from that approach nowadays, though. Easier to write out a prescription than listen to neurotics all day long."
"Listen to Prozac instead. You don't need me to see Dr. Nadler with you, do you?"
"I think that might be counterproductive."
"All you had to say was no. What I'll do, I'll go to Brooklyn, take a look at that house."
"Really?"
"Talk to people, see what's shakin'."
"Maybe you'll find something I missed," I said. "You want the D train to Avenue M, incidentally. I got off a stop too soon."
"Wrong house. I was thinkin' I'd see how the boyfriend's doin' in Williamsburg. She tell you the address?"
"I didn't ask."
"Not like you. She at least mention the street?"
I searched my memory. "No," I said, "I'm pretty sure she didn't. She'd have to know the street, and probably the house number as well. She was thinking about moving there."
"Boyfriend's name's Peter Meredith?"
"Yes, and he's the original Mr. Five-by-Five and wouldn't kill a cockroach. Where are you going?"
"Don't go nowhere," he said. "Be right back."
He was gone long enough for me to drink another cup of coffee and call for the check, and I was waiting for change when he came back. "I had half of a half a bagel left," he said. "You eat it?"
"The waiter took it."
"Damn," he said. "How I look?"
He'd been wearing knee-length camo shorts and an oversize sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off, and he'd changed into the pants from a black pinstripe suit and a white shirt with short sleeves and a button-down collar. No tie. His black shoes were polished. There were four pens in his shirt pocket, and he was carrying a clipboard.
"You look like a city employee," I said.
"Buildings Department."
"They're usually older," I said. "And thicker through the middle."
"And lighter-complected."
"For the most part. The ones I ran into over the years all looked as though their feet hurt them some."
"I 'spect mine will," he said, "by the time these shoes take me to 168 Meserole Street."
"What did you do, call Brooklyn Information?"
"Takes too long. They got to answer the phone, and then all they'll tell you is the number. You still got to look it up in a reverse directory or else call it and trick the address out of whoever answers. Who's got time for all that shit?"
"Your time is valuable," I said.
"I got on the Net," he said. "Typed in 'Peter Meredith, Brooklyn,' and got the address, the phone, the zip code. Took two seconds an' I didn't have to talk to nobody."
"Except the address is wrong."
"Say what?"
"Meserole's in Greenpoint, not Williamsburg. The two neighborhoods run into each other, but Meserole's in a part of Greenpoint that got gentrified a while ago. That's not a place to find a low-priced fixer-upper."
"That's Meserole Avenue. They on Meserole Street."
"There's two Meseroles?"
"You'd think one'd be enough," he said. "Look hard, you can probably find some cities don't have any." From the back of the clipboard he produced a sheet of paper showing a map of a few square miles of North Brooklyn. "Printed it out just now," he said, anticipating my question. "See? Here's Meserole Avenue, up in Greenpoint, an' this here's Meserole Street, runnin' over towards Bushwick Terminal."
I looked at the map. Both Meseroles, street and avenue, crossed Manhattan Avenue, the two intersections a mile and a half apart. It was the sort of thing that drove UPS drivers crazy.
Ray Galindez, a police artist I know, had bought a house in Williamsburg a couple of years ago, and I'd taken the L train out to visit him. The same train would get you close to Meserole Street, but you'd have to stay on an extra three stops. I didn't know the neighborhood- I hadn't even known the street existed- but I could guess why Kristin Hollander thought she'd rather stay in Manhattan.