“Tajikistan,” I suggested.

“Forget Nugent,” Ray said.

“Done.”

“Say another burglar killed him. Say you, for example, Bernie.”

“Me?”

“Just for the sake of argument, okay?”

“Fine. I killed him. But you can’t quote me on that because you haven’t read me my rights yet.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” he said. “This is just a discussion, okay?”

“Whatever you say, Ray.”

“He lives right there, he knows the Nugents are out of town, an’ he closes his eyes an’ sees dollar signs. But he needs somebody who can make a lock sing an’ dance, an’ that’s Mrs. Rhodenbarr’s little boy Bernie.”

“Why doesn’t he just jimmy it, Ray?”

“Maybe he don’t know how. But jimmyin’ leaves marks, an’ there weren’t any, so we know he didn’t do that. No, he knows you from the neighborhood, whatever, so he tips you to the job, an’ the two of you go in together.”

“Just my style, Ray.”

“When I say you,” he said, “I don’t mean you. Okay, Bernie? I know you work alone, an’ I know you don’t shoot people. Forget you, okay? Some other fuckin’ burglar is his partner for the day, an’ the other fuckin’ burglar opens the door for him, an’ him an’ the other fuckin’ burglar both go in, an’ then you shoot him.”

“It’s back to me again, isn’t it?”

“It’s just too much trouble savin’ it the other way is all. But if it bothers you that much—”

“No, it’s all right. Why do I shoot him?”

“So you won’t have to split with him. Say you really score big an’ it’s like the Lufthansa job where there’s so much money you can’t afford to split it.”

“Okay,” I said. “Why is he naked?”

“So they won’t identify the clothes.”

“Get real.”

“Okay, maybe you’re both naked.”

“He seduces me, Ray. Then I realize what I’ve done. I’m racked with guilt, and instead of killing myself I lash out at him. He’s taking a shower, washing away the traces of our evil lust, and I find a gun in the desk drawer and punch his ticket for him.”

He sighed. “It don’t make a whole lot of sense,” he said.

“Gee, Ray, what makes you say that? And why are we even having this conversation? Don’t get me wrong, Carolyn and I always enjoy it when you drop around, but what’s the point?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, that clears it up.”

“I don’t know,” he repeated. “Call it a policeman’s intrusion.”

“That’s exactly what I’d call it,” I said, “but I think the word you want is intuition.”

“Whatever. There’s somethin’ tells me you know more about this than meets the eye, an’ if you don’t you could find out. An’ I got the feelin’ it could be very good for the both of us.”

“How do you mean, Ray?”

“That I couldn’t tell you. That’s the trouble with feelin’s, at least the kind I get. They ain’t much on specifics. I don’t know what figures to be in it for me, whether it’s something as basic as a good collar or something more negotiable. But you an’ me, Bernie, we done each other some good over the years.”

“And you’re just a sentimental guy, Ray. That’s why you got all choked up the other day when you threw me in a cell.”

“Yeah, I was bitin’ back tears.” He stood up. “You give it some thought, Bern. I bet you come up with somethin’.”

“Ray’s right, Bern.”

“My God,” I said, “I never thought I’d hear you say that. I ought to write it down and make you sign it.”

“He thinks you ought to work out what happened, and he doesn’t even know you were there. How can you just turn your back on the whole thing?”

“Nothing to it.”

“You have information Ray doesn’t have, Bern.”

“Indeed I do,” I said. “About almost everything.”

“What about your civic duty?”

“I pay my taxes,” I said. “I separate my garbage for recycling. I vote. I even vote in school board elections, for God’s sake. How much civic duty does a person have to have?”

“Bern—”

“Oh, look at the time,” I said. “Don’t rush, take your time and finish your drink. But I’ve got to get out of here.”

“Where are you going?”

“Home to shower and change clothes.”

“And then?”

“Got a date. Bye.”

CHAPTER Nineteen

The car slowed. I pressed a button to lower the window and had a good look at the house in front of me—or as good a look as possible under the circumstances. There were trees in the way, and a vast expanse of lawn, but what I saw through the trees and beyond the lawn was a house not unlike its neighbors. We were, after all, in a subdivision. A subdivision of million-dollar homes, but a subdivision nonetheless. This particular million-dollar home had its porch light on, and light showed through a curtained upstairs window, and in two rooms downstairs as well.

I thought what I’ve often thought in similar circumstances. How considerate of them, I thought, to leave a light for the burglar.

“Circle the block,” I said, and sat back while we did just that. The car was last year’s Lincoln, smooth red leather within, hand-rubbed black lacquer without, the air climate-controlled, the engine noise no more than a Rafflesian purr. It was more comfortable by far than a bus, a subway, or a Tajik taxi, but none of those would have got me here. I was north of the city, in Westchester County. The subways don’t go this far, and Hashmat Tuktee couldn’t have found his way in a million years.

On our second time past the house I reached to take the automatic garage door opener from the driver’s visor. I stuck it out the window, pointed it at the garage, and clicked it. Nothing happened.

“You never know,” I said, and handed it back. We rode on, and I got out at the first stop sign and walked back. I was wearing a glen plaid sport jacket—it was time, I’d decided, to give the blazer a rest—and a pair of dark trousers. I had a tie on, too, but not the one that had received such good reviews at lunch.

I went right up the front walk, mounted the porch steps and rang the bell, then rang it again. Nothing happened. I had a look at the lock and shook my head at it. New York apartment dwellers know about locks, Poulards and Rabsons and Fox police locks, and gates on the windows and concertina wire at the tops of fences. In the suburbs, where the houses stand apart and each one has a dozen ground-floor windows, it’s sort of pointless to knock yourself out making your door hard to get through. And this one wasn’t. I was through it in a minute, tops.

The instant I breached the threshold, the alarm went off. It let out that high-pitched whine, that shrill insistent nagging squeal that puts a burglar right off his feed. I’ll tell you, if you had a kid who made a sound like that, you’d strangle the little monster.

I had forty-five seconds. I passed quickly through the foyer, angled left through the large cathedral-ceilinged living room, entered the dining room. A Jacobean breakfront on the far wall was flanked by two doors. I opened the one on the right. Within it was a cupboard containing table linen, table pads, and sets of poker chips and mah-jongg tiles. And, right there on the wall, was a numeric keypad, its red light flashing hysterically.

I pushed 1-0-1-5.

The results could hardly have been more gratifying. The flashing red light went out, to be replaced by a steady light of a soothing green. The demonic sound ceased as abruptly as if a celestial hand had placed a pillow over that squalling electronic mouth. I let out the breath I hadn’t even realized I’d been holding. I put my set of picks in my pocket—they were still in my hand—and put on my gloves. Then I wiped the few surfaces my unprotected fingers might have touched—the key pad, the closet door and knob, and the door and knob at the front entrance. I closed the door, locked up, and went to work.

The den was on the first floor at the rear of the house, with windows overlooking the garden. I drew the drapes shut before flicking a light on. To the right of the desk stood a three-tiered glassed-in bookcase, and above the bookcase hung an oil painting of a tall ship on the high seas. I took it down from the wall to reveal the circular door of a wall safe with a combination lock.