Twenty-Eight

I give up, Bern. Who the hell are these guys?"

"That's what Ray wanted to know," I said. "He also wanted to hang on to the photos, but I pointed out they might be evidence someday, so he couldn't just come up with them. He had to find them somewhere, in the right time and the right place, when finding them was something he was legally authorized to do. This way, I said, he had plausible deniability. I think he liked the sound of it."

"I don't blame him. I like the sound of it myself. You got any idea who these bozos are? Because I wouldn't know where to start guessing. You look at them and at first glance they look like brothers, or maybe cousins, and then you look again and see how different they are. The noses are different, the mouths are completely different, this one's jowly, this one's got a higher forehead, the other's got a scar, they're different around the eyes-you know, when you add it all up, they're barely members of the same species, but there's a similarity about them, and I don't know what it is."

"Same pose, for one thing. Same expression, or lack of expression."

She nodded. "Same overall shape of the head, too."

"Ray said they were brothers, but with different parents."

"Ike and Mike, they look alike. Except they don't. Ike here looks older, doesn't he?"

"Well, he's a blond. They're supposed to have more fun."

"Mike's definitely younger. If he were a woman you'd say his hair was mouse-colored, but you don't hear that with guys. What would you call his hair color, sandy?"

"I guess."

"It's funny," she said. "He's got less hair than Ike, but he looks years younger. I wonder why."

"Maybe he was born ten years later than the blond guy."

"That would explain it, Bern. Or maybe it's clean living. A healthier diet. More vegetables. Plenty of exercise, regular dental checkups. Assuming either one of them even has teeth. They've both got this cold closemouthed stare, and I think that's what makes them look alike, even though they don't. Bern, how'd you know where to look for the photos?"

"I gave Berzins a book," I said, "and he was happy to pay thirteen hundred dollars for it, and I suppose he'd have gone as high as ten thousand, because that's what he'd brought along with him. He didn't care about the title or author, and when I said the title he must have thought I was talking about him, because that's what he was, a secret agent of some sort."

"And then they shot him and took the book from him-"

"And took it to Mapes's house in Riverdale. Or to Mapes, anyway, for him to take home. They didn't say, 'A book? We don't need no stinking books,' and throw it in the garbage. They figured it might be what they were after, so I thought about that, and I decided it might be something you could hide in a book. And then I realized it was probably photos, which you can definitely hide in a book. Then you stick the book in the middle of a bookcase, and nobody thinks to look for it."

"Like the Poe story."

" 'The Purloined Letter.' Yes, the same idea. The apartment was a sublet, remember, and the original tenants had left the books in the bookcase. They were readers, too, so there were plenty of books. Ray said he and his buddies lifted them out a handful at a time and checked to make sure nothing was hidden behind them. That was reasonable if you didn't know what you were looking for, but it was just a waste of effort in this case. Some cop had that copy ofQB VII in his hand and didn't have a clue what he was holding."

"So you went through them a book at a time."

"It didn't take long. You just open the book and riffle the pages. If there's anything in there, you know right away. The hard part was finding the right book, which happened fairly early on, and then checking all the others to make sure it was the only one like that."

"I don't know if I would have had the patience to do that, Bern."

"I didn't get to think about it, because Ray just kept going, picking up books and riffling them, showing me what painstaking police work looks like. The least I could do was follow his example. And of course there were no more books with photos taped to their pages, but that way we were positive."

"Just four photos," she said. "Two for each subject. I asked before if you had a clue who they were, and I don't remember what you said."

"I didn't say anything."

"Oh."

"Your computer working?"

"Is my computer working? Of course it's working. I was just online, and I checked my buddy list, and guess who else was online? GurlyGurl, so we IM'd back and forth for a while. We've got a date for Tuesday night, unless she has to work late." She grinned. "She was bitching about one of the lawyers who keeps piling work on her, says she's a real ovary-buster. I bet I know who she means."

"Maybe we'd better not go on any double dates just yet."

"My thought exactly. She likes me, Bern. Isn't that neat?"

"Very."

"Why'd you ask about my computer?"

"Because you're better on it than I am," I said, "and I thought maybe you'd like to do a little research."

Ray had brought along a fresh roll of CRIME SCENE tape, and after he'd used it to reseal the apartment he offered to drop me at Carolyn's. He got as far as Sheridan Square and told me I was on my own, claiming that he always got lost in the crooked little streets. He may just have been in a hurry to get home. It was still raining, so I was glad I had my umbrella.

Before I got out of the car I reached in my pocket and remembered what I'd been carrying around ever since I spoke to him hours ago. "You could do me a favor," I said. "Do you think you'd be able to run a print for me?"

He looked at me and made me repeat the question. Then he said, "Could I run a print? Nothin' to it. Could I run a print for you? Now that's somethin' else again. Whose print and where'd it come from?"

"If I knew whose print it was," I said reasonably, "I wouldn't ask you to identify it for me. As for the rest, you don't want to know."

"Meanin' you don't want to tell me. I dunno, Bernie. I'm bendin' a whole lotta rules today."

"Rules were made to be bent."

"Well, you're right about that," he said, and held out his hand, and I filled it, and he looked at what he was holding and then at me. "I dunno, Bern," he said. "This yours? Could be you're as light on your feet as Valdi Berzins."

Now, while Carolyn settled in at her computer, I made a few calls on her phone. I reached Marty Gilmartin at home, asked him a couple of questions to which he gave guarded responses, and made a date for lunch the following day. He asked if The Pretenders was all right, and I said it was always fine with me. I might be pressed for time, I said, in which case we could make it a drink or a cup of coffee instead of a full meal, but it would be good to get together.

I hung up and called Barbara Creeley, and when I'd said hello she said she was hoping I'd call. "I called you about half an hour ago," she said, "but I got your machine."

"I was out," I said. "Still am."

"I'm home."

"I figured that," I said, "right about the time you picked up the phone."

"Oh, right, of course. That was dumb of me, saying I'm home. I mean, you called me, so of course I'm home."

"I wouldn't say it was dumb."

"You wouldn't?"

She sounded shaky. I asked her if she was all right.

"I guess so. Do you still want to have dinner?"

"That's why I was calling. I was hoping you'd be home, and that I could take you out someplace for something nice."

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"Well, sure. I mean, I'm home. And yes, dinner would be nice."

"Great. What time's good?"

"What time? I don't know. You say."

"Uh, seven?" That would give me plenty of time to go home and change. "Is that good?"