"The Buddha of Bushwick," he said. "You want to find him, you start right there."
"On Meserole Street? I don't know. If they think he's the closest thing to God, how much are they going to give out about him? All we'd do is run into a brick wall."
"An exposed brick wall," he said.
We needed a place to start, and I didn't think Meserole Street was it. I thought for a minute and said, "Seymour Nadler."
"You think him an' Breit the same person? He sets up this other identity, goes down an' lives on Broadway an' Waverly an' meets with Peter Meredith an' the rest of them, an' then- " He stopped, shook his head. "That don't make no sense," he said.
"That's not where I was going."
"Good thing, too."
I said, "The burglary. When we figured Nadler was our guy, there were two possibilities. He faked the whole burglary, or it was legit and a day or two later he made a false report about a missing gun."
"One or the other."
"But if Nadler's in the clear- "
"Then the burglary was legit, an' the burglar took the gun."
"Right. And how did Adam Breit wind up with it?"
"He was the burglar."
"Right again," I said, "which would explain the similar MO in both burglaries. They were similar because one man committed both of them."
"Now that we know that," he said, "what do we know? The burglar did it, but are we any closer to finding him?"
"Think about it."
He thought about it. "He did it to get the gun."
"That's my guess."
"How'd he even know the gun was there?"
"There you go," I said.
Some years ago, back when I lived in the room that is now T J's, a couple of computer hackers, David King and Jimmy Hong, spent an evening on my behalf deep in the innards of the phone company's computer system, digging out records that were supposed to be unobtainable. They've gone on to bigger and better- and far more legitimate- things, but one legacy they left me was a lifetime of free long-distance calls. I don't know exactly what they did or how they did it, but out-of-state calls made from that telephone never showed up on a bill.
I suppose stealing is stealing, whether it's the phone company or a blind newsboy you're ripping off, and I'm sure moral relativism is philosophically unsustainable, but what the hell, nobody's perfect. If I had to call all over Martha's Vineyard looking for Seymour Nadler, I was just as happy to do it from T J's room, secure in the knowledge that nobody was ever going to have to pay for it.
When I finally got him I said, "Dr. Nadler? I'm sorry to disturb you. I believe you spoke yesterday with Detective Ira Wentworth?"
"Yes?"
"I have a follow-up to that interview, Doctor. I wonder what you can tell me about any connection you might have had to a man named Adam Breit."
"I can't talk about patients," he said. "I'm sure you're familiar with the principle of doctor-patient confidentiality, and- "
"As I understand it," I said, "that would only apply if Adam Breit were a patient."
"If he's not a patient," Nadler said, "then why are you calling me?"
"We thought he might be a colleague."
"A colleague."
"A psychiatrist, or therapist of some sort, and- "
"Breit!"
"You know him, then?"
"Adam Breit," he said. "He's not a close friend, we never worked together, never studied together. But yes, I know him. Not well, but I know him."
"How do you- "
"In the most casual way, yes, I know him. Adam Breit. A pleasant enough young man. What about him?"
"How did you happen to know him?"
"Didn't I just tell you that? Casually, very casually. I smile, he smiles. I say hello, he says hello. One day we get to talking, and I say, 'Breit, you're a good fellow. You must come over for drinks. Bring your wife.' 'I don't have a wife,' he says. 'So bring somebody else's wife,' I say, which is of course intended as a joke, and he laughs, showing he has a sense of humor."
"And he came over for drinks?"
"Yes, and by himself, needless to say. Very personable fellow, told some wonderful stories. I don't know what exactly his field is, but I suppose you would class it as reality-oriented therapy. He told about a patient of his, oh, it was a charming story, how she was allergic to dogs so he had her switch to stuffed animals instead, with perfectly satisfactory results." He chuckled. "I suppose a traditionalist like myself would want to know first why she was allergic, but Breit seems to have found an effective and humane solution."
"That's interesting," I said. "But I must have missed something. I don't think I understand how the two of you happened to meet."
"We bumped into each other."
"At a conference or- "
"In the lobby. The lobby of our building."
"You live in the same building?"
"Well, where did you think we lived? Breit moved in, oh, sometime around Christmas. You know Harold Fischer? The paleontologist?"
"I don't believe so."
"Brilliant man. He's on sabbatical, a full year in France, poking around in caves. Breit's subletting his apartment."
"He lives in the same building."
"Didn't I just say this?"
"Yes, of course. Was he at your apartment only the one time?"
"Maybe twice. No more than that. He was pleasant company, but we didn't have that much in common."
"Did he know about the gun?"
"The gun? What gun are we talking about?"
"The one taken in the burglary."
"This was before the burglary," he said, "so how could he know about it?"
"Did he know the gun existed, Dr. Nadler?"
"Oh," he said. "Oh, now I see what you mean," and laughed heartily. "Oh, have you got the wrong number, Detective."
"How do you mean?"
"He was afraid to touch it."
"You showed him the gun?"
"I tried to show him the gun. I took it out of the drawer, I held it out to him, you'd have thought I was trying to hand him a coral snake. It wasn't loaded, he knew it wasn't loaded, and still he wouldn't touch it."
"How did you happen to show him the gun?"
"I don't know. The subject came up. Is there anything else? Because we have guests, and I'd like to get back to them."
THIRTY-SEVEN
Harold Fischer's phone was listed, his Central Park West address the same as Nadler's. I tried the number and it rang four times before the machine picked up. An uninflected male voice repeated the last four digits of the telephone number and invited me to leave a message at the tone.
"If you were leaving the country for a year," I asked T J, "and if you were subletting your apartment, wouldn't you turn off the phone?"
"I don't, could be I come home to a nasty phone bill."
"Maybe Fischer told them to cut it off," I said, "and Breit told them to turn it back on again."
"Said he was Fischer, you mean."
"Maybe. I wonder if Fischer even knew he was subletting his apartment. Maybe he closed it up and Breit moved in."
"Best for Breit if he leave before Fischer come back from France."
"Best for Fischer, too." I tried the number again, got the machine again. "He's not home," I said.
"Then what we waitin' for?"
The doorman took a lot of convincing. I showed him a letter from Harold Fischer, advising anyone concerned that one Matthew Scudder was hereby authorized to enter his premises at 242 Central Park West. The letterhead bore two addresses, the permanent New York address on the left, and a temporary address on the Rue de la Paix in Paris on the right. T J had cobbled it up, letterhead and all, on his computer, and I'd signed Harold P. Fischer in a hand any paleontologist would be proud of.