David asked Kathy why raincoats are hot and winters don't stay cold and how does anybody know what to wear? He ripped off his dark blue London Fog, a lighter blue sweater and, exhaling a full morning's breath, spread out stiffly in an easy chair like a dental patient awaiting root canal surgery.
Kathy ignored the questions and said, "You want coffee, or some lunch?" She had just returned to her condo from church and wore a pink cowlneck sweater and black pants. He got up and followed her into the kitchen.
"Just coffee. I'm not hungry." He wiped his brow with a handkerchief, sat at the small table before a bay window, and placed Friday in front of him.
The kitchen was airy with pastel-colored appliances. Scant white curtains hung over double windows facing the driveway and on the bay window of the opposite wall.
"So what did you start with?" she asked, flicking on the coffeemaker and joining David at the table.
"Come again?"
"The plan. Your strategic plan."
"Tactical."
"All right, tactical," she said, derisively.
"The Coughlin site."
"And?"
David was not being unattentive but realized that once he got started, the findings of the day-and his interpretation of them-could flow nonstop. He evened the attache case with the near edge of the table as he arranged his thoughts.
"David, are you sharing with me or not?"
"Of course. I just don't know where to start." He snapped Friday open, removed one of the bags of bluish particles and the bag of vacuumed material from Spritz's car, and laid them aside. "Okay, let's do it this way. First off, I think the evidence is overwhelming that Spritz wasn't set up and that he murdered the others. His was the rifle used to kill Coughlin, the writing samples match, he had the opportunities and plenty of motive and besides … "
"Wait now," Kathy said, "motive for which killing?"
"All of them." He counted on his fingers, "Tanarkle-Coughlin-Foster-Bugles. They were the EMS committee that turned him down. Remember, we're dealing with a paranoid schiz here. So he kills the first two, lets Foster go because he was a supporter, and as far as Bugles goes, that was a special case. And forget Dr. Cortez-he had to be eliminated in order for Spritz to get to Bugles."
"Why's Bugles a special case-except for the brutality?"
"Precisely." David underscored the word by slamming two fingers against the table. "The brutality. There had to be something more to kill like that, and it's obvious: the drug connection. Something went sour between Bugles and Spritz, and Spritz handled it his way. His psychopathic way. He'd been around hospitals for years and undoubtedly understood some anatomy and had observed O.R. procedures, and he had the balls to pull off … as we say … the brutality."
Kathy looked as though she didn't want to get up to get the coffee, but did. "Hold up a minute," she said. She poured two cups and cut two squares from an apple Danish. David would never have guessed his charged moment might allow an appreciation of coffee aroma. He took a long swallow, felt the burn on his palate, and followed with two cautious sips.
He held up for not much more than her requested minute, then raised the bags to the light and, after describing their origin, received Kathy's concurrence that a match was indefinite to the naked eye.
"Is Sparky any good in forensic geology?" he asked.
"I thought he was a suspect," she responded, biting into the pastry.
"He is." David twisted his mouth. "Hmm-yes, of course. Anyone else around?"
"Sure. Joe Bangor. He's a geology professor over at the university. We've used him in the past. Good with the microscope."
"If I leave these specimens with you, can you arrange for him to examine them?"
"It'll be done tomorrow."
"Good." He eyed her suspiciously. "Is it okay if I dip a corner of this?" he asked, dangling the Danish over his coffee.
She skewed her lips and said, "Yes, certainly. Anyone who lives in a pad is entitled to dip a Danish."
"Hey, that's clever," he said, buoyed by the way his evaluation was proceeding. "Now then, there's the matter of these gloves." He pointed to the pair in Friday. "I found them in Spritz's laundry room. I don't feel like putting on latex when I'm having coffee so take my word for it-on their undersurface, there's a powder which I'm quite sure is fireclay."
"Fireclay, like in safes?"
"Like from the lining in safes. I learned all about that from Musco. I'll wrap them in plastic before I leave. Can you give them to your professor friend?"
"Yes."
"See if he agrees it's fireclay. And don't bother asking me-I have no idea yet where it fits in. All I know is these gloves weren't at Spritz's when I was there on Thursday."
"Do you think they belong to Spritz?" "Absolutely-if we've ruled out evidence planting …."
"And we haven't."
"Kath, let's just say we have. I can't imagine someone sprinkling blue mortar powder around the floor of a car. But, regardless …" He let the sentence trail because he was anxious to speak of the missing pistol and the Spritz murder.
"Now, moving on," he said, "I think I have a reasonable explanation of the events leading up to Spritz's death. Sparky said the murder weapon was probably a handgun from the Kimber series, right?"
"Right. You found it?"
"No. Spritz had the series in his collection and one of them is gone. I would have noticed it was missing Thursday-I'm sure of it-and there was no forced entry to the house."
"Maybe the perp has a Musco pal, too."
"C'mon, next thing you'll be saying Musco did it." David finished his coffee and Danish before continuing. "Here's what I believe happened. The motorcycle you saw in the parking lot belonged to Spritz. He drove to his EMS place armed with the pistol, and either invited the killer there under some pretext-therefore, they knew each other-or was surprised by the killer. No doubt the murder was drug-related. They had some kind of struggle, and Spritz was disarmed and done in by his own gun. The murderer fled, taking the gun with him. Which, by the way, could possibly eliminate organized crime. It's not a hard and fast rule, but they usually drop the gun before they scram." David noticed Kathy's half-smile. "I'm sure I'm not telling you anything on that score," he added.
"They'd have their own gun or guns anyway," she cut in.
"Exactly."
"There's one other possibility, David." She licked her middle finger of frosting.
"Go ahead, I'm listening." He was beginning to wrap the gloves in a plastic sheet he took from Friday.
"Maybe the cancellation of the EMS contract had nothing to do with it and Spritz didn't act alone in the killings."
David elevated his eyes. "Are you saying two people collaborated for the same drug motive?"
"Why not? It's possible."
"Because I can't see Tanarkle or Coughlin involved in a drug operation."
"Not involved per se, but maybe they stumbled onto it."
David turned his head aside and looked at Kathy with one eye. "You really think that could have happened? Or did happen?"
She shrugged and answered, "Could have?Yes. Did? No."
"Well, let me say this: the most common things occur most commonly and I think there was just one killer for the first murders, and he was Spritz. In any event, the Spritz saga is over and now we have a brand new ball game." He made the last statement with the assurance of an umpire's call.
Kathy responded timidly, "We'll see. Which reminds me-you should know that Nick's stepping up the investigation."
"I thought you were short-handed."
"We are. He's asked for state assistance. And he made the point of saying he's glad you're still involved."
"That's a switch. Did he hope to butter me up because he's worried about being a suspect?"
"David, for heaven's sake! A suspect for all those murders?"
"No. For Spritz's."
"But why?"
"Some drug business? I don't know."
Kathy got up and paced, something he had never seen her do. She turned and said, "Besides the whole premise being ludicrous, think about it. Nick carries his own gun, so if you can say the Mafia has its own hardware and therefore can be ruled out, why can't you apply the same reasoning to Nick?"
David came close to stepping on her last words. `Because I'm not ruling anything out. Or in for that matter. If I had done that in medicine, I'd have been run out of town years ago. So let's just see what the final diagnosis is."
Kathy gave him a comprehensive look and finally said, "Yes, doctor."
David closed the attache case, leaving the bags and protected gloves on the table. "I'm curious," he said, rising. "Who claimed Spritz's body? Do you know?"
"No, I don't know about `claimed,' but I understand Bernie Bugles is making burial arrangements."
Squares of dull light had brightened and crossed the table to the foot of the twin windows. David was about to kiss Kathy before leaving when, with the suddenness of a crack of lightning, a percussive shot and simultaneous shattering of glass reverberated behind them.
"Down!" David screamed, pouncing on Kathy and rolling with her on the floor. Instinctively, his eyes swept over her and what he could see of himself. He was looking for blood and detected none. His breathing felt unimpeded but deep and rapid, as deep and rapid as hers sounded and, as he pushed her against the wall beneath the windows, he blurted, "You okay?"
"I'm-I'm okay. Are you?" she said, her voice constricted.
"Yeah, now stay where you are," he said as he withdrew the Smith and Wesson snubby from his ankle rig. He crawled to the side of the left sash, avoiding several slivers of glass on the floor and, glancing up at the windowpane, noticed a stellate hole immediately above a cracked mullion and twisted lock. He looked over his shoulder at the bay window on the other side of the kitchen and saw a smooth-edged hole in its left lateral border. Alternating a studied gaze between windows, he detected no movement through either one.
"That lock up there probably saved our lives," David said. "I'm sure it diverted the bullet. It went clear out the other side. See, over there." He spoke breathlessly.
Kathy nodded as she rolled her neck. David swung his head around and peered out the near window at an elevated rock ledge beyond the driveway. The ledge separated her property from her neighbor's, some forty feet away. "That's where he pulled the trigger, the son-of-a-bitch. No doubt a pistol; that's what it sounded like, anyway. If he'd used a rifle, we'd have been goners. Even without a telescopic sight." He began easing to a standing position.
"David, careful," Kathy said, appearing ready to elaborate.
But David clamped his hand on her shoulder and said, "Shh … wait … listen." He cocked his head toward the front of the condo unit, toward a repetitive blast and final roar. He knew it had come from a two-stroke, internal combustion engine, and he jerked himself up and scampered out the kitchen, through the living room, out the front door and onto the lawn. He stood straight, feet spread, arms hanging, snubby pointed toward the ground. Through barren trees lining the road parallel to Kathy's, he followed the blur of a red motorcycle.
He returned the pistol to its rig as Kathy arrived, and, with an edge of impatience creeping into his voice, he said, "What the hell's going on, anyway?"
"What? What was it?"
"A motorcycle. A red one." David felt the lines of his face grow pensive. "Didn't your men confiscate the Honda?"
"I'm not sure. You think this is that one?"
"Unless there are two floating around, which would be a helluva stretch."
He put his arm around her waist and pulled her toward his hip as they walked back in. For the first time, he didn't like how fragile his detective felt in his grasp.
"Do you pack your gun when you're home?" he said.
"Not usually."
"Pack it."
They returned to the kitchen and, after a superficial inspection, David said, "I'll be right back. There's got to be a shell casing out there."
He hurried out the front door as if the casing might soon evaporate, and, reaching the forward extent of rock near the beginning of the driveway, climbed the slope back toward the unit, to a point above and opposite the kitchen windows. He shuddered as he looked through the shattered one, able to distinguish almost everything inside.
David scoured the area and, finding no casing, guessed it had disappeared down one of many deep crevices in the rock surface. Or else it wasn't a semiautomatic. The ledge was filthy and damp but he didn't care; he sat on it, legs over the side, fingers wrapped around the edge, unaware of the moisture he'd normally feel.
He asked himself whether the biker was the killer. The potshot here was not target practice.
He ran through his list of suspects, wondering who among them would-or even could-ride a motorcycle. Bernie-Robert-even Nick? Possibly. But Foster, Sparky, the psychiatrist? One more stretch.
And while we're on the subject, pal-if you can be so far off on who owned the red cycle, how far off are you on everything else? He thought of calling it a day but convinced himself it was much too early. Does the killer quit plotting his dirty deeds this early?
Before rejoining Kathy, he examined the opposite side of the unit-a courtyard of underbrush and trees adjacent to the kitchen's bay window-and he recovered no bullet.
David checked his watch. Only twelve minutes had passed since the gunfire and, back inside, he and Kathy took turns trying to locate the suspects, she on her home phone, he on his cellular. No contacts were made but Nora Foster believed her husband would return from a round of errands in a half-hour-one o'clock-and was certain he wouldn't mind talking with David at that time.
"You'll be all right?" David asked.
"I'll be all right," Kathy replied.
"Remember, pack the gun, and I mean it. "
On the way to Alton and Nora Foster's, David detoured to the hospital's parking lot, making a simple U-turn before heading back out. The area behind the vine covered wall was cordoned off and a uniformed police officer waved as he drove by. The red motorcycle was not there. He would later check on whether the police had confiscated it, secretly hoping that if there had indeed been a foul-up, it was Nick's.
David took the usual hilly route to the Foster estate, the Mercedes barely qualifying for DRIVE, its top up and tapes quiet. He felt like a circus aerialist who yesterday had a new routine down pat and today woke up as the clown.
"David, welcome," Nora said in the foyer. "No scarf or gloves today?"
Where's she been? It's like summer out. "No, it's too mild-for a change."
"Alton should be here any minute. Come in. Have a seat. Let me take you to his study." Her shoulders were still speckled with dandruff. "Awful stuff yesterday, wasn't it? Did you read the morning paper? Now there are narcotics in the picture. What a mess."
They walked two abreast down a long hall. Six could have fit. He was struck by the echo of their voices, undampened by the crowded receptions of previous days. Nor were there now any perfumes or food spreads to mask the fusty smell of the Tudor's interior.
They sat opposite each other in rococo chairs more appropriate in a nineteenth century parlor than in a private study. The room had blue papered walls, oak trim, and cluttered surfaces. Two patterned nine-by-twelve rugs covered the floor, corner to corner.
David wasted no time. "Nora, while we have a minute, all right to ask you a question or two?"
"Why, yes. But shouldn't we wait for Alton?"
"With all due respect, I'd rather speak to him alone. Would that be okay?" David purposefully wanted separate interviews to see if their stories jibed.
"Well … he's much closer to everything, but I'll try to be helpful."
"Good. Does Alton own a motorcycle?"
Nora hesitated and then laughed uncontrollably.
She hadn't finished when David said, "Does he?"
She dabbed at the corner of her eye with a tissue she pulled from the sleeve of her housecoat. Then, clearing her throat, she said, "But whatever in heaven's name for?"
"Then he doesn't?"
"No, of course not. Why do you ask?"
"Curious, that's all."
He was about to inquire about their whereabouts Thursday night when Foster appeared at the door. "I saw your car out there," he said, fixing David with a level stare. "Is anything wrong?"
"No," David said, standing. An earlier adrenaline rush had begun to wane and he felt a stitch in his knee. "Nothing new."
"I'll leave you two alone," Nora said, looking relieved. The study door squeaked as she closed it behind her.
Foster did not replace her in the rococo chair, instead choosing his desk swivel chair, a piece among the mishmash that represented four centuries of furniture. Foster signaled him to sit.
"Alton, I won't take much of your time but there are some questions and … "
"Don't be silly, fire away. Take all the time you need but first-any leads?"
"On yesterday?"
"On any of them. Christ, will it ever end?"
"No, nothing definite yet."
"They're shutting down the hospital, you know." "They're what?"
"Starting tomorrow. I suspected it would happen, even without Spritz's killing. We'll have to discharge the electives home and ship the emergents across town. The accreditors said once they feel the hospital's safe, they'll allow us to reopen." Foster ran his fingers through his hair. "Would you like a drink?"
"No thanks, too early."
"Mind if I have one."
"No, not at all."
Foster reached into the cabinet behind him and produced a glass and a bottle of Chivas Regal. He downed half a glass-no water, no ice-in less time than it took to pour it.
"Okay, let me start," David said, "and if a `yes' or `no' answer will do in your opinion-that's fine. You don't have to expand unless you want to."
"Got it," Foster said with a silly grin.
"Do you have a motorcycle you're keeping under wraps?" David took out his pad.
"Do I have a what that I'm what?"
"A motorcycle. A red one."
Foster eyed the Scotch bottle and replied, "No, I'm afraid not. But if I did, I'd hightail it off into never-never land right about now."
David looked at a blank page without writing a note. "Do you own any guns?"
"No."
David checked off an imaginary question. "Did you know Victor Spritz was involved in drugs?"
"No, not as a dealer which it appeared like he was. As a user? That wouldn't have shocked me."
David curled his finger under his mouth. "Can you tell me, Alton, where you were Friday night?"
Foster didn't hesitate. "Right here. I had a headache after the funeral reception and I went to bed early."
"What time was that?"
"Eight-thirty … nine."
"And Nora?"
"She had some club meeting to go to. I think it was the Garden Club."
"When did she get home?"
"I have no idea," Foster snapped. "I was asleep."
David pretended to write meaningful notes on two pages of his pad to allow time for Foster to decompress.
"Okay, that's that," David said. "Next, the missing botulism vial …"
"I was going to call you about that misunderstanding, David, but it makes no difference now. We're being closed anyway, so I'll notify the Health Department. I know John Bartholomew thinks someone made off with the vial, but I really think it must have been accidentally discarded. He's slipping, you know."
"That much?"
"That much."
David regarded the hospital administrator with cold speculation. "We'll see," he said. "Now you won't like this, I'm sure, but about your surgical training."
Foster probed David's face. "How did you find out about that?" he asked, without emotion. "I haven't advertised it."
"I can't say at the moment, Alton, but can you tell me why P.G.H. let you go?" How can he be so calm? The liquor?
"That's a no-brainer." Foster stuck his chin out, defiantly. "They didn't like the quality of my work."
"And it took two years for them to come to that conclusion?"
Foster, who had been swiveling in his chair as he answered questions, stopped abruptly and gave David a blistering look. "That's it!" he cried, his voice rising an octave. "End of conversation." He leaped from his chair, threw open the door and stormed down the hall like a duck with sore feet. David remained seated but watched him gradually slow his pace and, reaching the end of the hall, turn and waddle back.
Foster ignored David as he passed him. He eased into his chair awkwardly, poured himself another drink, took a long slug, then another. He slammed his fist into an open hand and said, "Jesus, I hate it when I get like that. Sorry, David-nerves, I guess." He finished the drink and continued, "Look, I understand your position and that you're helping out the police and all that. But given that they're closing us down and that-let's not beat around the bush-that I'm a suspect …" He heaved a breath. "Why, for Christ's sake, I have no idea. It's my goddamn hospital!"
David thought Foster, eyes like pinwheels, might run out the door again.
"So, David, let me say-I'd better stick to answering just the cops' questions. Kathy's, that Nick guy, whoever. It's more official that way, and I hope you understand."
David was not sure he did, but he nodded his approval. One question short of completing his planned list-he had intended to ask Foster about his affair with Betty Tanarkle-he thanked him for his time.
At the front entrance, David said, "I hope we can get to the bottom of all this-for the sake of justice, and for the hospital." Foster's expression had turned opaque.
The ride home was as fitful as an insomniac's sleep. In thinking about the brazen attempt on his life and possibly on Kathy's, he was certain if the perp had seen him fall, he would have turned the gun on her. And since he botched the first shot, he panicked and ran. But David lingered on his error in assuming the red motorcycle belonged to Spritz. And what of the oily cardboard? A week ago, he might have become stalled in questions of his analytical skills-but not now; there was too much at stake, and, he sensed, too little time. Although he considered it a giant leap in deduction, the error also warned him against prioritizing his suspect list. It leveled its membership.
At 10 Oak Lane, as David crossed sheets of light that had dispersed from his oaks onto the driveway, he thanked the window lock for saving two lives. And he felt a greater resolve shaped by self-admonitions: keep digging, assume nothing, and work fast.
He noticed his storm door was not fully shut. He swung it open and stepped back to pick up a number 10 envelope which fell at his feet. It was addressed to INSPECTOR BROOKS. David scowled as he opened the envelope and unfolded a single sheet of paper. His scowl deepened as he read the uppercase typing:
INSPECTOR: NO DOUBT YOU KNOW OF GIFFORD'S AUTO WRECKING IN TOWN. EVER WATCH THEM CRUSH A CAR? ENDS UP NICE AND THIN LIKE A DIME. EVERYTHING IN IT, TOO. DON'T BECOME SCRAP METAL. GET OFF THE CASE NOW!!!!
David slapped the paper with the back of his hand and put it into his pocket.