"Y-yes. Hello?"
We waited, watched her breath catch, then flow slowly out of her.
"It's for Timmy." She sighed. "It's not the voice. It's a man for Mr. Callahan. Oh me, oh my."
I said, "Did the first caller mention Peter?"
"Why no," Dot said. "He didn't. Or she. I'm still not certain whether it's a man or a woman."
Bowman came back. I said, "I think we've got two of them. Two separate people, or groups."
"Yeah. Or thirty-five. I've gotta get a tap and trace rig on this phone number, but fast."
Out in the yard, Kay Wilson had Timmy backed into a lilac bush and was singing the praises of Crane "Quite-a-Guy" Trefusis. Timmy's eyes were open, but I suspected he was nonetheless napping lightly. I'd seen him do it before at cocktail parties put on by insurance industry lobbyists. Edith was off by herself over by the peonies, gingerly emptying the Japanese beetle traps.
"Phone call," I said, ambling up to Timmy and Kay.
Kay turned. "For me? It must be Wilson, wants his lunch. Tell him I just left."
"No, it's for Mr. Callahan."
"Oh, your boyfriend, huh?"
"This is the man."
She snickered. "Hey, Bob. Tell me somethin', then. Which one of you's the boy and which one's the girl?"
Timmy quickly walked by me toward the house, his eyes raised heavenward.
I said, "Wouldn't you like to know. To tell you the truth, Kay, only our chiropractor knows for 50 sure."
"Your what?"
I said, "What's your hubby up to today, Kay? Bill Wilson make you rich yet?"
"Hah! You pullin' my leg, kiddo? The day that bozo gives me more'n a lotta lip'll be the day Charles Bronson sends me a dozen roses and a case of Jack Daniel's. Say, don't you just love Dot's flower garden? Hey, what are you doin' over there, Mrs. Stout? Mealybugs chewin' up your tulips?"
"Eh? What's that, Mrs. Wilson?"
"I asked if you got chigs on your posies? Looks like you got 'em, all right. Up to your left tit. I got a can of Raid down to the house if you want to try a shot of that. That stuff'll fix 'em."
I said, "Kay, you're needed in the house for a few minutes. The police need a set of your fingerprints. So they can tell yours from those of whoever else handled that package you delivered."
Her eyes got big as we turned toward the house. "Hey, Bob, what the Sam Hill is goin' on around here, anyways? Police dicks crawling all over the place. This used to be a respectable neighborhood. What was in that package anyhow? Your lover boy wouldn't tell me what was goin' on. What's the big secret?"
I said, "One of Dot's houseguests is missing. The police are helping locate him. He'll turn up, though, don't worry."
"Maybe he was snatched," she said eagerly. "And they're sending him back here a piece at a time.
I read in the paper how the Mafia does it like that. Is that what was in the package? Some poor clown's tongue, or left ear, or pecker? Hell, nobody's safe anyplace anymore. They're gonna getcha, they're gonna getcha."
I went queasy but didn't reply as we stepped into the house. Timmy was off the phone now and Bowman was on the line with, judging by his civil tone, a superior in the department. I presented Kay Wilson to the fingerprint man, and Timmy pulled me aside.
"Mel Glempt just called. You don't know him. At least I think you don't. One of the Green Room bartenders I phoned earlier ran into him a while ago and told him Peter was missing. Just missing, no more. That's all anybody knows so far. Glempt saw something last night, and the barkeep had him call me and tell me about it. Glempt saw some kind of fight or scuffle in the Green Room parking lot last night just before midnight. He'd just pulled in."
"And?"
"And… well, this must have been it. A young man-a 'kid,' Mel said, but it must have been Peter-this young man was shoved into a car. He seemed to be resisting, but a guy wrapped a bandage or something around his head so he couldn't see, and got him into the back seat of this car-some kind of big old dark green job-and then the car drove away fast. There were two men, the shover and the driver."
"And Glempt didn't report this to anybody? Shit." Timmy said nothing." Well, did he at least get a make and model on the car?"
"No."
"Did he recognize the people doing it?"
"No."
"Can he describe them?"
"One of them, he said. The one who was outside doing the grabbing, but not the driver."
"Which way did they go?"
"Out Central. West."
"We'd better clue Bowman in right away. Have his people talk to Glempt. I'll want to talk to him too."
I turned toward Bowman, who was still on the phone. Timmy said, "Wait."
He looked grim, his cornflower blue eyes taking on the November gray cast they had whenever he was apprehensive about something, or frightened.
Timmy said, "At least one of the two-the one outside the car, the one Mel got a quick look at was a cop. A cop in a uniform. That's why Mel didn't call the police. He thought it was the police."
I looked over at Bowman, who, catching me watching him, turned his back to me as he spoke quietly into the telephone. end user
11
I phoned Mel Glempt, who repeated to me what he had told Timmy. I asked him to tell his story to Bowman's people, and he eventually agreed, though, with considerable trepidation.
My service reported no messages. I reached Patrolman Lyle Barner at home and set up a meeting with him for three-thirty. He said, "You coming alone?"
I said no and asked him if he'd turned up anything in his check of the night detective squad. He said he hadn't. I told him he might need to check again.
Bowman's two assistants drove off, one of them to carry the finger and the two notes to the crime lab, the other to interview the Deems, Wilsons, and Tad Purcell.
I got Bowman off in a corner and described to him what Mel Glempt had seen outside the Green Room the night before.
Bowman said, "This is a con. You're setting me up. You're lying."
I shook my head. A setup was not out of the question, but I knew it wasn't mine.
He asked for the name of the witness. I told him and provided Glempt's address and phone number. I added, "He'll talk to you and your people, but he won't talk to the night squad guys and would rather they did not know his identity."
"How come? Why's that?"
"Because," I said, "certain elements of the Albany Police Department cannot be trusted to do what's right a good part of the time. Or even what's legal. Face it, Ned, that's the sad truth."
He threw his head back and snorted in disbelief, as if I had tried to convince him that the world was an ovoid slab supported by a three-pronged stick.
Bowman knew what I meant, though. He walked to the telephone and hesitated. Then, making sure his back was to me, he dialed a number.
Dot Fisher was fixing club sandwiches and Senegalese soup and setting out more iced tea. She moved about the kitchen muttering under her breath and forcing a wan smile whenever anyone addressed her.
McWhirter returned to the room and resumed his pacing. He had questions: "Has the FBI been called?" "Why don't you arrest this Trefusis mobster? He must be the one behind all this." "When could they have taken Peter? How?"
Watching McWhirter carefully, I told him what Mel Glempt had seen. He stood trembling for a moment, then slumped into a chair and buried his head in his hands.
Bowman completed his call and ambled back to the table. He was shaking his head, clear-eyed, his movements a tad jauntier than the occasion, as I saw it, required. He looked at me coolly and said simply, "Uhn-uhn." As if that was the end of that: Glempt had been mistaken about the cop 52 he saw, or lying.