“If I’m Nugent,” Carolyn said, “and I kill him, which I would never do myself because I’m basically nonviolent—”
“Good for you, Carolyn.”
“—I pick up the phone and call the police. ‘I just defended my home,’ I say, ‘so will you please send somebody over to get this stiff out of here.’ That’s what I do. I don’t go away and lock the door and hope he’ll vanish while I’m gone.”
“The elves’ll take care of it,” I said, “after they’re done at my place.”
Ray gave me a look. “I thought of that,” he said. “Not that shit about elves, but what you just said, Carolyn. Why not report it? What occurs to me, maybe the gun’s unregistered. Guy’s burglarizin’ your premises, you got an iron-clad right to shoot the son of a bitch, but you better make sure you got a license for the gun. Even so…”
“It doesn’t make a lot of sense,” I finished for him. “And didn’t I hear that the Nugents were out of the country?”
He nodded. “Due back tomorrow or the next day. Question is, when did they take off?”
“There you go,” Carolyn said. “Say I’m Nugent. I’m on my way to the airport, and I wonder did I leave a pot cooking on the stove? So I go back, and what do I find but a burglar. So I pull out my unregistered gun and shoot him, and then I have to leave to catch a plane, so there’s no time to call the police. Instead I pull off the guy’s clothes, throw him in the tub, take the clothes with me, and catch the next plane to…where?”
“Tajikistan,” I suggested.
“Forget Nugent,” Ray said.
“Done.”
“Say another burglar killed him. Say you, for example, Bernie.”
“Me?”
“Just for the sake of argument, okay?”
“Fine. I killed him. But you can’t quote me on that because you haven’t read me my rights yet.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” he said. “This is just a discussion, okay?”
“Whatever you say, Ray.”
“He lives right there, he knows the Nugents are out of town, an’ he closes his eyes an’ sees dollar signs. But he needs somebody who can make a lock sing an’ dance, an’ that’s Mrs. Rhodenbarr’s little boy Bernie.”
“Why doesn’t he just jimmy it, Ray?”
“Maybe he don’t know how. But jimmyin’ leaves marks, an’ there weren’t any, so we know he didn’t do that. No, he knows you from the neighborhood, whatever, so he tips you to the job, an’ the two of you go in together.”
“Just my style, Ray.”
“When I say you,” he said, “I don’t mean you. Okay, Bernie? I know you work alone, an’ I know you don’t shoot people. Forget you, okay? Some other fuckin’ burglar is his partner for the day, an’ the other fuckin’ burglar opens the door for him, an’ him an’ the other fuckin’ burglar both go in, an’ then you shoot him.”
“It’s back to me again, isn’t it?”
“It’s just too much trouble savin’ it the other way is all. But if it bothers you that much—”
“No, it’s all right. Why do I shoot him?”
“So you won’t have to split with him. Say you really score big an’ it’s like the Lufthansa job where there’s so much money you can’t afford to split it.”
“Okay,” I said. “Why is he naked?”
“So they won’t identify the clothes.”
“Get real.”
“Okay, maybe you’re both naked.”
“He seduces me, Ray. Then I realize what I’ve done. I’m racked with guilt, and instead of killing myself I lash out at him. He’s taking a shower, washing away the traces of our evil lust, and I find a gun in the desk drawer and punch his ticket for him.”
He sighed. “It don’t make a whole lot of sense,” he said.
“Gee, Ray, what makes you say that? And why are we even having this conversation? Don’t get me wrong, Carolyn and I always enjoy it when you drop around, but what’s the point?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, that clears it up.”
“I don’t know,” he repeated. “Call it a policeman’s intrusion.”
“That’s exactly what I’d call it,” I said, “but I think the word you want is intuition.”
“Whatever. There’s somethin’ tells me you know more about this than meets the eye, an’ if you don’t you could find out. An’ I got the feelin’ it could be very good for the both of us.”
“How do you mean, Ray?”
“That I couldn’t tell you. That’s the trouble with feelin’s, at least the kind I get. They ain’t much on specifics. I don’t know what figures to be in it for me, whether it’s something as basic as a good collar or something more negotiable. But you an’ me, Bernie, we done each other some good over the years.”
“And you’re just a sentimental guy, Ray. That’s why you got all choked up the other day when you threw me in a cell.”
“Yeah, I was bitin’ back tears.” He stood up. “You give it some thought, Bern. I bet you come up with somethin’.”
“Ray’s right, Bern.”
“My God,” I said, “I never thought I’d hear you say that. I ought to write it down and make you sign it.”
“He thinks you ought to work out what happened, and he doesn’t even know you were there. How can you just turn your back on the whole thing?”
“Nothing to it.”
“You have information Ray doesn’t have, Bern.”
“Indeed I do,” I said. “About almost everything.”
“What about your civic duty?”
“I pay my taxes,” I said. “I separate my garbage for recycling. I vote. I even vote in school board elections, for God’s sake. How much civic duty does a person have to have?”
“Bern—”
“Oh, look at the time,” I said. “Don’t rush, take your time and finish your drink. But I’ve got to get out of here.”
“Where are you going?”
“Home to shower and change clothes.”
“And then?”
“Got a date. Bye.”
CHAPTER Nineteen
The car slowed. I pressed a button to lower the window and had a good look at the house in front of me—or as good a look as possible under the circumstances. There were trees in the way, and a vast expanse of lawn, but what I saw through the trees and beyond the lawn was a house not unlike its neighbors. We were, after all, in a subdivision. A subdivision of million-dollar homes, but a subdivision nonetheless. This particular million-dollar home had its porch light on, and light showed through a curtained upstairs window, and in two rooms downstairs as well.
I thought what I’ve often thought in similar circumstances. How considerate of them, I thought, to leave a light for the burglar.
“Circle the block,” I said, and sat back while we did just that. The car was last year’s Lincoln, smooth red leather within, hand-rubbed black lacquer without, the air climate-controlled, the engine noise no more than a Rafflesian purr. It was more comfortable by far than a bus, a subway, or a Tajik taxi, but none of those would have got me here. I was north of the city, in Westchester County. The subways don’t go this far, and Hashmat Tuktee couldn’t have found his way in a million years.
On our second time past the house I reached to take the automatic garage door opener from the driver’s visor. I stuck it out the window, pointed it at the garage, and clicked it. Nothing happened.
“You never know,” I said, and handed it back. We rode on, and I got out at the first stop sign and walked back. I was wearing a glen plaid sport jacket—it was time, I’d decided, to give the blazer a rest—and a pair of dark trousers. I had a tie on, too, but not the one that had received such good reviews at lunch.