Ben steeled himself. He kicked the door open and pressed himself up against the outside wall.
There was no sound inside.
After a moment, he stepped into the apartment. Records, books, pillows, and boxes were scattered across the floor. The television was shattered; shards of gray glass lay on the floor beneath the broken box. The stereo cabinet was upset and lying on the floor; the turntable cover was crushed. Ben saw what little he owned smashed and broken into pieces.
The kitchenette was just the same. Everything was upside down and out of place—pots and pans on the linoleum floor, plates broken, refrigerator door wide open. In the bedroom, clothes were scattered, and his sleeping bag was thrown in a heap in the corner. Either a hurricane had blown through during the night, or someone had ransacked Ben’s apartment.
Someone, it suddenly occurred to Ben, who might still be there.
Ben ran out of the apartment and stood outside the door. This is ridiculous, he told himself. I’ve been in every room. No one is there. Somehow, logic didn’t make him feel any better about going back inside.
While Ben deliberated, his telephone rang. After three rings, he decided to brave it. Once inside, it took him three more rings to find the phone, buried under a pile of heavily starched and now thoroughly wrinkled white shirts.
“Who is it?”
“Where the hell have you been all night? I’ve been calling since three in the morning.” It was Mike, and he sounded hostile.
“Mike, thank God. I was just about to call you. Someone searched my apartment. Tore the place apart.”
“Yeah?” Mike sounded decidedly unsympathetic. “Maybe if you spent more time there these things wouldn’t happen. I mean, I understand, a guy’s been in town not quite two weeks, he starts to get a little lonely—”
“Look, Mike, I need help—”
“Sounds like you’re doing okay to me, lover boy. But that’s not why I called. I’ve got another stiff on my hands.”
Ben felt the gnawing sensation in the pit of his stomach intensify. “Who?”
“Don’t know. No identification.” Then he added: “It’s like before.”
“What do you mean, like before?”
“Like why the hell do you think I’ve been trying to call you? I’ve got another corpse bearing your business card! Clenched in his rigor-mortised fist!”
Ben began to breathe rapidly. “What does he look like? It is a he, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it’s a he. He’s about five foot eight, short dark hair, probable Italian descent, no chin, beak nose.”
“My God. It’s Brancusci. The accountant. Mike, this is very important. Did he have any papers on him?”
“Nothing. I told you—he’s been stripped clean.” The gnawing sensation was like a knife. Ben began to feel light-headed. “Got any suspects?”
“Just the usual,” Mike replied. “You.”
Ben and Mike stood in an alleyway in the heart of old downtown Tulsa, a few blocks north of the river, wedged between Ernie’s Pool Hall and a tiny Greek restaurant. Both were closed; their Fifties-era neon signs were dark. Diagonally across the street, the scuzziest Safeway in town was just beginning to open for a new business day. The street people huddling over the sidewalk vents began to awaken, stretching and urinating and brushing the night’s grime from their clothes.
For the first time in his life, Ben considered whether déjà vu was more than a cliché. The weather was misty, wet, and unpleasant—just like before. He and Mike stood in a filthy alley—just like before. Again, he watched paramedics lift a broken corpse onto a stretcher with considerable difficulty and stash it in the back of an ambulance. Again, he knew that the only thing sparing him from a grueling police interrogation was a former relation by marriage to the investigating detective. There was one difference, though, Ben told himself, one key difference. This time, it was probably my fault. He had promised Brancusci he would call, but in the excitement of locating the apartment at Malador, he had forgotten all about Brancusci. Even after seeing how anxious and afraid he had been at the party, Ben had forgotten. And now Brancusci was dead.
“This Brancusci guy had your business card clenched in his fist,” Mike said. “Any idea why?”
Ben told him about his meetings with Brancusci. He also revealed the details about the apartment at Malador and his chat with Harriet. He declined to tell Mike about his return visit.
“Something is going on in that apartment,” Mike murmured. “I’m going to send out a couple of uniforms to check it out.”
“Not yet,” Ben said quickly. “Any bust now would tip off the man in charge. If we wait, we might be able to use the apartment to track down our killer.”
Mike exhaled wearily. “Perhaps you’re right.”
“Do you know how Brancusci was killed?”
“Same as before,” Mike said, with a sort of a grunt. “With a big knife. It’s too early to tell, but it looks like it could be the same knife that was used on Adams. We’ve found no trace of a weapon. I’ve got men searching the general area, but I’m willing to bet we won’t find anything. The killer’s smart enough to take the knife home and stick it back in his roast beef.”
“Who found the body?”
“We’re not sure. We got an anonymous phone call about two in the morning. I’d guess it was another street person, except they probably wouldn’t have a quarter for a telephone call. Did you get a look at the knife wounds?”
Ben swallowed hard. “No,” he whispered.
“Unfinished business,” Mike said. “I’m making a big guess, based on what happened to the Adams corpse and the evidence that the two killings are connected. I’m guessing that our killer got caught in the act. I think he’d made the fatal slice and was just beginning the sicko mutilation when someone cut in. So to speak.”
Ben ignored the morbid humor. “Who could have seen them?”
Mike shrugged. “Anyone. Drunk. Prostitute. Street person. You’d be amazed how many people are running around Tulsa late at night, particularly downtown. Most of them have nowhere else to go. I’ve got guys interviewing to see if anyone saw anything significant.”
“Think you’ll have any luck?”
“Who knows?” Mike thrust his hands in his overcoat pockets. “The homeless aren’t really renowned for their sense of civic obligation. Most of them don’t like cops much, either. Cops are always pushing them around, telling them to get off the streets. As if they could.” Mike paused. “There is one thing in our favor, though. I can’t believe the killer chose this place. My guess is Brancusci lives around here and insisted on meeting somewhere nearby. The way I see it, the killer calls Brancusci up, they agree to meet somewhere, and Brancusci gets knifed. Killer drags the body into the alley and begins to slice.”
Ben rubbed his throbbing temples. “It doesn’t make any sense. When I saw Brancusci last, he was totally on edge. Why would he agree to meet the killer out on the street in the dead of night?”
“The killer probably didn’t identify himself as such,” Mike answered. “Maybe he pretended to be you.”
The churning in Ben’s stomach seemed to explode, like a firecracker in the duodenum. Of course. It made sense. Ben was long overdue. Brancusci would be waiting for him to call so that Brancusci could give Ben the financial records Ben had bullied him into providing.
“Excuse me,” Ben said. He walked down the alley, turned around the corner to the back of the building and fell to his knees to be sick. He retched a futile retch. He realized that he had not eaten since—when? He could not remember his last meal. He had been busy. Busy forgetting about Brancusci.
Slowly, Ben rose, wiped his mouth, and walked back to the alleyway.
“We’ve got to go see Sanguine, Mike, and you’ve got to make him talk.”