“No problems, old buddy. Strictly by the book.”
The Old Testament.
“Listen, Pat,” I said, “I don’t see any of the Bloom girl’s boxes of research materials. You want to build a case against the killer and/or the Bonettis, you’ll want those. They turned out to be Marcy Bloom’s life’s work. Were they in the bedroom?”
He shook his head; this was all news to him. “No. The only materials are those few scattered things on that makeshift desk of hers.”
I thumped his chest with a forefinger, just hard enough for some emphasis. “You need to canvass this building and at least the adjacent two, and the ones right across the street. When you have a time of death from the M.E., that’ll help narrow it. But there were nine full boxes of those transcripts, and somebody had to carry them out of here, and down two flights out to the street. Load them in a car or whatever. By now those boxes and their contents will be destroyed, but you may get yourself a description of the killer.”
“We already have that.”
I blinked at him. “What?”
“I will put that canvass in motion, Mike, that makes a lot of sense. But that kid across the way saw the guy.”
The lab boys and photographer were coming in, and we headed past them, to talk to Shack.
“This boy found the body,” Pat said, just before we moved onto the landing, “shortly before seven. He often went in early and made coffee and sometimes breakfast for the girl. She’d leave the door unlocked for him.”
The young man wasn’t crying now, but he looked as dejected as a dog left along a roadside by a family moving on without him. The little landing was getting crowded, so Pat sent the uniformed man inside for now.
“Stand up, son,” Pat said.
The kid struggled to his feet, each limb of his bony frame moving a little slower than the last. He was still in the peace symbol T-shirt and ancient jeans, his feet bare.
“This is Michael Hammer,” Pat said, gesturing my way. “He’s an investigator helping us—”
I said, “We’ve met. Shack helped Miss Bloom and me go through all those research materials.”
“Ah,” Pat said.
A sudden thought gripped me and I leaned near my friend, whispering, “Shack here might be able to testify to what we discovered in those transcripts.”
Pat gave me a knowing nod, then turned back to the kid.
“Son, would you tell Mr. Hammer what you saw last night?”
“Can I trust him?” the kid blurted, flashing me a wary look.
What was that about?
“You can,” Pat assured him. “Just go over it again, please.”
“Sure.” He turned his narrow, angular face toward me; his eyes were bloodshot. “Around one a.m. last night, I heard knocking. Loud knocking. I, uh, cracked the door to see what was going on.”
I said to Pat, “He does that.” Then to Shack, I said, “Stop for a moment and describe him.”
He nodded. “Okay. About five ten, eleven. Big but no giant. Kind of a Mr. Businessman type — dark suit, tie, hat. Hardly anybody wears a hat any more.”
He was saying this to two guys in hats.
Pat asked, “Can you give me any more of a description than that?”
“Yes, sir. I got a real good look at him. Oval face, kind of a pug nose, wide-set dark eyes, small mouth. Short dark hair. Glasses, heavy plastic frames. Pale. Definitely not a guy who gets much sun, y’know?”
“All right,” I said. “Get back to your story.”
“Right. So, the guy was knocking for the umpteenth time, and I was about to go out there and tell him he’d better leave before he got himself in trouble... but then Marcy was there, in the doorway. She was trusting like that. Very open girl. Of course, that’s the vibe down here. It’s not like anywhere else in the city, the Village, you know?”
“We know,” Pat said. “Go on.”
“Well, this guy says to her, ‘I’m sorry to bother you so late, Miss Bloom, but Mr. Hammer asked me to pick up some materials that you and he worked with this evening.’ There was some more talk that I didn’t get, but finally she nodded and let him in. Shut the door, and I shut mine.”
So that was why the kid didn’t know whether or not to trust me — the killer had posed as my representative.
I asked, “Did you hear anything else last night? Like the guy leaving? Or maybe going up and down the stairs? Or most importantly — something that might have been a gunshot?”
He shook his head through all of that.
“You hear a lot of noises in the city,” Shack said, shrugging. “Even in the Village. I guess... I guess not all the vibes down here are good.”
“I guess not,” I said.
“Son,” Pat said, “would you be willing to come to my office and take a look through some mug books? We can start with individuals who we already suspect may be working as professional killers.”
The bloodshot eyes grew wide. “Is that who killed Marcy? Some kind of... hitman?”
“It’s too early for speculation,” Pat said, which was a lie obviously. “We can give you a ride to and from. Could you be ready in half an hour?”
“Sure. Anything to get the freak that did this.”
“If need be,” Pat offered, “I can talk to your boss where you work, so you don’t get in trouble.”
“Oh, I don’t work anywhere. I’m a painter. Like Jackson Pollock. I’ll have a gallery show one of these days. Till then Mom and Dad kind of... underwrite me.”
“It’s an investment,” I said.
“I think so,” Shack said, a little defensively.
Then he disappeared into his apartment.
“What’s going to become of these hippie kids?” Pat wondered aloud.
“Well, it’s official.”
“What is?”
“You’re an old fart.”
We grinned at each other. We could use it.
“Did that boy love her, Mike?”
“He had a terrible crush on her, even though it was misplaced.”
“She wouldn’t have anything to do with him?”
“Oh, no, she was friendly with him. Took advantage a little, knowing he was sweet on her.”
“Now who sounds like an old fart?”
I laughed. “Thing is, she was gay. Or did you know that already?”
His eyes flared momentarily. “No. We should probably ask around and look into her girl friends or girl friend. They might know something.”
I gave a fatalistic shrug. “I doubt it. Marcy didn’t know her killer. But there’ll be some sad gals in the Village tonight.” I tugged my hat brim down for the coming rain. “You need me any longer, Pat?”
He shook his head. “No. But I would like to know, Mike — are you going to work with me on this? How about it? Can we do this one together? Or does it have to be a damn race again?”
I let him have half a grin. “Come on, buddy, you know I’m a solo act.”
“Yeah? Tell that to Velda.”
“Okay, so I sometimes work with a beautiful doll. You couldn’t pass the physical. Hey, I gave you the Dr. Beech lead, which you and your army of brilliant scientific types can handle much quicker and faster than an old-time flatfoot like me ever could. You’re welcome, by the way, for all the cases you’ll close.”
His gaze dripped of suspicion. “What are you going to be doing?”
“Trying another route. A shorter one.” I put a hand on his shoulder. “But if I don’t make it, buddy — if our killer turns out to be a badder ass than yours truly — promise me you’ll find this bastard. But it’ll take a hell of a lot of digging.”
“That’s our specialty,” Pat said. His smile wasn’t big, but it had plenty of friendship in it. “But don’t die on me just yet, you big slob.”