There was a pause for at least thirty seconds. I thought the phone had gone dead.
“I'll trust you, but just once.”
“Once is all I need.”
“Officially, it's homicide. We've ruled out robbery as a motive, and a possible connection to the firebombing of the Jewish League for Tolerance is currently under investigation.”
“Neat. What are you leaving out?”
Lubitsch lowered his voice. “Postmortem found a puncture wound in Epstein's armpit. They're still trying to get confirmation of what was injected into him, but the latest guess is some kind of venom.” There came the sound of papers shuffling. “I'm reading here, okay, but it's neurotoxic, which means that it blocks transmission of nerve impulses to the muscles, overstimulating the transmitters”-he stumbled on the next words-“acetylcholine and noradrenaline, causing paralysis of both the”-more stumbles-“sympathetic and parasympathetic nervous systems, resulting in sudden and severe stress on the body.”
Lubitsch took a deep breath.
“In layman's terms, the venom caused acceleration of heartbeat, increase in blood pressure, breathing difficulties, and muscle paralysis. Epstein suffered a massive heart attack within two minutes. He was dead within three. Symptoms-and this is strictly on the QT, you understand?-are systemic, usually associated with spiders. Basically, unless someone comes up with a better theory, the perp took Yossi Epstein down, squatted on his chest, then injected him with a huge dose of spider venom. They're guessing black widow, but the tests aren't complete. Plus, the perp took a patch of skin from his lower back, a couple of inches of it. Now is that weird shit, or is that weird shit?”
I put down my pen and looked at the garbled notes I had written-on Rachel's telephone message pad. “Anyone else interested in this?” I asked.
“What is that sound?” replied Lubitsch. “Why, it's the sound of somebody stretching the bounds of professional courtesy.”
“Sorry,” I said, “but I take it that's a yes.”
Lubitsch sighed. “Minneapolis PD. Possible connection to the death of a doctor named Alison Beck one week ago. She was found with black widow spiders sealed up inside her mouth.”
“My God.”
“Uh-huh.”
Lubitsch seemed to enjoy my response, because he continued: “ME reckons the spiders were subdued with carbon dioxide, then inserted into her mouth as they were starting to revive. Only one widow survived: the rest bit each other, and bit her. The increase in her blood pressure triggered a stroke, and that killed her.”
“They have any leads?”
“She performed abortions, so they're rounding up the local crazies-while trying to keep most of the details from the press. Seems like they had a bitch of a job getting her out of the car.”
“Why?”
“Whoever killed her filled it with recluses.”
Pudd.
I thanked him, promised him a return call, and hung up. I logged on to the Internet and in less than two minutes a picture of Alison Beck was on the screen in front of me. She looked younger than she had in the photograph in Jack Mercier's study; younger and happier. The reporters had done a pretty good job of nailing deep background sources, even to the extent of speculating that Alison Beck's death might have been caused by a spider bite. It's hard to keep details like that quiet.
I turned off the computer and called Rachel, since the meeting was due to break for coffee at eleven. “Anyone have time to look at that card yet?” I asked.
“Well, a big affectionate good morning to you too,” she replied. “Truly, the love is gone.”
“It's not gone, it's just distracted. Well?”
“They're still looking at it. Now go away before I forget why I'm with you.”
She hung up, which left me with a choice: either do nothing, or try my luck with the Minneapolis PD. Unfortunately, I had no contacts over there and I didn't think that my natural charm would get me very far. I tried calling Mercier again but got the brush-off from the maid. With nothing else to do until later that evening, when Rachel and I were due to attend Cleopatra at the Wang, I dressed, took a Paul Johnston novel from Rachel's shelf, and headed down the stairs to kill some time along Newbury Street. There was a comic book store on Newbury, I recalled. I thought it might be worth a visit.
Al Z, it emerged, had already made the arrangements for our meeting. As soon as I stepped into the street, a car door opened and a huge shape emerged from a green Buick Regal parked across the street.
“Nice wheels, Tommy,” I remarked. “Planning to take the boys to Disney World?”
Tommy Caci grinned. He was wearing a sleeveless black T-shirt and skintight black jeans. His trapezius muscles were so huge he looked like he'd swallowed a coat hanger, and his massive shoulders tapered to a tiny waist. All things considered, Tommy Caci resembled a walking martini glass, but without the fragility.
“Welcome to Boston,” he said. “Al Z would appreciate a courtesy call. Get in the car. Please.”
“You mind if I make my own way?” I asked. Nothing would persuade me to get in the back of that Buick, no matter how much Tommy smiled. I'd prefer to walk blindfolded down the fast lane of the interstate. I didn't like to think of some of the trips people had taken in that car.
Tommy's smile didn't falter. “Easier this way. Al don't like to be kept waiting.”
“I'm sure. Still, how about I take some air and follow you on over?”
Tommy shrugged. It wasn't worth getting rough over. “You want to take some air, that's fine with us,” he said resignedly.
So I walked over to Al Z's office on Newbury Street. Admittedly, the Buick shadowed me every step of the way, never going above a couple of miles an hour, but it made me feel kind of wanted. When I arrived at the comic book store, Tommy waved at me and the Buick shot away, scattering tourists from its path. I rang the buzzer, gave my name, then pushed the door and walked up the bare stairs to Al Z's office.
It hadn't changed a whole lot since the last time I was there. It was still bare boards and peeling paint. There were still two gunmen inside the door, and there was still nowhere to sit apart from a worn red sofa against one wall and the chair behind Al Z's desk, a chair currently occupied by Al Z himself.
He wore a black suit, a black shirt, and a black tie, and his gray hair was slicked back from his skull, making his thin face look even more cadaverous than it usually did. A pair of hearing aids were visible in his small, pointed ears. Al Z's hearing had been failing in recent years. It must have been all those guns going off around him.
“I see you broke out your summer wardrobe,” I said.
He looked down at his clothes as if seeing them for the first time. “I was at a funeral,” he said.
“You arrange it?”
“Nah, just paying my last respects to a friend. All my friends are dying. Soon I'll be the only one left.” I noticed that Al Z seemed pretty certain he was going to outlive his friends. Knowing Al Z, I figured he was probably right.
He gestured at the sofa. “Take a seat. I don't get so many visitors.”
“Can't understand why, this place looking so welcoming and all.”
“I got Spartan tastes.” He smiled and leaned back in his chair. “Well, this is just my lucky day. First a funeral, then it turns out I'm a stop on the Charlie Parker Goodwill Tour. Next thing you know, my dick will drop off and my plants will die.”
“I'll be sorry to see your plants go.”
Al Z stretched his long body in his chair. It was like watching a snake uncoil. “And how is the elusive Louis? We don't hear much about him now. Seems like the only person he kills for these days is you.”
“The only person he ever killed for was himself,” I replied.