“The second one!”
“You received a second check?”
“Isn’t that why you’re calling?”
“Actually, sir, I was calling to ask you that very question.”
“What question?”
“Whether you’d also received a check from a man by the name of Albert Rudden.”
“Yes, Rudden was the name on the second check. That’s what I called to report. Six days ago.”
“Who did you call?”
Gurney heard a couple of long, deep breaths being taken, as though the man were trying to keep himself from exploding.
“Look, Detective, there’s a level of confusion here that I’m not happy with. I called the police six days ago to report a troubling situation. Three checks had been sent to my post-office box, addressed to an individual I’ve never heard of. Now you call me back, ostensibly regarding these checks, but you don’t seem to know what I’m talking about. What am I missing? What the hell is going on?”
“What police department did you call?”
“Mine, of course-my local Wycherly precinct. How could you not know that if you’re calling me back?”
“The fact is, sir, I’m not calling you back. I’m calling from New York State regarding the original check you returned to Mark Mellery. We weren’t aware of any additional checks. You said there were two more after the first?”
“That’s what I said.”
“One from Albert Rudden and one from someone else?”
“Yes, Detective. Is that clear now?”
“Perfectly clear. But now I’m wondering why three misaddressed checks disturbed you enough to call your local police.”
“I called my local police because the postal police whom I first notified exhibited a colossal lack of interest. Before you ask me why I called the postal police, let me say that for a policeman you have a rather dull sense of security issues.”
“Why do you say that, sir?”
“I’m in the security business, Officer-or Detective, or whatever you are. The computer-data security business. Do you have any idea how common identity theft is-or how often identity theft involves the misappropriation of addresses?”
“I see. And what did the Wycherly police do?”
“Less than the postal police, if that’s possible.”
Gurney could imagine Dermott’s phone calls receiving a lackadaisical response. Three unfamiliar people sending checks to someone’s post-office box might sound like something less than a high-priority peril.
“You did return the second and third checks to their senders, like you returned Mark Mellery’s?”
“I certainly did, and I enclosed notes asking who gave them my box number, but neither individual had the courtesy to reply.”
“Did you keep the name and address from the third check?”
“I certainly did.”
“I need that name and address right now.”
“Why? Is there something going on here I don’t know about?”
“Mark Mellery and Albert Rudden are both dead. Possible homicides.”
“Homicides? What do you mean, homicides?” Dermott’s voice had become shrill.
“They may have been murdered.”
“Oh, my God. You think this is connected with the checks?”
“Whoever gave them your post-office box address would be a person of interest in the case.”
“Oh, my God. Why my address? What connection is there to me?”
“Good question, Mr. Dermott.”
“But I never heard of anyone named Mark Mellery or Albert Rudden.”
“What was the name on the third check?”
“The third check? Oh, my God. I’ve gone completely blank.”
“You said you made a note of the name.”
“Yes, yes, of course I did. Wait. Richard Kartch. Yes, that was it. Richard Kartch. K-a-r-t-c-h. I’ll get the address. Wait, I have it here. It’s 349 Quarry Road, Sotherton, Massachusetts.”
“Got it.”
“Look, Detective, since I seem to be involved in this in some way, I’d appreciate knowing whatever you can tell me. There must be a reason my post-office box was chosen.”
“Are you sure you’re the only one who has access to that box?”
“As sure as I can be. But God knows how many postal workers have access to it. Or who might have a duplicate key that I’m not aware of.”
“The name Richard Kartch means nothing to you?”
“Nothing. I’m quite sure of that. It’s the sort of name I’d remember.”
“Okay, sir. I’d like to give you a couple of phone numbers where you can reach me. I would appreciate hearing from you immediately if anything at all occurs to you about the names of those three people, or about any access anyone else might have to your mail. And one last question. Do you recall the amounts of the second and third checks?”
“That’s easy. The second and third were the same as the first-$289.87.”
Chapter 38
Madeleine turned on one of the den lamps from a switch at the door. During Gurney’s conversation with Dermott, the dusk had deepened and the room was nearly dark.
“Making progress?”
“Major progress. Thanks to you.”
“My Great-Aunt Mimi had peonies,” she said.
“Which one was Mimi?”
“My father’s mother’s sister,” she said, not quite concealing her exasperation at the fact that a man so adept at juggling the details of the most complex investigation couldn’t remember half a dozen family relationships. “Your dinner is ready.”
“Well, actually…”
“It’s on the stove. Don’t forget about it.”
“You’re going out?”
“Yes.”
“Where to?”
“I’ve told you about it twice in the past week.”
“I remember something about Thursday. The details…”
“… escape you at the moment? Nothing new there. See you later.”
“You’re not going to tell me where…?”
Her footsteps were already receding through the kitchen to the back door.
There was no phone listing for Richard Kartch at 349 Quarry Road in Sotherton, but an Internet map search of contiguous addresses turned up names and phone numbers for 329 and 369.
The thick male voice that finally answered the call to 329 monosyllabically denied knowing anyone by the name of Kartch, knowing which house on the street 349 might be, or even knowing how long he himself had lived in the area. He sounded half comatose on alcohol or opiates, was probably lying as a matter of habit, and was clearly not going to be of any help.
The woman at 369 Quarry Road was more talkative.
“You mean the hermit?” Her way of saying it gave the epithet a creepy pathology.
“Mr. Kartch lives alone?”
“Oh, indeed he does, unless you count the rats his garbage attracts. His wife was lucky to escape. I’m not surprised you’re calling-you said you’re a police officer?”
“Special investigator with the district attorney’s office.” He knew that he ought, in the interest of full disclosure, to mention the state and county of jurisdiction, but he rationalized that the details could be filled in later.
“What’s he done now?”
“Nothing that I’m aware of, but he may be able to help with an investigation, and we need to get in touch with him. Would you happen to know where he works or what time he gets home from work?”
“Work? That’s a joke!”
“Is Mr. Kartch unemployed?”
“Try unemployable.” There was venom in her voice.
“You seem to have a real problem with him.”
“He’s a pig, he’s stupid, he’s dirty, he’s dangerous, he’s crazy, he stinks, he’s armed to the teeth, and he’s usually drunk.”
“Sounds like quite a neighbor.”
“The neighbor from hell! Do you have any idea what it’s like trying to show your home to a prospective buyer while the shirtless, beer-swilling ape next door blasts holes in a garbage can with his shotgun?”