Split Images Page 11

  "Miss Maguire's a sergeant." Bryan said, "A homicide detective."

  Robbie grinned. "Well, Miss Maguire can get on my case anytime."

  Annie said, "Okay," with a shy smile and looked at the twenty-two target pistol on the desk. "Do you keep that loaded?"

  "Sure," Robbie said. "It's been lying around the office--I was taking it home. Since we're closing down. It's a nice little weapon."Annie said, "It's a gun till you shoot somebody with it. Then it's a weapon."

  "I never thought of it that way," Robbie said. He picked up the target pistol, touched the safety with his thumb to release it.

  Bryan thought, It's a show. Why he brought us here. He watched the way Robbie held the gun.

  Robbie was saying, "This was dad's office for something like a hundred years. He used to sit here and stare through the glass partitions at me. Past his secretary's office, his sales manager's office, to the one at the end, without the window. That was my office when I started out. In fact it was my office until he died, nine years ago." Robbie raised the target pistol as he spoke. "Dad would sit here and stare. He was partially paralyzed from a stroke and never seemed to move. Just stared, wondering what was gonna happen to the business, I guess. I couldn't read a newspaper unless it was the Wall Street Journal." He was sighting now through the glass partitions to the bare wall in the last office.

  Bryan watched him.

  Robbie fired.

  Bryan saw the first glass partition drilled, cracks flowering out from the bullet hole. He saw Robbie fire again and fire again and all three partitions dividing the offices exploded, collapsed in the sound of shattering glass to leave jagged ends in the wood frames. Bryan looked at the ejected casings on the carpet, green with a worn floral design. He wanted them.

  Robbie said, "There." Then grinned. He said, "Before you call for an EMS wagon let me tell you I've been wanting to do that for as long as I can remember. There's something about those glass walls I've always resented . . ."

  Bryan watched him stoop, pick up the ejected casings and drop them in his coat pocket.

  "Like living in a goldfish bowl, someone watching you all the time." Robbie blew into the barrel of the target pistol for effect. "Well, they're gone now.

  In fact this whole goddamn place is gone, but I had to do it." Smiling. "I feel a lot better."

  It was not something Bryan had to accept or believe at this moment. He nodded in sympathy and let it go at that. The man was putting on a hell of a show. They would review it later--once they got the spent cartridges, the bits of lead that would be flattened and imbedded in the plaster wall. But as he thought this he was startled by a realization that was as sharp and clear-cut as the broken shards of glass.

  He wants you to have the bullets.

  But not the casings.

  It was a game that both sides had to play, or pretend to play. Walter was not involved. Walter seemed lost.

  Annie said, "I wonder if you damaged anything. I noticed some office machines . . ." Annie knew something. Her eyes made contact with Bryan and moved away.

  He said, "You've been looking for a used typewriter, haven't you, Annie?"

  Robbie said, "We still have a few around. If the Mexican didn't get 'em." He was looking out at the empty offices, cooperating. "You see one you like, Miss Maguire, it's yours. But listen. I got to get back down to the auction and look interested.

  Okay? I'll see you a little later."

  He's going to say ciao, Bryan thought.

  "Ciao," Robbie said and headed for the stairs.

  Annie walked out, began to roam after Robbie left. There were a few moments of silence before Walter said to Bryan, "The fuck you looking at me for?"

  In the medium-blue unmarked Plymouth, moving up Riopelle to Jefferson, Annie opened her hand.

  Bryan looked from the windshield to the flattened bits of gray lead, three of them, in Annie's palm.

  She said, "What do you think?"

  He said, "I haven't finished yet. Ask me later."

  She said, "You must know something I don't."

  He said, "Well, I think you'd be safe in throwing those out the window. But let's get a comparison anyway.""So you're sure it's not the same gun. Even though it's a twenty-two."

  "No, but I'm pretty sure it's not the same barrel,"

  Bryan said. "We could still make the gun if we had the casings, but he didn't let us have the casings, did he? He knows a few things about ballistics."

  Annie said, "Wait a minute. Who are we talking about? I thought our guy was Walter. Like maybe he borrowed the gun and put it back and Daniels is a little weird but basically harmless."

  "That could be," Bryan said, "but let's think it through again. After I make a phone call."

  In the squad room he spoke to the Palm Beach chief of police, spoke to him for several minutes asking polite questions. He hung up and sat staring at nothing. Then rose to stand at the window, looking down at the Coney Island across the street, and began to feel tired again.

  When Annie came in he knew by her expression what she was going to say.

  "You're right. It's not the gun that did Curtis."

  "At least not the barrel," Bryan said. "Though it probably doesn't make much difference. I just saw a hunch fly out the window. Palm Beach says the gun Daniels used on the Haitian burglar--justifiable homicide, the chief underlined that--was a Colt Python, three-fifty-seven."

  "Maybe he has a collection," Annie said.

  "That's a nice idea," Bryan said. "I like it."She said, "I still think we should stay close to Walter. I'll call some of the people he picked up Saturday, if you want me to."

  "Call the Japanese guy too."

  "Walter said he didn't pick him up."

  "But if the guy came halfway around the world--you know what I mean? Went to all that trouble, then somebody picked him up. And if we don't ask, Inspector Eljay Ayres is gonna want to know why, isn't he?"

  Annie brightened. With her nice teeth and complexion she always looked clean, healthy; she responded to what she felt and looked you right in the eye.

  "Maybe what's his name, the Japanese guy, stayed at the Plaza and Walter doesn't want us to know he was there."

  "Maybe," Bryan said. If she wanted to bet on Walter he'd let her. In fact, he'd give her a little more to make it interesting and said, "I'll tell you something else. Down in Palm Beach, guess who investigated Robbie shooting the Haitian?"

  Annie said, "No!" She loved it.

  "Yes. And right after that Walter goes to work for Robbie. What does that tell you?"

  Annie thought about it. "Not much, really."

  She had a nice mouth too. Very expressive blue eyes. Bryan said, "Angela asked me if I'd ever made the moves on you."Annie smiled but seemed embarrassed. "Did she? Why?"

  "I think seeing us working together, the way we get along."

  "Has she called you?"

  "No."

  "What're you gonna do about it?"

  "Nothing. I'm going to Florida tomorrow. You guys are on your own."

  Annie began to smile again. "But not the Ocean Pearl in Boca Raton this time?"

  IN THE EARLY MORNING old people walked the beach looking for shells left by the tide. The women, in sleeveless shirts and kerchiefs covering their hairdos, studied the sand and seemed to have purpose.

  The men followed, looking for something to happen. They wore adjustable nylon golf caps, many of them cocked in a recollection going back to world wars, sporty old guys who seemed lost. They poked at blue translucent balloons among the even line of seaweed washed up, dead Portuguese men-of-war, and that would be a high moment when nothing much was expected. There were people from Michigan, from Ontario, from Ohio and New York State. They wiped the sediment from their Buicks and big Oldsmobiles and talked about mileage; they went to the Early Bird dinner at five-thirty.

  There were not as many families with children as there used to be. Once in a while a girl with a nice body would appear way off coming along the sand and Bryan wo
uld wonder about her; but not long,not interested enough to put the National Geographic aside and push up out of the beach chair and go through the ritual of making the moves. Not this trip. He would look from habit or because the sight of a girl with the nice body was an element of pleasure in his picture of a beach on the Atlantic Ocean in season.

  He went to sleep in the sun, lying on his side on a Woolworth blue and white beach towel and woke up in shade, his shoulder cramped, looking eye level at sandpipers running on their stick legs, nervous, afraid of everything. He would rather be a seagull and dive for fish. He wondered where birds went to die. There were billions of birds but you didn't see many dead ones. He was reading an article about cranes and egrets getting messed up in the oil along the Texas coast. It was cool in the shade; late afternoon now.

  The lone figure way down the beach was still in sunlight. A girl coming along the edge of sand left glistening by the surf. A girl in twin strips of red cloth. She came gradually away from the waves rushing at her ankles and as she reached the shade the gleam left her body, her slender arms and legs turning a dusty copper, the patches of red cloth faded, though highlights and something white remained in her hair. She came across the empty sand looking at him through round sunglasses, past the line of seaweed and up the slight rise to his chair. The low chair with aluminum arms was all that separated them.

  He pushed up to prop his cheek on his fist, looking at her sideways. The white thing in her hair was a barrette.

  "I was gonna come up behind you," Angela said, "but you caught me."

  He said, "What were you gonna do then?"

  There was time to play around. No hurry now.

  She said, "Lie down next to you. Blow in your ear. Feel you up. Have my way with you."

  "Then what?"

  "Have a cigarette. Did you bring any?"

  "In the room."

  "I didn't see them."

  Bryan said, "Come on--really? What'd you tell Mr. Ocean Pearl?"

  "I said I was your missus, what do you think?"

  "You put your things in there and changed?"

  "I was afraid you were gonna come in. Yeah, I changed and then walked down the road. Came back up the beach and made my entrance. Did you like it?"

  "Soon as I saw you I knew it was you."

  "Yeah--you thought it was some young girl. I mean you were hoping it was."

  "Happy birthday. How're you handling it?"

  "Well, four days into it, not bad. You're getting tan.""How're your folks?"

  "Okay."

  "I thought you were gonna stay a week."

  "I couldn't."

  "Why, what happened?"

  "Nothing. I missed you too much. So I called your office . . ."

  "Well," Bryan said, "here we are."

  They smiled, almost shy with one another. It was going to be something.

  He said, "You want to be civil for a while or go crazy right away?"

  She said, "Let's see what happens."

  "Will you go with me to meet somebody at six?"

  "Of course."

  "Just for a drink. Then we're on our own."

  "Fine."

  He said, "Are we in the neighborhood of what you want most?"

  She said, "We're right there. I think we've always been there, but I have to feel it. You don't have to say a word if I feel it."

  "Start feeling," Bryan said.

  They were in Number I facing the ocean, away from the rest of the units centered around the swimming pool and patio. Living room, bedroom, kitchen and the whole Atlantic right outside the windows. Angela showered and he showered. She stood in the bedroom in white bra and panties. Every boy's dream. He got a glimpse as he poured bourbon over shaved ice packed in smoke-colored glasses.

  She came in to have her drink in a terry-cloth robe and that was fine. They'd see how long they could keep their hands off each other.

  Gary Hammond, the Palm Beach squad-car officer, couldn't believe it when he saw them coming. The same girl, the house-guest; in a white sweater and slacks. She looked better than she had last month when it was cool and she wore the dark turtleneck.

  The Detroit homicide cop, Lieutenant Hurd, looked in shape. Not the big-city beer-gut dick he expected.

  Gary stood up, bumping the table and grabbing his glass of beer. He was glad he'd cleaned up, put on a sport shirt. The girl was smiling at him as they came in past the hedge to the sidewalk tables.

  She said, "Well, it's nice to see you again," sounding like she meant it, and introduced him to the homicide lieutenant. Up close the homicide lieutenant made Gary think of a major-league baseball player; something about him. He looked like he should have a wad of tobacco in his jaw. Though he seemed very polite, soft-spoken. One of those quiet guys who looked at you and seemed to know things. He asked if Gary would mind telling about Daniels shooting the Haitian, the circumstance and the investigation. Gary said, "Well, I'm glad somebody's interested, except it's a closed issue." He told the story and the homicide lieutenant listened and did not interrupt once. Then he began asking questions. Good ones.

  "You believe the Haitian--what's his name?"

  "Louverture Damien."

  "You believe his intent was burglary?"

  "Yes sir, I'm pretty sure now."

  "Why didn't you think so at first?"

  "Well, it wasn't I thought he come for any other reason, it was just nobody looked to see if he might've."

  Lieutenant Hurd seemed to like that. "Do you know where Daniels got the gun? Where he kept it?"

  "No sir, nobody asked that either."

  Angela said, "When I saw him in his study with Walter, the day I left, he had a gun in his hand. But it wasn't the one he used."

  Lieutenant Hurd said, "Do you know if he has a gun collection?"

  "Now that could be," Gary said. "I asked Detective Kouza if the Python was registered, the one Daniels used, and Detective Kouza made some remark like, you want to check him for priors, too?

  But at the hearing Mr. Daniels was asked that and he said yeah, he'd bought the gun from a reputableshop where he was known and often used their target range. See, like he'd been dealing there a lot."

  Lieutenant Hurd said, "You think Daniels might've had the gun on him? Is that what bothers you?"

  "No sir, it was his story about the Haitian coming at him with a machete."

  "Whose machete was it?"

  "There you are." Gary Hammond grinned. "The guy didn't come all the way from Belle Glade carrying a machete. His wife says he never had one in his hands. The first he heard about it was in the hospital, dying. So I say to myself either the Haitian's lying or Mr. Daniels, one. It turns out the machete was from the tool shed on his property. See, but how would the Haitian know to go in there and get it?"

  "Was it locked?"

  "I asked the gardener, he says no. I asked him was the machete, could it have been left out? He goes, hell no, I take care of my tools, put them away . . . and all like that."

  "Was the machete checked for prints?"

  "No sir. See, I got there--there was the Haitian on the ground, shot twice, bleeding all over the place, with the machete lying close by. But it wouldn't do no good to check it now. The gardener's probably been cutting scrub with it anyway."

  "Did you ask Walter why he didn't have it dusted?""No sir, it was his investigation. I was mostly waving at traffic on South Ocean Boulevard . . .

  Hey, don't you all want a drink?"

  Lieutenant Hurd said, "How about ballistics on the gun?"

  "There was no need for it, nothing to prove."

  "You keep the two slugs or did Walter throw 'em away?"

  "No, they're in a envelope, in the file."

  They sat back and talked about Palm Beach and the season, sipping bourbon, looking at the outfits in the cafe, trying to tell the tourists from the regulars, those who had money and those who didn't; Gary saying there wasn't much excitement other than stopping drunks and then you had to be careful who you pulled o
ver. Palm Beach was a playground for the rich people and they okayed the rules. Place swung from Christmas to Easter, then rolled over and went to sleep.

  Lieutenant Hurd said, "What do you think of Walter Kouza?"

  Gary had to give that a few moments.

  "Well, to tell you the truth, I thought basically he was dumb. I mean I don't think he was any good in school, if he ever went. But he knew things. We'd pick some guy up for vagrancy-- Detective Kouza seemed to know if the guy had any priors and he'd usually get the guy to cop. We have a problem withvandalism, broken windows, something like that, I can't even get twelve-year-old kids to cop. Detective Kouza, he has 'em in the room there a couple minutes, they tell him whatever he wants to hear."

  "What about when he left?" Lieutenant Hurd asked if Walter had said anything about what he'd be doing.

  "He did and he didn't," Gary said. "He made it sound like foreign intrigue, like he was going to work for the CIA. But he really didn't say anything you could put your finger on. So I just figured, you know, it was bullshit."

  "Trying to impress you."

  "Yeah, he was always laying a trip on you, his twenty years experience," Gary said. "Like he had seen it all. I guess more than anything, Detective Kouza wanted you to think he was important."

  Looking at the stars she said to Bryan, "I'd walk out in the desert--it's all open land back of their house, up in the Santa Catalina foothills. I'd go out just to be alone for a few minutes. And then I'd hear my dad. I mean I could sneak off, leave him asleep in his chair. The next thing, I'd hear his voice. 'See those lights over there?' " Her voice lower, a more serious tone. " 'That's the new Las Palmas condo development. Then over there yougot Casas Adobes and Vista del Oro.' " She stopped and then said, "I'm putting you to sleep, aren't I?"

  Bryan said, feeling as content as he could feel, having her right there and knowing she would be there for a while, "You were gonna tell me why you went home. The real reason."

  She said, "All right. I didn't go home because it was my birthday."

  He said, "You went home to see an old boyfriend. Look him over one more time."

  "I don't have an old boyfriend."

  "Since your divorce--what, ten years, you've never had a boyfriend?"

  "You don't have boyfriends anymore. And I was never anyone's old lady."