CHAPTER SIXTEEN

"Where the hell is he?" Detective Myers asked Detective Brubaker. The two had requisitioned a much better surveillance vehicle—a gray floral-delivery van—and were parked on station near the Royal Delaware Arms at 7:30 a.m., just in case Kurtz took it in his head to go to his office early. They'd discussed where and how to interdict him—an observed traffic violation on Elicott Street would be the pretext—and then the fast roust, the discovery of a weapon—the throwdown, if Kurtz wasn't armed in violation of parole, which they guessed he would be—the attempted resisting arrest, the subduing, and the arrest.

Brubaker and Myers were ready. Besides wearing body armor, each man was carrying a telescoping, weighted baton in addition to his 9mm dock, and Myers had a 10,000-volt Taser stun gun in his pocket.

"Where the fuck is he?" repeated Myers. Kurtz's Volvo was nowhere in sight.

"Maybe he left early for that shithole office of his," said Brubaker.

"Maybe he never came back from Orchard Park last night."

"Maybe he was kidnapped by fucking UFOs," snarled Brubaker. "Maybe we should quit speculating and go find him and get this over with."

"Maybe we should just skip it." Myers was not eager to do this thing. But then, Myers was not being paid $5,000 by Little Skag Farino to bust Kurtz and get him back into prison so he could be shanked. Brubaker had considered telling his partner about the payment and sharing the money. Considered it for about two milliseconds.

"Maybe you should shut up," said Brubaker, shifting the van into gear and driving away from the Royal Delaware Arms.

James B. Hansen had to wait for the two other homicide detectives to drive off before he could park his Cadillac SUV where their van had been, and then go in the back entrance of the fleabag hotel. He took the back stairs up all seven flights to the room number Brubaker and Myers had listed in their report. Hansen could have used his badge to get the passkey for Joe Kurtz's room, but that would have been terminally stupid. However legitimate his excuse for checking on Kurtz might sound later, Hansen wanted no connection between the ex-con and himself until the investigation of the murder of one John Wellington Frears.

Hansen noticed the plaster dust in the center of the stairs and hall leading to the eighth-floor room. Knowing that Kurtz had come and gone over the past few days, it had to be some sort of paranoid alarm system. Hansen kept to the walls, leaving no trace. The door to Kurtz's room was locked, but it was a cheap lock, and bringing out the small leather-bound kit of burglary tools he'd used for fifteen years, Hansen had the door open in ten seconds.

The suite of rooms was cold and drafty but strangely neat for such a loser. Wearing gloves but still touching nothing, Hansen peered into the adjoining room—weights, a heavy bag, no furniture—and looked around the big room where Kurtz appeared to spend his time. Books—a surprise. Serious titles, a bigger surprise. Hansen made a mental note not to underestimate the intelligence of this shabby ex-con. The rest of the room was predictable—a half-sized refrigerator, a hot plate for cooking, a toaster, no TV, no computer, no luxuries. Also no notes or diaries or loose papers. Hansen checked in the closet—a few well-worn dress shirts, some ties, a decent suit, one pair of well-polished black shoes. There was no dresser, but a box in the corner held folded jeans, clean underwear, more shirts, and some sweaters. Hansen looked in all the obvious hiding places but could find no guns or illegal knives. He went back to the box of sweaters and raveled a long thread from the top sweater on the pile, dropping it into a clean evidence bag.

In the sink was a rinsed coffee cup, a small plate, and a sharp kitchen knife. It looked as if Kurtz had used the knife to cut a slice of French bread and spread butter on it, then rinsed the blade. Lifting the knife gingerly, Hansen dropped it into a second evidence bag.

The bathroom was as neat as the main room, with nothing beyond basics in the medicine cabinet—not even prescription pills. Kurtz's hairbrush and shaving kit were lined up neatly on the old pedestal sink. Hansen had to stop himself from grinning. Lifting the brush, he found five hairs and transferred them to a third evidence bag.

Checking to make sure that he had left no trace, Hansen let himself out of the hotel room, locked the door behind him, and kept to the walls while descending the stairs.

Kurtz had returned late from Cleveland, driven to the office, used his computer to double-check Captain Robert Millworth's address in Tonawanda, and then, around 6:00 a.m., had driven to Arlene's small home in Cheektowaga. She was awake and dressed, drinking coffee in the kitchen and watching a network early morning show on a small TV on her counter.

"Don't come into the office today," Kurtz told her as he stepped past her into the kitchen.

"Why, Joe? I have more than fifty Sweetheart Searches to process today—"

He quickly explained about Dr. Conway's demise and the information he'd found in the dentist's safe. This was information Arlene had to know if she was going to be a help over the next few days. Kurtz glanced at the manila folder on the table. "Are those the photos I asked you to process?" Their old office on Chippewa Street years ago had been big enough to hold a darkroom in which Arlene had developed all the photos he and Sam had shot on the job. After her husband's death, Arlene had converted an extra bathroom into a darkroom at home.

She slid the folder across the table. "Shopping for property?"

Kurtz glanced through the blowups of the Gonzaga compound he'd taken from the helicopter. They'd all turned out.

"So what do I do from home today, Joe?"

"I'll be back in a while and someone may be with me. You have any problem entertaining a visitor?"

"Who?" said Arlene. "And for how long? And why?"

Kurtz let that go. "I'll be back in a while."

"Since we aren't going into the office, is there any chance we can look at new office space today after your visitor leaves?"

"Not today." He paused by the door, tapping the folder of photos against his free hand. "Keep your doors locked."

"The Hansen thing, you mean."

Kurtz shrugged. "I don't think it will be a problem. But if the cops get in touch, call me right away on the cell phone."

"The cops?" Arlene lit a cigarette. "I love it when you talk like that, Joe."

"Like what?"

"Like a private eye."

"So he's not at his fucking flophouse and he's not at his fucking office. Where the fuck is he?" said Detective Myers.

"Did anyone ever tell you that you use the F word too much, Tommy?"

Brubaker had given up smoking seven months earlier, but now he took a last drag on his cigarette and flipped the butt out the window of their surveillance van. It was almost 9:00 a.m., and not only was Kurtz's Volvo not parked in the alley behind his office, but the secretary's Buick wasn't there either.

"So now what?"

"How the fuck do I know?" said Brubaker.

"So we just sit on our asses and wait?"

"I sit on my ass," said Brubaker. "You sit on your fat ass."