He lay fully dressed on the bed in the small apartment he was renting near the bridge, his hands behind his head, his head turned so that he could see through the window, see the cars moving on the bridge to Calm’s Point — the theater crowd, he guessed; the shows had all broken by now, and people were heading home. People going home together. He took a deep breath.
His gun was in a holster on the dresser across the room.
He thought about the gun a lot.
Whenever he wasn’t thinking about Augusta, he was thinking about the gun.
He didn’t know why he’d let Brown take all that stuff home with him, he’d have welcomed the opportunity to go through it himself, give him something to do tonight instead of thinking about either Augusta or the gun. He knew Brown hated paperwork, he’d have been happy to take the load off his hands. But Brown had tiptoed around him, they all tiptoed around him these days, No, Bert, that’s fine, you just go out and have a good time, hear? I’ll be through with this stuff by morning, we’ll talk it over then, okay? It was as if somebody very close to him had died. They all knew somebody had died, and they were uncomfortable with him, the way people are always uncomfortable with mourners, never knowing where to hide their hands, never knowing what to say in condolence. He’d be doing them all a favor, not only himself. Take the gun and...
Come on, he thought.
He turned his head on the pillow, and looked up at the ceiling.
He knew the ceiling by heart. He knew every peak and valley in the rough plaster, knew every smear of dirt, every cobweb. He didn’t know some people the way he knew that ceiling. Sometimes, when he thought of Augusta, the ceiling blurred, he could not see his old friend the ceiling through his own tears. If he used the gun, he’d have to be careful of the angle. Wouldn’t want to have the bullet take off the top of his skull and then put a hole in the ceiling besides, not his old friend the ceiling. He smiled. He figured somebody smiling wasn’t somebody about to eat his own gun. Not yet, anyway.
Damn it, he really hadn’t wanted to make her cry.
He sat up abruptly, reached for the Isola directory on the end table, and thumbed through it, not expecting to find a listing for her, and not surprised when he didn’t. Nowadays, with thieves getting out of prison ten minutes after you locked them up, not too many cops were eager to list their home numbers in the city’s telephone books. He dialed Communications downtown, a number he knew by heart, and told the clerk who answered the phone that he wanted extension 12.
“Departmental Directory,” a woman’s voice said.
“Home number for a police officer,” Kling said.
“Is this a police officer calling?”
“It is,” Kling said.
“Your name, please?”
“Bertram A. Kling.”
“Your rank and shield number, please?”
“Detective/third, 74579.”
“And the party?”
“Eileen Burke.”
There was a silence on the line.
“Is this a joke?” the woman said.
“A joke? What do you mean?”
“She called here ten minutes ago, wanting your number.”
“We’re working a case together,” Kling said, and wondered why he’d lied.
“So did she call you?”
“She called me.”
“So why didn’t you ask her what her number was?”
“I forgot,” Kling said.
“This isn’t a dating service,” the woman said.
“I told you, we’re working a case together,” Kling said.
“Sure,” the woman said. “Hold on, let me run this through.”
He waited. He knew she was making a computer check on him, verifying that he was a bona fide cop. He looked through the window. It was snowing more heavily now. Come on, he thought.
“Hello?” the woman said.
“I’m still here,” Kling said.
“Our computers are down, I had to do it manually.”
“Am I a real cop?” Kling said.
“Who knows nowadays?” the woman answered. “Here’s the number, have you got a pencil?”
He wrote down the number, thanked her for her time, and then pressed one of the receiver rest buttons on top of the phone. He released the button, got a dial tone, was about to dial, and then hesitated. What am I starting here? he wondered. I don’t want to start anything here. I’m not ready to start anything. He put the phone back on the cradle.
The contents of the safety deposit box were very interesting indeed. The way Brown was finally coming to understand it, Edelman’s precious-gems business was a mere avocation when compared to what appeared to be his true business — the accumulation of real estate in various foreign countries. The deeds to land, houses, and office buildings in such diverse countries as Italy, France, Spain, Portugal, and England were dated from as far back as five years ago to as recently as six months ago. In July of last year alone, Edelman had purchased 40,000 square meters of land in a place called Porto Santo Stefano, for 200 million Italian lire. Brown did not know where Porto Santo Stefano was. Neither did he know how much the Italian lira had been worth six months ago. But a look at the financial pages of the city’s morning paper told him that the current exchange rate was 100 lire for 12¢ US. Brown had no idea how much the exchange rate had fluctuated during the past six months. But basing the purchase price on today’s money market, Edelman would have spent something like $240,000 for the land he’d bought.
All well and good, Brown thought. A man wants to buy himself a big olive grove in Italy, fine, there was no law against that. But where was the canceled check, in either US dollars or Italian lire, for the deal Edelman had closed in Rome on the eighth day of July last year? Two hundred forty thousand dollars — more than that, when you figured in the legal fees and closing costs and taxes listed on the Italian closing statement — had exchanged hands last July.
Where had the $240,000 come from?
Kling kept pacing the room. He owed her an apology, didn’t he? Or did he? What the hell, he thought, and went back to the phone, and dialed her number.
“Hello?” she said. Her voice sounded very small and a trifle sniffly.
“This is Bert,” he said.
“Hello,” she said. The same small sniffly voice.
“Bert Kling,” he said.
“I know,” she said.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to yell at you.”
“That’s okay,” she said.
“Really, I’m sorry.”
“That’s okay,” she said again.
There was a long silence on the line.
“So... how are you?” he said.
“Fine, I guess,” she said.
There was another long silence.