“Why don’t I ask Cambridge to send a car up there, just to check,” Belson said.
“Yes,” I said.
He stood and went to the other end of the living room, where he took out a cell phone and talked for maybe five minutes. Then he came back.
“Cambridge will send a car up. I explained a little of the deal. They’ll actually talk to her, make sure she’s okay.”
I nodded.
One of the uniformed cops, a young one, came into my apartment.
“Sergeant,” he said.
“You got something, Stevie?” Belson said.
The young cop looked at me.
“He’s on our side,” Belson said. “For the moment, at least.”
Stevie nodded.
“Got a stiff in the cellar,” he said. “Hispanic male, maybe forty, forty-five, shot once in the back of the head. Got a tattoo on his right biceps says Rosa.”
“Francisco,” I said. “The super.”
Belson nodded.
“He have a passkey?”
“Sure,” I said.
“That’s probably how they got in,” he said.
I nodded.
“Take some scientists down there, Stevie,” Belson said. “I’ll be right there.”
He looked at me
“You wanna take a look?”
“I would,” I said.
And we headed to the cellar.
39
Francisco had been a good guy, and clever with his hands. He could fix a lot of stuff. Now he was facedown on the floor of his basement workroom with a small, dark hole at the base of his skull, in a pool of his blood dried and blackened on the floor.
“Keys?” Belson said.
Stevie shook his head. “Haven’t seen any.”
“Normally carried them in front, hooked to a belt loop,” I said. “Large bunch. You could hear him coming. They may be under him.”
“Turn him,” Belson said.
And a couple of technicians turned him up on his side. The bullet had apparently exited his forehead and made a much larger hole, from which the blood had come. The keys were on his belt loop. The technicians let him back down as he had been. Belson squatted on his haunches and looked at the bullet hole.
“Big caliber,” he said.
“Big enough,” I said.
Belson stood up.
“Bell marked Super out front?” Belson said.
“Yes,” I said.
“So they ring the bell,” Belson said to whatever he was looking at in the middle distance. “He lets them in. They point a gun at him, and since they don’t know the layout here, he takes them to your place and opens the door.”
“Then they walk him to the cellar and into his office,” I said, “and execute him.”
“No witness,” Belson said.
He appeared to be staring blankly at nothing. But I’d known him a long time, and I knew he was seeing everything in the room and could give you an inventory of it a week later. A Homicide dick named Perpetua came into the room.
“Look around, Pep,” Belson said. “When you’re done, come talk to me.”
Perpetua nodded and took out a notebook.
To me, Belson said, “Let’s you and me go someplace and talk.”
“Mi casa, su casa,” I said.
We went up from the basement and sat on the stairs between the first and second floor.
“Couple things,” Belson said.
His cell phone rang. Belson listened, nodding slightly. At one point he smiled.
“She did, huh?” he said.
More listening.
“Thanks,” Belson said, and broke the connection.
“Susan’s fine,” he said. “She was with a patient and wasn’t pleased about the interruption.”
“She speak sharply to anyone.”
“I believe she called the prowl-car guy a ‘fucking ass-hole, ’ ” Belson said.
“That would be my Sweet Potato,” I said.
“Cruiser will stay there, anyway, out front, for the day, at least.”
“Probably make some of her patients nervous,” I said.
“You want me to pull the cruiser off?” Belson said.
“No,” I said.
“Okay,” Belson said. “Coupla things. One, you must be getting very close to finding out something they don’t want you to know.”
“Seems so,” I said.
“You know what it is?”
“I’m developing some theories,” I said.
“Good. We’ll talk about that,” Belson said. “But right now, I figure that they aren’t going to quit.”
“They don’t appear to be quitters,” I said.
“No,” Belson said. “But right at the moment they probably think they killed you.”
“They probably do,” I said.
“Might be smart to let them keep thinking so,” Belson said.
“You have a plan?” I said.
“About half a plan,” Belson said. “Say we slip you out the back way, and you stay in a motel or someplace?”
“No,” I said.
“No?” Belson said.
“Frank,” I said. “The only connection we got with them is their attempts to kill me. They think I’m dead and we lose that.”
“For crissake,” Belson said. “You hadn’t tossed your overnight bag on the bed, you would be dead.”
“But that wasn’t just luck,” I said. “I tossed it because I had spotted the guy in the car outside and was in a hurry to get a better look through my front window.”
“That’s weak,” Belson said. “You think you can keep them from killing you until we catch them.”
“Yes.”
“You’re fucking insane,” Belson said.
“Yeah, but I have access to a good shrink,” I said.
Belson nodded.
“Bedroom will have to be cleaned up,” Belson said. “Window will have to be replaced. And the super isn’t gonna do it.”
“True,” I said.
“And you’ll need a new bed.”
“Also true,” I said.
“So you’ll have to go someplace for a few days at least,” Belson said. “I can slide you out the back way in case anyone is trying to tail you.”
“If someone’s trying to tail me,” I said, “let’s go out the front door and let him, and maybe we can catch him.”
“Nobody’s gonna tail us without one of us spotting the tail.”
“Not possible,” I said. “And if he makes a move at me, you can throw yourself into the line of fire.”
“That is absolutely one of my favorite parts of police work,” Belson said.
“Especially,” I said, “if it’s me you’re taking the bullet for.”
“Especially,” Belson said. “But just in case nobody tails us and we don’t catch him, and I don’t take a bullet for you, how about backup?”
I shook my head.
“Vinnie?” Belson said.
“Nope.”
“West Coast guy, Latino, helped you save my life when I got shot,” Belson said.
“Chollo,” I said.
“How about him?” Belson said. “Or the big queer from Georgia.”
“Tedy Sapp,” I said.
“Maybe one of them?”
I shook my head.
“This one’s mine,” I said.
Belson was silent for a while, nodding slowly.
Then he said, “Yeah.”
40
I put my spare weaponry in a duffel bag and hauled it down the stairs to Belson’s car, which was double-parked in front of my house.
“No suitcase?” Belson said.
“I keep stuff at Susan’s,” I said.
We got in. There was no sign of a tail.
“So you got a theory about what they don’t want you to find?”
“‘Theory’ is too strong,” I said. “More like a guess.”
“Guess is better than nothing,” Belson said.
We turned right onto Berkeley Street and stopped for the light at Beacon.
“There’s an operation called the Herzberg Foundation, to which Lloyd, the lawyer who recommended Prince to the Hammond Museum, is a legal counsel. The Frans Hermenszoon painting, Lady with a Finch, which was stolen from the Hammond Museum, whose attorney is Morton Lloyd, was owned at one point by a Dutch Jewish family named Herzberg.”