"No one demanded a ransom price?"
"Apparently this theft was arranged for a private owner. It never went through. Three weeks after the robbery one painting was delivered to the gallery with a letter telling how the money was to be transferred, then the other painting would be returned. No police were involved, the gallery accepted the terms and delivered the money. The painting was subsequently returned. This time a box accompanied the picture. There were five severed fingers in it. A couple weeks later the stench of a decaying body brought the police to where the corpse was, one hand finger-less, and all the direct evidence to point to him as the thief. Whether they got his sponsor, I don't know."
"And now he's here," I said. "But this time he went for ten."
"This time he thought it was your hand he was trimming."
I shook my head. "That, Ray, is the sticker. There is no way I have any connection with this guy. That note had to be a phony. He was after DiCica to start with and I got snarled in it by accident."
"Pat gave me the hypothesis your funny friends figured out. Given DiCica's background there could be a probability . . ."
"Hell, there's logic there too, Ray."
This time Ray said no. "I don't buy it. Here this Penta character pulls a kill-crazy murder in your office. What were those other kills like?"
"Pretty well oiled," I said. "He knew what he was doing."
"But he didn't instigate the crimes, did he? Somebody sent him out looking for the perps. With the paintings it was the reward that motivated him. The killing was his signature."
"Then this guy's a hit man?"
"He's a fucking marvel, that's what. Someplace along the line my inquiries got shut down like a slammed window. I've been waiting to see if there are any repercussions upstairs, but so far this thing just sits. It's going to take a lot more weight than I got to climb a political wall."
"You sure it's gone that far?"
"Mike, I'm almost due for forced retirement. This private little police enterprise I've built into the department is going to go absolutely flat when I leave unless it captures a little glory from the money people in city government. They don't even know what they got here. The age of computers has tied this place in with every country and industry in the world like a pair of naked lovers in bed."
"Crazy, man."
"I got a feeling about this."
"So have I, Ray, so have I. But where do we pick it up from?"
He had another drag on the cigarette and coughed for half a minute. When he stopped he said, "You killed Penta, Mike. He said so himself."
"Enough, Ray. You know how long it's been since I blew somebody away. I'm sick of that stupid note."
"You I believe. It's this Penta who's hard to follow." He sucked on the cigarette again and coughed again. "You're still the target," he said.
"Show me a motive, then I'll believe it."
"You realize that somewhere there is a motive. It may be crazy and it may be out in left field somewheres, but the motive is there. These kills don't come from somebody who's blown his top and is walking down the street with a knife in his hand."
"So what comes next?"
"The killer is a real stalker. Something motivates him and he gets the job done. He's efficient, silent and completely ruthless."
"You realize what you're profiling here, don't you?"
"Sure," Ray said, "a terrorist."
"How long ago were those three murders he pulled off?"
Ray finished the cigarette and stubbed it out in an ashtray. "I wondered if you'd figure that one out. The last one was twelve years ago."
"And you think there have been more since, right?"
"A killer like that who enjoys his work doesn't stop. You know what I think?"
I nodded. "Somebody realized his potential and utilized him for their own ends."
"Smart bastard," he laughed. "When we get into the political situation the shades get drawn. Communication gets cut off. I get the feeling that sooner or later somebody is going to be asking me in for a quiet talk."
"You still going to keep at it?"
He reached for his pack and shook out another butt. "In three weeks I turn in the badge and start on my pension. No way I can leave with a situation like this wide open." He chuckled and struck a match. "Funny, in a way. I got promoted down to the bottom of the line where I like it best and I want to see the expression on some faces if this opens out to the big glory bust." He held the match to the butt and sucked on the smoke again, then rattled out a cough.
"Who else gets this research?"
"This is departmental business. Pat gets it. How he disseminates it is up to him. With you it's off the record. I guess you know that."
"No sweat. What I heard here I leave here. Thanks for the information."
"You know somethin'? For a private cop you got the damnedest connections I've ever seen. You go in and outa the department like you really belonged there. You rub asses with the hot-shots, walk through the shitpile without stepping in it and come up smelling like a guy fresh outa the barber shop."
"You jealous?"
"Nope, just curious as hell." He started to cough again and stuck the cigarette pack in his pocket.
"Those things are going to kill you," I said.
He gave me a cold-blooded grin. "Right now I'd say my chances are 'bout the same as yours."
"Sure they are," I said sourly, shaking my head.
He waved the smoke away with his hand as I headed to the door. "Stay alive, Mike," he said to my back.
There was no way I could have avoided the three reporters on the main floor. They were waiting for anyone involved in the investigation of Smiley's killing, hoping to get Pat, and I walked right into them. They would have had the official version as far as it went, but they were all old-timers and smelled a story brewing that hadn't erupted into the news yet. Two of them remembered me from a couple other wild sorties and a major court case three years ago. I had always made good copy, and now with the kill in my office and me on the scene of another one, they were trying to make a chain out of something that was only a pile of loose links so far.
I didn't lie to them. They were too good at putting things together. I didn't tell them everything either, and they knew it. What they got, the cops already had, so I didn't leave myself open.
The one reporter who had just been jotting things down when the others put the questions to me finally said, "That guy really messed up your girl, didn't he?"
My hands locked up again and I could feel the muscles in my neck go tight. "I'd like to kill that fucker," I said. My voice was suddenly harsh and I spat on the floor.
"She your girl?" he asked quietly. I caught myself just in time. He was watching me carefully, mentally recording my reaction.
"Velda works for me," I said. "We're old friends." I didn't go any further and before he could press it, Pat came in the front doors with Candace Amory and two of the reporters half-ran to intercept them. The other took his time, a wry smile tugging at his mouth. I was glad when he joined the others.
Pat and Candace dealt with them in a fast and friendly manner, then turned them over to the PR cop who was standing by. Pat had spotted me the minute he came in and waved his thumb at the elevator. The door closed and we started up. "What're you doing here?" Pat said.
"I thought you wanted a statement."
Candace gave us both a sharp look. "Didn't you give one to the officer at the scene?" Her tone was like a reprimand.
I kept my face flat. "Not in superfine detail, lady."
"We've done this before," Pat told her brusquely. The door opened at his floor and we got off and went into his office. Pat went behind his desk, I eased into the comfortable chair by the window and Candace walked. It was an animal walk. It was a cat walk, an annoyed pissed-off strut that only a woman with a hair up her ass can do. When she stopped she stared straight at Pat and half hissed, "What's with you two?"