When David awoke early Friday morning, he was cold in bed and couldn't understand why he had slept so soundly until he recalled adding sweet vermouth to another double Canadian Club the night before. There was a misty remembrance, too, of poking at some kind of goulash, and, afterward, of admonishing Kathy that she would freeze in the nude. Everything else that may or may not have transpired was a blank.
Feeling dumb that he wore only shorts, he lifted the blankets and saw Kathy curled up and still nude. He kissed her awake and neither spoke as they did what he later referred to as "The thing they did or didn't do last night." He also called it, "Filling in the blank," and received Kathy's stoneface and sharp elbow.
After breakfast, David said, "I'm behind in my computer entries and look outside because there go the tire tracks."
Kathy regarded him critically. "Now that's a sentence for posterity. I hope your mind isn't as scrambled."
"Right now? Yes. Sorry, what I meant was … you know I like to keep a diary of sorts … who knows? It might come in handy someday … and I think I'll bring it up-to-date now. Second, more snow fell, maybe two inches, so now we can forget tire impressions from yesterday."
"That's better. I know your mind's awhirl, David darling, but you have to slow down. And while you're trying to figure out how, I'm calling headquarters to change Spritz's APB to an arrest warrant."
David went to his computer and Kathy to the phone. After making his entries, he called Musco at the cab company.
"I have a strange request," David said. "Do you know of anyone who's a handwriting expert?"
"Sure. She reads everything: handwriting, palms, faces. Name's Madame Alicenova over there in Center City. We call her Madame Alice for short or sometimes just Alice."
"It sounds like she does handwriting analysis. I need handwriting identification."
"What's the difference? You'll get your money's worth."
"One's a science. The other isn't. I don't want some guess about personality traits. I want a positive identification of something."
"Believe me, David, my boy, this gal knows her potatoes. Even the FBI uses her."
Reluctantly, David took down her address and phone number and said, "Musco, thanks much for referring me to a goddamn fortuneteller."
"You wait. You'll see."
David called and scheduled an appointment for later, at four-thirty. He had expected Madame Alicenova to ask for details but she didn't. He had expected to hear an accent but there was none.
At eight-thirty, he and Kathy decided she would skip Ted Tanarkle's funeral later that morning but would attend the noon reception at Alton and Nora Foster's. He would go to both.
As he motored to St. Xavier's Roman Catholic Church, David pictured a lighted sign swinging in a cavity of his brain. It read, "CARCAN and CANCAN." He concentrated on what the last three letters of each word could possibly stand for and whether they stood for the same thing. He said them aloud-"Canada? Canvas? Canal? Candy? Candidate?" — and thought that once they hauled Spitz in, he would throttle the answer out of him.
He also thought he was becoming most proficient in two things: whipping out his Minx semiautomatic and attending funerals. Even luncheon receptions after funerals. He had not gone to Tanarkle's wake, and, flashing back to the rifle barrel on the hillside, decided to forgo the cemetery scene as well. He wanted, however, to pay his respects to an old friend and mentor at the funeral mass and, of more importance, to see who was there, a sleuthing necessity that he was sure Tanarlde would understand.
It was a summery morning in January and David found the downtown church's parking lot stuffed with cars in uneven rows and with mourners he knew: white-clad residents, nurses in uniform, department heads, an administrative contingent, and every doctor and pathology employee he had ever met. He wondered who was minding the hospital as he pulled to a stop on a crusty side street.
By the time he arrived at the church steps, the crowd had thinned, and inside, he was given one of only two or three remaining seats in the largest and most ornate church in the city. It was a middle seat in the last row which David thought was just as well, for he would have felt embarrassed if he sat up close and blocked the view of not only the officiating priest but also the statues above the altar.
The air was thick with incense, and organ music was so loud, it drowned out its own echoes. David could see clear to the front and, as he eyed each row, was not surprised by anybody's attendance: the Tanarkle family, the Fosters, Belle, Sparky, Dr. Castleman from the E.R. But then, two rows ahead of his: Bernie Bugles and Marsha Gittings from Pathology. They sat side by side. Coincidence?
The attache case, Friday, grew heavy on David's lap. He had discovered all he could and was tempted to leave but reasoned it was too early for the luncheon anyway. He stayed seated until the casket was rolled out past him and he had bowed his head and whispered, "Bye, old buddy. I wish you peace." He miscalculated, thinking his would be the first row to be guided out. Instead, others preceded him and it was a full ten minutes before his turn, but only ten seconds since the unlikely couple left in a hurry. As they passed by, Bernie had Marsha by the arm and had glanced back at David.
David blasted out, hoping to intercept them before they arrived in the parking lot. But it was too late. He spotted them though and gained on them, reaching the early model Ford he recognized as Marsha's. Bernie was in the driver's seat and was about to close the door when David held it back with the full length of his body.
"Hi there," David said.
"Why, Dr. Brooks, hello," Marsha said from the passenger side.
David looked at one, then the other. "I didn't realize you two knew each other."
Bernie made a feeble attempt to close the door. "May I?" he said.
David didn't answer, nor did he move. Bernie slouched and exaggerated a stare out the windshield.
Finally, Bernie turned slowly and said, "I understand you sneaked into my father's place." He pulled up the collar of a patterned windbreaker.
"I didn't sneak in. Robert let me in."
"My brother's an idiot."
"That's not my fault. At least I didn't break in. On the other hand, did my brother let you in my place yesterday?" David was an only child.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Bernie said, arching his back.
David glared at Bernie and had difficulty disregarding the possibility he had broken into his home. He wanted to drag him from the car and shake him into admission. Instead, he said, "Then how about this? Where do you keep your motorcycle?"
"I don't have a motorcycle, and what's with the third degree?" Bernie tried the door again.
David stood as solid as a nearby stanchion. "Okay," he said, "you don't have a motorcycle." He grinned at Marsha. "You're going to the reception, I assume?"
"Yes," she said.
"Good, I'll see you there." He released the door.
At Nora and Alton Foster's, David had left Friday in the car and, inside, swayed from foot to foot, itching to have the man in the ascot take his scarf and gloves. Barely in the door, he had to wait in one of three lines this time, and while he waited, harked back to the reception for Charlie Bugles when he thought the music, the noise, the liquor, the ostensible merriment were more suited to a political fundraiser. Not now, he observed, casting his eyes into the living room, over still heads and touching shoulders. Wagner replaced Gershwin, it was church quiet and there was no bartender. Even the sweet cakes he sampled from the table in the foyer tasted bland.
"David," Alton Foster said solemnly, "glad you could make it." He had swum through the lines and he shook David's hand. David knew he hurt men when he shook hands, and that the only way to prevent it was to slacken his wrist. He reserved that for women. Kathy had called it a double standard.
"Hi, Alton, it's pretty grim in here."
"Yes, I know. It's a sad occasion. They don't … I mean didn't … come any finer than Ted."
"For sure."
"Let me take those, please," Foster said. One of David's gloves dropped to the floor and they both started to bend for it. "No, no," Foster said, "I'll get it." He picked up the glove and puffed, "It's a shorter distance for me, right?"
They made their way to a row of closets where Foster said, "Here, Boris, these belong to Dr. Brooks."
David didn't quite know why he found that amusing.
The administrator steered him into a side room. "David," he said, searching his eyes, "what's happening? Has any headway been made on the killings?"
"We're still working on it." Foster was another one David wanted to extract more information from-like why he kept his surgical training a secret. He wanted to question him, not shake as in the case of Bernie Bugles, or throttle as in the case of Victor Spritz. Just start questioning right now. But, once again, he congratulated himself for not allowing Foster's guard to be raised any higher than he thought it might be.
Foster pointed in the direction of the living room fireplace. "That Detective … Med-i-core, is it? Kathy's new boss. He's here, you know."
"He's here?"
"Yes. He's questioning people like there's no tomorrow, and I sort of resent it. It's an inappropriate time and place, really. Some of them have come up to me and complained. He hasn't gotten to me yet-I sure hope I can stay civil."
There we have it. Nick's no passive observer. Or is it a sham?
Foster went on. "I received a letter from the bunch at the Joint Commission on Accreditation office. They want a full accounting of … how'd they put it? … `the murder spree at your hospital.' Murder spree. What a shit-eating way to put it. They asked how we're coming along with our in-service educational efforts. Can you believe it? An in-service on how to outguess a murderer. And, do you know what? Our census is the lowest in our history. The bottom's fallen out. How can a backlash happen so fast?"
David was still assessing Nick's conduct but suspected he had heard the correct question and said, "Pardon me for saying so, but what do you expect? We've had four high profile murders, the killer's still at large, and there could be more."
"More?"
"Think about it. Don't just think about the census."
"But it's ruining us!"
David wondered why Foster's body language didn't match his emotion. "Look, Alton, patients are concerned, the Joint Commission's concerned, the police are concerned and, frankly, I'm concerned. Now, we can talk more later, but I must chat with some people before they leave." He wanted to range about and, eventually, to corner Bernie again. Besides, lately he felt listening to Foster was like moving a refrigerator and then having to strip floors.
"Yes, yes, of course. Go right ahead. I'll see you later. Oh, there's my wife. Go say hello."
They had edged back toward the foyer which was drained of early arrivals. David saw Nora Foster by a planter near the step to the living room and heard the click of fingernails. He moseyed over and caught the sweet fragrance of flowers he couldn't identify and had never seen in the winter except at funerals. She nipped at dead petals and placed them in the pocket of her striped bouffant skirt.
"Hello, Nora. Nipping in the bud-I mean after the bud?"
"Oh, Dr. Brooks. Welcome again. This is getting to be a habit."
Her husband, now at their side, retorted, "Getting to be? I can't take her to a flower show. We'd get thrown out."
She countered, icily, "Alton, dearest, I was referring to funeral receptions, not blossom cleansing."
She deposited a fistful of petals into a plastic sandwich bag and, shaking a finger at David, said, "Now don't forget the blood drive tomorrow. It's the staff's chance to do its duty. Remember, you missed in July."
"Yes, ma'am," he replied, in the manner of a schoolboy caught playing hooky. That's all she's got to think about at a time like this?
David excused himself when he spotted Betty Tanarlde sagging on a window seat at the far end of the living room. Several guests appeared to be offering her their condolences. He walked over, waited his turn and said, "Betty, I'm terribly sorry and I suppose it's no comfort to say he lived a full life." He took her hands and leaned over to kiss her.
"Thank you, David. Ted was one in a million," she said, her voice, wooden.
David thought it odd that whereas he remembered she had worn black at Bugles' funeral, now she was in emerald green. At least she yielded on her neckline this time, he mused.
He moved on to allow others their expressions of sympathy. Just then, he detected the scent of his favorite perfume and felt a gentle tap on his shoulder from behind. Without turning, he said softly, "Darling, I've been waiting for you."
Kathy walked around to face him and said, "It's a good thing it's me."
"Hmm, excellent point. Listen, before I forget, how come Nick's here?"
"He told me he called Foster and asked if he could come."
"Well I'll bet Foster's sorry he said `yes.' Apparently Nick's forcing himself on people. Think you ought to call him off?"
"Hey, I couldn't do what he's doing. Here, I mean. If he picks up anything, so much the better."
"Just thought I'd raise the question," David said with resignation. "By the way, you look nice."
"You mean uncop-like?" Kathy was dressed in navy blue: turtleneck blouse, opened fanny sweater, snug skirt and stiletto shoes that elevated her to the level of David's bowtie. She added, "You noticed. Thanks. I left the badge off, though."
"You look naked without it."
"I always look naked to you."
"Complaining?"
"No." She quickly shifted to a different gear. "David!" she said, "This is a funeral reception."
"So? Life goes on."
"Well, I hope it does around these parts. At the rate it's going …"
David shifted to his own gear. "Wait here," he said, "I think they're getting ready to leave." He made himself thinner as he sidestepped through a dense wall of guests toward Bernie Bugles and Marsha Gittings.
He reached down to lift up Bernie's limp hand, and shook it with all the force he would have liked to use on his narrow shoulders.
When David released the hand, Bernie looked at it as he might a fallen sparrow and, addressing Marsha, said, "What are we doing here?" He poured a contemptuous look around. "Let's go."
"Wait," David said. "May I ask you a few questions?"
"You already did," Bernie snapped.
David plowed ahead. "You know Victor Spritz?" Bernie hesitated, then answered, "The ambulance guy? Sure, why?"
"Do you know where he is?"
"No, where is he?"
"That's what I'm asking." David knew he had framed the question wrong and his own response was the best he could do. He decided to press on.
"Are you still living in Manhattan?"
"That's none of your business."
"Bernard!" Marsha shrieked. Heads turned their way. "Yes, he is, Dr. Brooks."
"Thanks," David said, not so much to be polite as to distinguish her answers from Bernie's. "And, oh, before you leave, Marsh, let me ask you something. Who's stepped into Ted's position? Jake?"
"Yes, and I'd guess Dr. Reed has the inside track to become Chief. He's been with us for more than fifteen years. Came just after I did."
While David and Marsha spoke, Bernie gravitated toward the foyer and waved for her to follow.
"One last question, and you don't have to answer," David said. "How long have you known that guy?"
"Who, Jake Reed?"
"No, Bernie, over there."
Marsha nodded yes to Bernie and then, addressing David, said, "I met him at a party his father had many years ago. What? Twelve, thirteen years?"
David decided to take a chance on something he realized was out of bounds. "You and he serious?"
"I'm not sure what you'd call it. I have to go now. Good luck, Dr. Brooks."
He watched as she and Bernie stole off. What a strange answer! Didn't deny a relationship. "Good luck?" Murders on her mind.
As David looked around for Kathy, he noticed Nick in a cluster of long faces, notepad in hand. David thought there was nothing to be gained by speaking to him so he headed off in the opposite direction, finally locating Kathy finishing a cup of coffee.
"How did that go?" she asked.
"You learn some things, you don't learn some things. I'll explain later. We're out of here. You going to headquarters?"
"I have to run home first." She spread her arms. "These aren't my work clothes."
"Tonight?" David said.
"Tonight, except let's make it at my place." "Like in `your place or mine'?"
Nostrils flaring, Kathy responded, "Please, I hate that expression."
"Why?"
"Because of the insinuation."
"Okay, I understand. Then shall we insinuate at your place or mine?"
"You're incorrigible!" Kathy growled. "Bye."
She began to strut off when David took three steps to catch up to her, and, following her ear, whispered, "Don't forget to say hello to Betty Tanarkle."
Without breaking stride, Kathy swerved off at a right angle as if she had thought of the courtesy herself.
From one o'clock on, two thoughts nagged David's subconscious like an inflamed toe: the Bernie/Marsha alliance and the CARCAN/CANCAN conundrum. Beyond those, he was determined to tackle several loose ends among many; the pearl-handled dagger and past flights to Istanbul, Cartagena and Tokyo headed the list.
He settled in at the Hole, informed Belle he didn't want to be disturbed except for an urgent message-"like from someone claiming he committed all four murders"-and started calling pawnshops other than Razbit's, museums, historical societies, Army-Navy stores and any other place that might sell, collect, trade or otherwise deal in daggers. In an hour, he knew no more than he did when he first sat down. So much for Operation Dagger Hunt, he grumbled.
Next, after consulting with a travel agent friend, he contacted every airline that had planes flying into Turkey, Colombia and Japan. The response was uniform: they could not release past flight manifests except to a bona-fide law enforcement agency. Sometimes, as in a disaster, to the media.
David sat ruminating as he tossed a paper wad of phone numbers from hand to hand. Belle slid a cup of coffee on his desk, startling him.
"I thought I said no disturbances," he said.
"Oh, right," she said, cowering. "Well, let's say this was brewed by someone claiming he committed all four murders." He threw the wad of paper at her.
Cuddling the cup, he took a sip, then another, and cleared his mind as if to make room for ideas to germinate. Travel ideas. Commercial flying ideas.
There was a case he had six years ago when he first started sleuthing. It dealt with an embezzler trying to flee the country, and he vaguely recollected the criminal may also have done drugs. It conjured up a litany of federal agencies he had to deal with: the Immigration and Naturalization Service, the Drug Enforcement Agency, the U.S. Customs Service. He remembered how sympathetic they were to the plight of amateur detectives but also how slowly the answers filtered back.
Finally, bingo! Kathy. Legitimate, legal, authentic. Professional police detectives have the full resources of the local, state and federal law enforcement communities. Have her find out. He contacted her.
It was two-thirty. By four, he had his information. Kathy phoned to say that over the past five years, Victor Spritz had flown to Colombia twelve times; Charlie Bugles had traveled to Turkey ten times; and his son, Bernie, had landed in Tokyo twenty-one times. She added that she couldn't wait to discuss the implications at her place later that night. Neither could David.
At precisely four-thirty, he pulled into the driveway of a yellow Victorian house set back slightly from a thoroughfare of fast-food restaurants, chain stores and discount houses. Out front, an ice-crusted sign with faded green letters spanned two posts stuck in the ground. The letters spelled: READINGS.
David thought the house looked as if it had been wheeled to a sliver of land left over from commercial development. And he was certain it violated side lot zoning regulations.
He obeyed the WALK-IN command on an index card thumbtacked to the doorjamb. The far end of a foyer as expansive as the four rooms at 10 Oak Lane contained a ponderous glass door trimmed in carved oak figurines. He followed the instructions there to RING BELL AND ENTER. Inside, there was an echo to his steps in a room with no carpeting and circumscribed by chairs and tables of all sizes, shapes and hardwoods. Its floor dimensions were double those of the foyer and its ceiling was higher than either dimension. He sank into an easy chair that elevated his kneecaps to eye level and picked up a tattered copy of Life magazine from an end table. He remembered being told once that mirrors tend to enlarge a room and he wondered whether they were wasted on all four walls.
In ten seconds, a door directly opposite David opened and a tall women swanned into the room. She had symmetrical facial wrinkles and titian hair. She subdued the billow of her floral-print skirt with one hand and offered the other to David, but he didn't have a chance to shake it as she reached for the convexity of her black silk blouse and withdrew a card from a pocket.
"I believe you are Dr. Brooks. So nice to meet you," she said. Her voice was firm, resonant and coordinated with the style of the house.
"Yes, Musco sent me. You know, from the Red Checker Cab Company."
"Ah, yes. Mr. Diller. I've spoken to both of you about your request. Do you have something for me?" She descended into a chair next to David and moved a table lamp to the side.
"Yes, one's a piece of tape; the other's a sign. Can you tell me if the writing was done by the same person?" He opened Friday, pulled out the tape and cardboard sign, and placed them on the table.
At the same time, Madame Alice brandished a round magnifying glass the size of a coffee saucer. David assumed she took it from the table drawer but he never saw or heard it open.
"Yes … hmm … yes … nice," she said, examining the articles with her naked eye. "I don't need this." She put down the magnifying glass. "I can tell you, straight away, that they match. Whoever wrote the sign also wrote on the tape."
David tossed her a how-do-you-know look.
"See here," she said, "notice the spacing between letters, and the same buckle on these letters over here, and especially how short the upper loop is on the `S' in both specimens. I have no doubt, Dr. Brooks."
But David did. Or at least he wasn't convinced her comments were not boilerplate.
Madame Alice leaned back and, searching the air for words, lapsed into a monologue that included historical data on manuscript writing, cursive writing, calligraphy, Gothic writing, hieroglyphics, Spencerian writing, and what she called, English Round Hand.
David was now convinced. He thanked the lady, forked over a fifty-dollar bill, and considered asking her the cost of a palm reading or, better still, of naming Victor Spritz's whereabouts.
Halfway to Kathy's, he glanced at the persistent lights in his mirror. Well, if it isn't Kermit. Where's he been? He missed a night.