‘He does? Where?’
‘Some place called Vimorama, out on —’
‘I know where it is. I’ll meet you there.’
‘Check.’
Dougherty put in a quick call for two cars and a riot squad and ran downstairs as fast as he could go. He got to the street before the cars did and stood there fidgeting back and forth from foot to foot, quivering with impatience.
It occurred to him he’d forgotten to ask the name of the boyfriend, the one who’d killed Ellen Canaday. But it didn’t matter. Who cared what that guy’s name was?
The two cars came up out of the basement garage and paused for Dougherty to slip in beside the driver of the first car. ‘Vimorama,’ he said. ‘Out 12N.’
‘Siren?’
‘No. Yes, till we get to the city line. Then cut it off.’
City line. He wasn’t even sure he had jurisdiction out at Vimorama.
Well, the hell with that.
The two cars screamed through the city and took the last couple of miles in silence, tearing along with the red lights flashing but no sirens sounding.
When they got there they saw it hadn’t made any difference how much noise they made. There was no one around anymore to be disturbed by them.
There’d been a fight out here, but it was over now. A tall long-armed guy lay sprawled out on the driveway that went in among the cabins. He’d been shot three limes, twice in the chest and once in the head, all from fifteen or twenty yards in front of him.
Over to the right a ways, there was a scene for Debussy to write a ballet around. A huge cheated blond giant as nude as the day he was born was lying dead on the grass, his head cradled in the lap of a cute little blonde girl wearing nothing but a pink half-slip. She wasn’t crying or anything, just sitting there on the ground with her feet tucked in under her and the dead man’s head in her lap, stroking his cheek with long, thin lingers.
Dougherty tried to ask her some questions, but she wasn’t having any. She just sat there and didn’t look at anybody or respond to anything. He told one of the uniformed men, ‘Call an ambulance. Tell them we’ve got a mental case. Catatonic.’
Engel and more uniformed policemen showed up then in two more cars, and Vimorama was beginning to get crowded. Engel came over and said, ‘What’s all this?’
‘I don’t know. I just got here myself.’
‘Is your boy Joe here?’
‘Doesn’t look like it. So far just these two dead ones and the girl.’
‘You ought to get her a brassiere or a coat or something.’
Dougherty glanced that way, and then shook his head. ‘She’s in shock or something,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t want to bother her. Either of these your boy what’s-his-name?’
Engel shook his head. ‘New. Mine’s younger than this. Big like that one, but black hair.’
Dougherty said, ‘What is his name, by the -‘
Somebody shouted, ‘We found the car!’
Engel shouted back, ‘The Ford?’
‘Yeah! Down this way!
‘Gray Ford with Texas plates,’ Engel told him. ‘The boyfriend’s.’
‘So he’s still around.’
The two of them went walking down the highway to where the gray Ford was standing with the passenger side door hanging open. When they got there Dougherty pointed at the door and said, ‘Look like a bullet hole?’
‘Looks like.’
Dougherty glanced over at the woods. ‘Went in there, I suppose,’ he said. ‘Chasing each other. I don’t suppose I’ll ever find either of them.’
Engel said, ‘Look at the back seat there. That’s a hell of a lot of suitcases for one man.’
Dougherty looked at the suitcases and smiled.
PART FOUR
One
When Negli started shooting, Parker dove for cover. None of it made any sense to him, but this was no time to stand around and wait for explanations.
Negli was shooting at anything that moved. Beyond Negli was someone Parker didn’t know, and Negli shot at him too and the guy ran behind a cabin.
The guy who killed Ellie? The stupid bastard they’d spent all this time looking for?
It had to he him. At long last, it had to be him.
Parker shouted, ‘Negli! That’s the guy we want!’
Negli fired at his voice, and the ricochet whined on past. Negli shouted, ‘You’re the one I want, Parker!’
‘What the hell for? What’s the matter with you?’
‘Arnie’s dead, you bastard!’
Negli fired again, but Parker was already gone from there. Keeping one of the cabins between himself and Negli, he moved backward, around the coiner of another cabin, and then off to the right. Negli fired again, off at where he used to be, and Parker kept moving to the right.
What did he mean, Arnie was dead? If he was dead, how come? And if he was dead, why was Parker to blame?
Parker moved to the right, around another cabin. There was silence everywhere now. Negli had slopped shooting and started thinking. The question was, which way was he moving? Parker stopped where he was and waited.
Time barely moved. Each second bulged out like a soap bubble coming out of a kid’s bubble pipe, getting bigger and bigger, then suddenly popping and it was time for the next second to start.
For the last couple of days, ever since Ellie was killed and the goods taken, time had been playing tricks like that. Moving fast sometimes, and then inching along other times so an hour took a week or more to be done with.
Last night and today had all been slow, the whole distance. He and Shelly sitting around waiting for Feccio or Clinger or Rudd to phone in with something for them to do. Then every once in a while getting some simpleton to check on, and every time knowing the second he saw the simpleton’s face that this wasn’t the guy, this couldn’t be the guy in a million years. But each time he went on through the complete spiel anyway, while Shelly sat there and looked bored in an easygoing, uncomplaining sort of way. He went through the complete spiel because it was at least something to do while waiting for the right guy to be found.
And gradually he was beginning to wonder if they were going to find him. The guy didn’t necessarily have to stay stupid all his life. After missing Parker that second time, up on the roof at Ellie’s place, the guy might have smartened up all of a sudden and cleared out of town.
But if he had, they’d still have to find out about it. With Kifka calling people, calling people, building up this list of all the guys Ellie had known, sooner or later their boy’s name had to show on that list. And if they went looking for him and couldn’t find him home, and everybody else on the list washed out, then at least they’d know the name of the guy they were looking for, and with amateurs you never needed much more than name and general description. Because amateurs work to a pattern, they repeat themselves, they’re too comfortable doing the things they’ve already done before. Amateurs don’t like to break new ground, try new patterns.
Given their boy’s name and general description, given a few chats with people who knew him, and it wouldn’t take long to find out where he’d most likely go with two suitcases full of one hundred thirty-four thousand dollars, or what he’d most likely do once he got there.
He might have to be followed a ways, but he’d eventually be found and the money gotten back.
The only problem was, it was all taking so damn much time. Ellie, for all her laziness and sloppiness, had known a hell of a lot of guys. It took time to get all their names and addresses, time to go looking them up and ask them questions, time to clear them one by one.
That was the kind of time that crept by hamstrung. Like now; waiting in silence for Little Rob Negli to make a mistake, a little guy who’s a professional and not in the habit of making mistakes.
And waiting for the amateur to make his mistake, a wait that shouldn’t take as long.
There was another shot, from up closet to the road, and then two more in rapid succession.
That wouldn’t be Negli. That would be the amateur.