"No, where is he?"
"That's what I'm asking." David knew he had framed the question wrong and his own response was the best he could do. He decided to press on.
"Are you still living in Manhattan?"
"That's none of your business."
"Bernard!" Marsha shrieked. Heads turned their way. "Yes, he is, Dr. Brooks."
"Thanks," David said, not so much to be polite as to distinguish her answers from Bernie's. "And, oh, before you leave, Marsh, let me ask you something. Who's stepped into Ted's position? Jake?"
"Yes, and I'd guess Dr. Reed has the inside track to become Chief. He's been with us for more than fifteen years. Came just after I did."
While David and Marsha spoke, Bernie gravitated toward the foyer and waved for her to follow.
"One last question, and you don't have to answer," David said. "How long have you known that guy?"
"Who, Jake Reed?"
"No, Bernie, over there."
Marsha nodded yes to Bernie and then, addressing David, said, "I met him at a party his father had many years ago. What? Twelve, thirteen years?"
David decided to take a chance on something he realized was out of bounds. "You and he serious?"
"I'm not sure what you'd call it. I have to go now. Good luck, Dr. Brooks."
He watched as she and Bernie stole off. What a strange answer! Didn't deny a relationship. "Good luck?" Murders on her mind.
As David looked around for Kathy, he noticed Nick in a cluster of long faces, notepad in hand. David thought there was nothing to be gained by speaking to him so he headed off in the opposite direction, finally locating Kathy finishing a cup of coffee.
"How did that go?" she asked.
"You learn some things, you don't learn some things. I'll explain later. We're out of here. You going to headquarters?"
"I have to run home first." She spread her arms. "These aren't my work clothes."
"Tonight?" David said.
"Tonight, except let's make it at my place." "Like in `your place or mine'?"
Nostrils flaring, Kathy responded, "Please, I hate that expression."
"Why?"
"Because of the insinuation."
"Okay, I understand. Then shall we insinuate at your place or mine?"
"You're incorrigible!" Kathy growled. "Bye."
She began to strut off when David took three steps to catch up to her, and, following her ear, whispered, "Don't forget to say hello to Betty Tanarkle."
Without breaking stride, Kathy swerved off at a right angle as if she had thought of the courtesy herself.
From one o'clock on, two thoughts nagged David's subconscious like an inflamed toe: the Bernie/Marsha alliance and the CARCAN/CANCAN conundrum. Beyond those, he was determined to tackle several loose ends among many; the pearl-handled dagger and past flights to Istanbul, Cartagena and Tokyo headed the list.
He settled in at the Hole, informed Belle he didn't want to be disturbed except for an urgent message-"like from someone claiming he committed all four murders"-and started calling pawnshops other than Razbit's, museums, historical societies, Army-Navy stores and any other place that might sell, collect, trade or otherwise deal in daggers. In an hour, he knew no more than he did when he first sat down. So much for Operation Dagger Hunt, he grumbled.
Next, after consulting with a travel agent friend, he contacted every airline that had planes flying into Turkey, Colombia and Japan. The response was uniform: they could not release past flight manifests except to a bona-fide law enforcement agency. Sometimes, as in a disaster, to the media.
David sat ruminating as he tossed a paper wad of phone numbers from hand to hand. Belle slid a cup of coffee on his desk, startling him.
"I thought I said no disturbances," he said.
"Oh, right," she said, cowering. "Well, let's say this was brewed by someone claiming he committed all four murders." He threw the wad of paper at her.
Cuddling the cup, he took a sip, then another, and cleared his mind as if to make room for ideas to germinate. Travel ideas. Commercial flying ideas.
There was a case he had six years ago when he first started sleuthing. It dealt with an embezzler trying to flee the country, and he vaguely recollected the criminal may also have done drugs. It conjured up a litany of federal agencies he had to deal with: the Immigration and Naturalization Service, the Drug Enforcement Agency, the U.S. Customs Service. He remembered how sympathetic they were to the plight of amateur detectives but also how slowly the answers filtered back.
Finally, bingo! Kathy. Legitimate, legal, authentic. Professional police detectives have the full resources of the local, state and federal law enforcement communities. Have her find out. He contacted her.
It was two-thirty. By four, he had his information. Kathy phoned to say that over the past five years, Victor Spritz had flown to Colombia twelve times; Charlie Bugles had traveled to Turkey ten times; and his son, Bernie, had landed in Tokyo twenty-one times. She added that she couldn't wait to discuss the implications at her place later that night. Neither could David.
At precisely four-thirty, he pulled into the driveway of a yellow Victorian house set back slightly from a thoroughfare of fast-food restaurants, chain stores and discount houses. Out front, an ice-crusted sign with faded green letters spanned two posts stuck in the ground. The letters spelled: READINGS.
David thought the house looked as if it had been wheeled to a sliver of land left over from commercial development. And he was certain it violated side lot zoning regulations.
He obeyed the WALK-IN command on an index card thumbtacked to the doorjamb. The far end of a foyer as expansive as the four rooms at 10 Oak Lane contained a ponderous glass door trimmed in carved oak figurines. He followed the instructions there to RING BELL AND ENTER. Inside, there was an echo to his steps in a room with no carpeting and circumscribed by chairs and tables of all sizes, shapes and hardwoods. Its floor dimensions were double those of the foyer and its ceiling was higher than either dimension. He sank into an easy chair that elevated his kneecaps to eye level and picked up a tattered copy of Life magazine from an end table. He remembered being told once that mirrors tend to enlarge a room and he wondered whether they were wasted on all four walls.
In ten seconds, a door directly opposite David opened and a tall women swanned into the room. She had symmetrical facial wrinkles and titian hair. She subdued the billow of her floral-print skirt with one hand and offered the other to David, but he didn't have a chance to shake it as she reached for the convexity of her black silk blouse and withdrew a card from a pocket.
"I believe you are Dr. Brooks. So nice to meet you," she said. Her voice was firm, resonant and coordinated with the style of the house.
"Yes, Musco sent me. You know, from the Red Checker Cab Company."
"Ah, yes. Mr. Diller. I've spoken to both of you about your request. Do you have something for me?" She descended into a chair next to David and moved a table lamp to the side.
"Yes, one's a piece of tape; the other's a sign. Can you tell me if the writing was done by the same person?" He opened Friday, pulled out the tape and cardboard sign, and placed them on the table.
At the same time, Madame Alice brandished a round magnifying glass the size of a coffee saucer. David assumed she took it from the table drawer but he never saw or heard it open.
"Yes … hmm … yes … nice," she said, examining the articles with her naked eye. "I don't need this." She put down the magnifying glass. "I can tell you, straight away, that they match. Whoever wrote the sign also wrote on the tape."
David tossed her a how-do-you-know look.
"See here," she said, "notice the spacing between letters, and the same buckle on these letters over here, and especially how short the upper loop is on the `S' in both specimens. I have no doubt, Dr. Brooks."