They went about their task in workmanlike fashion, keeping their hands cupped over the lenses of their flashlights to direct the diffused beams downward.
Arthur happened to lift the lid of the Dumpster and shine his light into it. Still looking for the finger. And he found the rest of Jack Clairmont.
“What do you think, Otto?” he asked.
Otto was staring at the body, lying barely visible among trash bags, an old baby stroller, and some broken-down cardboard cartons someone had tossed in the Dumpster. It was possible—even likely—that Clairmont’s body would be unnoticed and go into the trash truck’s compactor to be dumped in a landfill. Then there would be no reason for Willard Ord to know what happened.
Or so Otto convinced himself.
“I think the brother,” Arthur said. “He musta known where Jack was going for the money-bracelet exchange, then came and found him dead and figured he had to get rid of him or he’d draw cops as well as flies.”
“I have no wish to get in there with all that yuk,” Otto said.
“Nor do I,” Arthur said. “If we cover him up some more, Jack Clairmont might never be seen again. He’ll go unnoticed to a landfill.”
“We might as well wish for the best,” Otto said. “Safest thing would be to leave Jack right where he is. Pretend we never came across him.”
“Willard would accept that only if we find the finger,” Arthur said. “That would prove we came here and searched.”
Otto agreed.
They searched on.
“This is hopeless,” Arthur said, after a while. “If the finger did drop to the ground, some animal could have taken it away.”
“No way to know that for sure,” Otto said.
“Who knows anything for sure, Otto?”
“I do. You should, too. If we slack off on this job and that finger turns up for the cops, Willard will see that we lose some of our fingers. Or worse.”
“Worse?” Arthur didn’t have much of an imagination when it came to subjects other than torture and assassination, but what he did have was working hard.
Both men knew that someone might have to get in the Dumpster and root around for the finger. They could flip a coin. But even that seemed too risky.
“I believe this is impossible,” Arthur said, after a while. “I have a suggestion. Since I thought of it, my belief is that you should do it.”
“What is it?” Otto asked.
“We satisfy Willard’s wishes by returning with a finger. Jack’s remaining forefinger.”
“Yuk, yuk, yuk,” Otto said, but he knew he was going to do it. Willard wouldn’t know one finger from another. Arthur had come up with a solution to their problem.
“Easier than rooting through trash and garbage for a finger that probably isn’t there,” Arthur said.
So Otto used his knife and did it. Then he let himself down out of the Dumpster with Jack’s newly severed finger. Said, “Yuk!” again—and dropped the finger to the ground.
At the same time, in the corner of his vision, Arthur saw a flitting dark shape, like a moving shadow.
When he reached down for the severed finger, the dark form beat him to it, snatched it up, and whirled. The animal had its teeth and claws bared and looked very possessive. With grave misgivings, Arthur reached for the creature, was hesitant, and got only a brief feel of fur.
The cat shot between his legs and broke toward the far end of the passageway.
Otto was waiting, squatted down like a Sumo wrestler, and his huge, foreboding form caused Boomerang to halt for a moment.
Otto’s right hand darted down, and his fingers closed on fur and loose flesh at the back of Boomerang’s neck. He didn’t like the feel of the animal, but he kept a good grip.
Boomerang thought something like What the hell? Before he could react, all four of his feet were off the ground.
The big human had him by the back of the neck. Boomerang hated to be lifted like that. He snarled, spat, wind-milled with his legs, claws extended, tried to bite, to tear.
“Little prick is pissed off,” Arthur said. “I’ll throw him in the Caddie’s trunk and we’ll take him with us so he won’t come back here and hang around the Dumpster.”
Otto kept a strong grip on Boomerang and held him extended well out from his body so the cat couldn’t inflict injury. The animal suddenly became still, but that didn’t fool Otto.
They started back toward where their black Cadillac was parked.
Otto abruptly stopped and pointed.
“What?” Arthur asked.
“The finger,” Otto said. “What we came for. Get it Arthur.”
“Jesus!” Arthur said. “We almost forgot.”
“You almost forgot.”
“Oh, no! Don’t try to hang that one on me.”
While Otto and Boomerang watched, Arthur soon found where the cat had dropped the newly severed forefinger. He stooped and gingerly inserted the finger into a plastic baggie of the sort that held sandwiches.
“It doesn’t matter who almost forgot what, Arthur. Just so we give the finger to Willard.”
“You know, I always wanted to give Willard the—”
“Don’t say it, Arthur. Don’t even think it.”
They walked on toward the street. Mission accomplished. Confident now in attitude and stride.
Boomerang dangled limply in Otto’s iron grip, eyes narrowed, almost shut, biding his time.
May 7, 4:48 p.m.
It hadn’t occurred to Ida and Craig that Alexis Hoffermuth not only regarded the police as public protectors; she saw them as her personal servants. Through taxes and contributions, she paid a large portion of their salaries, and she wanted a return on that investment.
Her call to the police had been prompt, distraught, and demanding. When Alexis Hoffermuth spoke, people listened. When she was upset, they listened extra hard.
The bracelet in the imitation Gucci purse had itself been an imitation. Even though it wasn’t the real Cardell bracelet, it was a pretty good paste facsimile. Some smartass crooks were playing with Alexis Hoffermuth’s mind to keep her off balance and buy time, toying with her, toying with the police, making a fool of her and the police commissioner—Harley Renz.
Renz wouldn’t have that. Absolutely wouldn’t.
Neither would Alexis Hoffermuth.
So here Quinn was with Pearl to see Alexis in her apartment in the exclusive Gladden Tower, an impressive edifice her late husband had constructed.
Rather, paid to have constructed.
An unctuous doorman met them in the marble lobby and interrogated them as if they really didn’t belong in the building, but maybe, just maybe, he would permit their temporary presence. Quinn made a mental note of the fact that the marble desk where the doorman usually sat had a brass plaque on it identifying him as Melman. No first name, unless it was Melman.
Quinn would remember Melman.
After they’d passed inspection in the lobby, they were given the privilege of riding the private, walnut-paneled elevator to the fifty-ninth-floor penthouse. They stood side by side, their bodies touching, as they rocketed up the core of the building. The back wall of the narrow elevator was lined with tufted taupe silk. There was no sound.
“Zoom,” Quinn said.
“Reminds me of a vertical coffin.”
“You can take it with you.”
Quinn had been expecting a butler, but when the elevator finally settled down, rather than enter near space, its paneled door opened, and Alexis Hoffermuth herself met them.
The widow had the immediate commanding presence that sometimes accompanies great wealth. She was in her early fifties, lean, cosmetically enhanced, and attractive. When twenty years younger, she’d probably been stunning. She was wearing a sleek black dress and black high heels, and looked as if she might be ready for a luncheon date to discuss a million-dollar endowment. Society page newspaper photos Quinn had seen came to mind. Alexis was active in the city’s social as well as political life and would usually be on the arm of a younger, handsome escort.