At the Hole, David was pleased to find his small base of operation had not been included in the shutdown. He hemmed and hawed as he offered Belle a stack of reasons why he shouldn't call Russ Selby, president of the Reliable Box Factory.
"Look, David honey," Belle said, frenzied, "people do it all the time. Sometimes, workers have to be called away. Phone the guy and ask if Robert can be spared for five minutes, for heaven's sake."
"But I don't want to jeopardize his job. Selby will think he's either very sick or in trouble with the law."
"No, he won't. First, Selby's your good friend, your classmate. Second and third, he knows Robert's father was hacked to death, and he knows five minutes of an employee's time is a drop in the bucket. Fourth, this is no big deal, really, so why are we discussing it?"
"I'm glad we came to an obvious conclusion," David said, pumping his fist in the air. "Get him on the phone."
Belle drew in her breath, then let it out slowly.
If ever there were a commercial building shaped like the products it housed, the Reliable Box Factory was it. And if ever David had felt bathed in the strangest of odors-of a mixture of glue and ink and new paper, and of machinery oil and grease thrown in-this was it. The place was teeming with its work force and whirling noises as he was ushered into a small reception room by a female secretary who, five years ago, he would have engaged in conversation.
Within minutes, the door opened and he flipped a tattered Popular Mechanics back onto a table. Robert strolled in and gave him a puny handshake.
"Sorry to take you away from your work, Robert." They sat facing each other, on red wooden boxes with simple backrests.
"Are you kidding?"
"I like your shirt," David said. It was red and long-sleeved, and above its breast pocket was a black and white imprint of a box containing the letters "RBF."
"Thanks. See these letters? I tell everybody they stand for `Robert Bugles Factory.'
"Why not? It's funny but it makes sense." David's words were lost in Robert's burst of laughter.
"Rob-ert," David said in his most conciliatory voice, "I haven't seen you since … when? … I suppose it was last Thursday at Bruno's. Remember, in the locker room? You were kind enough then to answer some questions. Well, as I'm sure you know, Victor Spritz has been murdered since then, and we have reason to believe all the murders at the hospital are somehow tied together." David leaned forward as if to share a secret. "Anyway," he continued, "I thought I'd drop by to ask you a few more questions-the same ones I'm asking anybody connected with the victims: family, friends, co-workers and so-forth. Is that okay?"
"Sure, that's okay." Robert looked at the clock on the wall. "It won't take too long, will it?"
"Not at all. Just a minute or two." David launched into his interrogation as if he expected Robert to reconsider cooperating. "What kind of car do you drive?"
"A van. It's a Dodge Caravan. Ninety-three."
"Do you own a motorcycle?"
"No, sure wish I did. Maybe I will someday."
"How about a gun? Do you own one?"
"No." It was Robert's turn to lean forward. "But my dad had both of them-a long time ago when I was a young kid."
"Both of them?"
"Yeah, a motorcycle and a gun. I saw the gun in the closet."
"How long ago was that?"
"Way back. I was a kid. Mom was still alive. She used to yell at him about having a gun."
"I see." David produced his notepad. "And just for the record, do you remember the color of the motorcycle?"
"Sure. Black. It was a big black one." David printed "BLACK" in the pad. He saw Robert glance at the clock.
"Just one more thing and we'll be through," David said. "Friday night. Can you tell me where you were?"
Robert cocked his head in apparent thought. "That's when who-do-you-call-it got killed, right?"
"Right. I'm not implying anything at all, Robert. It's the same question I have to ask everyone."
"I'm not worried about nothin'. I went over to Bruno's again."
"That was at the usual time-five?"
"Yeah, five … five to … around seven."
"And after that?"
"I went home."
"And you did what?"
"Watched the shows."
"What shows?"
"Whatever's on the TV-you know-on Fridays."
David consulted the blank pages of his pad. "That's all, my friend. You've been very helpful. Thanks a lot." They stood and, in lieu of a handshake, David briefly put his arm around the shorter man's shoulders. "You put in a long day here?" he asked, feigning small talk.
"Eight hours. That's the morning shift."
"You start real early?" David opened the door.
"Seven. Then we go to three-thirty. They give us a half-hour for lunch."
In the Mercedes, David contacted Musco. "Be out front at your place at one o'clock."
The Chestnut Apartment Complex, a red brick structure of eight units, was an uphill five-minute walk from the hospital, on a street otherwise reserved for physicians' and dentists' offices. Word had it that once Charlie Bugles had assumed the Board chairmanship years ago, he finagled a shady deal for his complex to be built by the same construction company retained by the hospital for future expansion projects.
David had made house calls there and was familiar with its interior layout: two floors of four units each, their entrances approached from a center stairwell. He recalled the opposing doors on each landing, the knockers instead of bell buttons, the name cards askew in their metal frames.
From Red Checker to Chestnut Street, he thought of his Tactical Plan and "Suspect-6" list, particularly in the context of Robert's involvement or noninvolvement in murder, of his operative role or nonoperative role in the drug ring. Almost reverently, David had stuck to the Plan and satisfied all but one of its items. This, the inspection of Robert's apartment, was the last, and he didn't expect it to reveal much. Because if his suspicion that the entire batch of killings was drug-related and that Robert was incapable of managing a territory, the upcoming inspection became academic.
The weekend warm rains had melted the snow and two days of sun had dried its waters. David drove into the building's rear parking area, its glossy black asphalt patterned in yellow lines that ran parallel to one another like the teeth of an immense comb. Musco followed in his cab. A solitary car was parked in an end space.
David bent an ear to faint music and dog whimpers coming from within the building as they walked into the main back door. He examined the nameplates on the first level where the music disappeared but the whimpers changed to nasty growls. He assumed Musco would knock somewhere on the second floor shortly, and hoped they wouldn't be as loud. Upstairs, they found Robert's door. David asked Musco to dispense with the knock, indicating its combination with the utterances of an aroused dog would attract further attention. The cabby did his thing and took his leave.
Inside, David rushed through the three-room apartment in a span of time commensurate with his expectation of discovering any worthwhile evidence. The apartment was simply furnished and neat. Neater than he had anticipated-except for the hall closet he passed as he prepared to leave.
Its bivalve doors were partially open, wedged by a rectangular object which came to his knees and was draped by a bedsheet. A clothes hamper? He lifted up a corner and ran his hand over a cold black surface underneath.
David yanked off the sheet and arched at the sight of a metal safe. Stupified, he crossed his arms and attempted to fathom its meaning. He kneeled down to try the door. Its dial was gone and in its place was a round hole rimmed in variable shades of grey and blue. Blowtorched! He thought he smelled burnt metal but wasn't certain that burnt metal had an odor. He swung the door open without effort. Except for the scorched dial that lay on a shelf, the safe was empty.
Chapter 27
After a brooding lunch at home, David concentrated on the meaning of the invaded steel safe. He had no doubt it was Victor Spritz who had removed the dial with an acetylene blowtorch. The gloves in his laundry room. The fireclay. David hadn't thought it necessary to rub off a sample from the lining of the safe to prove a definite match. He was satisfied.
But what did it mean? How did it fit? Would it fit? Should he dare contact Robert and attempt to bait him into providing some answers without giving away his trespassing? Later, maybe. No, better still-he checked his watch-martial arts at five. He'll probably be there.
David had a time gap to fill. He called Kathy to inform her of the revelation at Robert's and to get her take on it. She expressed the same bewilderment he felt. He verified she had dispatched a person to stake out Bernie's place-a Detective Paul Johnson.
David uploaded new material into his computer, not only to stay current but also-typing slowly, hopping back and forth to previous entries-attempting to hit upon a magic solution to the puzzle of murder and drugs. Again, he saw the pattern of Tuesday/Saturday in print, but he wove no magic.
He picked up a stack of Polaroids by the side of the computer and flipped through them. The bottom one was the rear shot of the red Honda motorcycle in the hospital parking lot. He had looked at the picture before but only in passing. He now thought its tire was too narrow for a chunky tread design, and that its overall appearance was that of an early model, perhaps one of the earliest. There was no fender, no saddlebags or backrest or luggage rack. But he noticed a blue Connecticut license plate and some words on plastic strips above and below it. He reached into his desk drawer for a small magnifying glass. The words read, "One Day At A Time."
It had always been one of David's favorite sayings-trite but good, he believed-and often therapeutic for his patients. One day at a time. But somehow he hated to see the expression on the back end of a motorcycle that was quite likely connected to murder.
Bruno Bateman's martial arts studio was never over-crowded fifteen minutes prior to the beginning of evening classes.
David found him sitting at his desk off the main gym. His was more of a cage than an office, its walls composed of wire mesh, corkboard and posters of men and women acting out various judo moves.
"Hi Bruno, what's happening?"
"Hey there, glad you came tonight. You need some time off, I'll bet. Rid your system of bad energy and all the … " David had heard the sermons on the balance between good and bad energies many times before, and he would have interrupted even if he weren't prone to stepping on people's words.
"Will Robert Bugles be here, do you know?"
"No, I don't. But as long as you asked, I think I'd better mention something. He came to me last week and wanted to brush up on karate-chops and the old two-knuckler. That's fine, I thought. But when he asked about atemiwaza, I got concerned. Self-defense? Okay. But striking to kill? That's different. I don't know if he plans to use it, but I thought you should be aware of it."
Once again, David still-framed in his mind. This time the scene was that of Victor Spritz-an overkilled Victor Spritz riddled by bullets and bruised about the neck.
His voice quivered when he thanked the Grand Master and, striding to the locker room, he quickened his pace in anticipation of finding Robert there. Suddenly the matter of the burned safe was not a burning issue.
But he didn't find him there, nor had Robert arrived at five-fifteen when David decided to validate his suspicion in a different way. He reached for the cellular phone at his hip when he felt its ring.
"Yes?"
"Dr. Brooks?"
"Yes."
"This is Detective Paul Johnson. Kathy Dupre asked me to …"
"Yes, I know. Thanks for your assistance, Paul."
"He just arrived."
"Bernie?"
"He just now walked in. Kathy gave me a photo of him. He didn't spot me, of course. You want me to remain here?"
"Yes, yes, by all means. He may be our murderer, Paul. I'm leaving shortly and should arrive there at-" He pointed at the numbers on his watch and calculated-"at eight, eight-thirty. Keep me posted." David punched the "Off" button and reclipped the phone to his belt.
He felt momentarily cemented to the floor, now torn between following up on Bruno's disclosure or dashing to New York City again. He chose to check out Robert first.
He ripped the cellular from his belt and obtained the home phone number of Hollings' acting chief pathologist from the hospital operator.
"Hello, Jake? Sorry to bother you at home, but where's the body?"
"Whose body?"
"Victor Spritz, who else?"
David arranged to have a portable x-ray machine rolled into Albright's Funeral Home at five-forty-five. The technician was to take front and lateral views of Spritz's cervical spine.
Thirty minutes later, David and Dr. Jake Reed waited in the hospital's Radiology viewing room for the films to develop.
"More than once, I've seen severe injuries with complete dislocations and cord compression," Jake said, "and death or quadriplegia-delivered by so-called karate experts who miscalculated. In this particular case, the satellite bruises above the linear one looked like the result of a karate-chop but I couldn't say for sure. And as you probably remember, the bony column felt in line when I palpated it."
"Maybe we should have taken a picture of it then and there."
Jake continued as if deaf to David's aside. "I can tell you one thing, though. If there was a bona-fide karate-chop, one of those cervical vertebrae is partially dislocated on the other. And, if not, then the bruising was a result of thumb compression or some such thing. Certainly not a chop."
The technician burst into the room with four films. David snapped them onto the viewing box. He read them as negative: no karate-chop.