"I told you it was a wild shot," I said, evading the question. "In any case, I think it's a good idea to have some kind of fingerprint record on Rafferty. The police didn't have him long enough to print him."
Over vodka martinis I brought Foster up to date. He absorbed it all in silence, occasionally stirring his drink. When I finished he grimaced and slowly, emphatically, shook his head.
"This Lippitt character is lying."
"Why do you say that?"
"I knew Victor Rafferty as well as anybody. He wasn't any Russian agent. He couldn't have been a spy. Architecture was his whole life. My God, Victor just didn't have time to be a spy."
"He did a lot of traveling, didn't he? His career would have given him a perfect cover."
"I'm telling you he wasn't a spy," Foster said determinedly.
"Actually, Lippitt never said Rafferty was a spy. He said Rafferty was going to defect to the Russians. There's a difference."
Foster spoke hotly. "It's still a dirty accusation! It would kill Elizabeth. He's lying, which means he's covering up something. I want to find out what it is."
"It might be better to leave it alone, Mike," I said quietly.
He glanced at me sharply, surprise and anger in his eyes. "I heard you didn't scare off so easy."
"How easily I scare isn't the point, Mike. There are other considerations. I don't know if Lippitt is telling the truth, but I do believe that Rafferty was somehow involved in some very dangerous business. Just for the sake of argument, let's assume that Rafferty isn't dead. Now, what's the point of trying to prove it? Do you think it will help your wife's peace of mind if she finds out her first husband isn't dead after all?"
Foster stared into his drink, then slowly nodded his head. "I see your point. Even if Victor is alive, maybe it's better if Elizabeth never finds out about it."
"Also, Lippitt said that it could be dangerous for other people if I continued the investigation. The fact that he came out of the woodwork proves his contention that important people take an interest in this case. I'm not sure that you want to take a chance on anybody's getting hurt. I know I don't."
"Are you saying that you're dropping the case?" Foster sounded concerned.
"For the time being, at least. I think it's better to let things cool down and sift awhile. I'm leaving Thursday anyway."
"How long will you be gone?" He avoided my eyes.
"Three weeks, unless I get eaten by a great white shark."
Foster wasn't in the mood for jokes. He leaned against the vinyl backing of the booth and pressed a hand to his forehead. "If I drop it now… Elizabeth's in really bad shape."
"She could end up in even worse shape if we continue."
"I'd … always wonder," he said distantly.
"Maybe you can handle uncertainty better than your wife can handle the truth," I said. "Still, I've got a file on this, and I've taped a lot of thoughts. If you want, I'll turn them over to somebody else you can trust before I leave."
"Uh-uh. I like the way you operate." He was staring at a large wall mirror across the room, as if searching for truth there, forgetting that mirrors only reflect the truth of the people looking into them. "You'll be back three weeks from Thursday?" He half-smiled. "Unless you get eaten by a great white shark?"
"Not necessarily to work on this case, Mike. I don't think I want the responsibility."
"But it would be my responsibility if I wanted to continue. I'd just like to know if you'll go back to work on it when you come back … if I decide I want to know more."
"I'll have to think about it."
"Fair enough. Who knows? Maybe I'll be able to convince Elizabeth that we should get away for a couple of weeks. I think a change of scenery might do her some good."
"Do you want my file and tapes?"
"Not now," he said. "Why don't you hang on to them until you get back?"
"Okay. I'd also like to keep the draftsman's kit for a while."
"Of course. How much do I owe you up to this point, Frederickson?"
"Why don't you come around to my office tomorrow afternoon? I'll give you an itemized bill. I should also be finished with the kit by then."
We made an appointment for two o'clock.
The relief I'd expected to feel the next morning wasn't there: only unrelieved anxiety about Abu, distracting as a bad hangover. There'd been no messages left with my answering service. It was too early to start calling, so I tried to put the worry out of my mind, at least temporarily.
After breakfast, I went to see my brother. I found Garth looking hurt and annoyed, stuffed into his cubicle writing reports. The typewriter bounced like a toy under the merciless attack of his thick fingers.
"Hey, brother! Guess who's come to visit you."
"Christ," he said without looking up. "I hope you're not here to take up my time or looking for any more favors; I'm out of both."
"What about a fingerprint kit?"
That got his attention. He eased up on the typewriter, and I thought I could almost hear the machine sigh. "Why the hell do you want a fingerprint kit?"
"Just want to check out a couple of long shots." I took out Tal's pencil and Elliot Thomas' protractor and laid them on the desk in front of Garth.
"What's this? Show and Tell?"
"How long will a fingerprint last?"
Garth shrugged. "Indefinitely, as long as it's on a good surface that's been protected."
I took the draftsman's kit out of my pocket and shoved it across the desk to Garth. "Rafferty's prints may be on some of these tools. I'd like to compare them with whatever you can get off the pencil and the protractor."
"The pencil will be tough."
"Can you get partials?"
"Maybe. I'll have to see. Where'd you get the goodies?"
"The protractor from a man named Elliot Thomas, and the pencil from Ronald Tal."
"Tal? You've been traveling in high circles and keeping bad company."
"Careful, brother. Your Midwest conservatism is showing."
Garth whistled softly. "Christ, you think either of these guys could be Rafferty?"
"Doubtful, but I've got to start thinning the herd somewhere. Both men are about the right height and seem the right age; both men are Americans." Garth looked skeptical. "What can I tell you?" I added. "This is known as being methodical."
"How the hell do you get mixed up in these things? How the hell do I get mixed up in these things?" He rummaged around in his desk drawers until he finally came up with the kit. He used a pair of tweezers to lift the pencil and protractor from the cellophane sleeves I'd placed them in, then laid the items carefully beside the draftsman's kit. He opened the kit and began dusting the flat metal surfaces of the tools inside.
"Can I use your phone?" I asked.
Garth nodded as he continued dusting the implements. I picked up the receiver and dialed Abu's office. Abu still wasn't in; his secretary hadn't seen him since before lunch the previous day. I checked to make sure she had my message right, then hung up. I stared at the phone for a long time. It took me a few moments to realize that what I felt was fear.
Garth broke into my thoughts. "Take a look at these."
I took the magnifying glass he offered and studied the marks he'd raised on the instruments.
"You lucked out, Mongo," Garth said. "You've got good prints on the protractor, and decent partials on the pencil and the instruments. As far as I can see, there's no match anywhere. If you want, I'll have the lab boys take a look."
It wasn't necessary; I could see that the three sets of prints were entirely different. "Don't bother," I said, snapping the kit closed and putting it back into my pocket. "Two down, a few dozen to go. Case closed."