“They’re shut down for the weekend. But I’m going to be at O’Brien’s office bright and early Tuesday morning and I want everyone there. Including you, ace.”
“Listen, did you call the CIA about Thorpe?”
“Yeah. They’re stonewalling. Wait until they need a favor. Assholes. The FBI is cooperative, but they seem a little jumpy about this. Anyway, I checked Thorpe out through normal channels on the off chance he made a police file… ”
Abrams could hear the sounds of Spinelli lighting up one of his deadly black panatelas, followed by a coughing fit. “Draw deep,” he said.
“Fuck you.” He got the cough under control, then said, “Nassau County DA file. About seven years ago. Thorpe and his wife, Carol, boating on Long Island Sound. She was lost at sea. There was a Coast Guard report also.”
“Conclusions?”
“What the hell could they conclude? Accident. Boating accidents are near-perfect murders. According to something I read, the CIA has disposed of at least three people in Chesapeake Bay that way. Christ, they’ve taken out a trademark, copyright, and patent on it.”
“Still, it could have been an accident.”
“Absolutely. Only Peter and Carol knew for sure. Peter testified at the Coast Guard hearing. Carol was never found. They had a ceremony at sea for her. The husband was visibly upset. No indictment.”
Abrams stayed silent for some time, then said, “I guess you can’t use that one too often.”
“No. You’re allowed one every seven years or so. One wife, one business partner, one brother-in-law. Law of averages. So I did check Coast Guard reports for about twenty years back. Nothing. Then I realized that not all waterways come under Coast Guard jurisdiction. So I checked with some state governments. Maryland had what I wanted. Chesapeake Bay inlet, 1971. Man overboard. Captain Peter at the helm. He comes about to rescue the unfortunate man and… oh, no, he runs over the guy’s head. But all is not lost. The man is still alive. Captain Peter reverses the screws, as they say, and accidently backs into the poor bastard, giving him a shave, a haircut, and a lobotomy. Anyway, this accident looked a lot like Company business. There were no legal proceedings.” Spinelli paused, then said, “This man is a cold-blooded killer.”
“Don’t jump to conclusions.”
“Yeah. Anyway, how is James Allerton involved in this? That’s one reason everyone seems so jumpy. That’s the James Allerton, right?”
“Right. Allerton is actually Thorpe’s adoptive father.”
“No kidding?”
“No kidding. Allerton is also a friend of the missing Colonel Carbury. Did you find any trace of Carbury?”
“No, but I know how he disappeared. It was a double.”
“You found the double?”
“Sure did.”
“Who hired him?”
“I asked him, but he’s not talking.”
“Dead?”
“Bingo. Tugboat found him as a floater. Lower harbor, heading for France. It came through homicide as an apparent suicide, but I’m real sharp, Abrams. All unidentified stiffs and suspicious deaths were going through me. Long story, but the prints were on file for a cabaret license. I checked with Actors Equity, and someone who knew him came down and made a positive ID. The stiff is a guy named Larson.”
“How did you connect him to Carbury?”
“Well, he’s an actor, for one thing. Also, we got a wire photo of Carbury from England and a description — height, weight, age. This guy Larson could pass for him. Larson wasn’t wearing Carbury’s clothes, though. On the other hand, the ME feels that Larson was dressed after he was dead. He was probably drowned in a bathtub or a bucket of water, stripped, dressed in his own clothes, and tossed in the river.” Spinelli paused. “We’re dealing with very foxy people here. Serious people.”
“Right.” Yet, he thought, for all this cleverness and all this cloak-and-dagger nonsense, it all boiled down to a city homicide squad doing their job. “Nice work, Spinelli.”
“Oh, thank you, Mr. Abrams. Maybe that’s why I’m a captain and you’re still in school.”
“Maybe. Listen, did you speak to the bartender again? Donald?”
“We had an appointment for this morning at nine, but Donald came in early. Around one A.M. He’s on the slab next to the actor. Mugged up in The Bronx. Pelham Bay, IRT station. Ice pick through the top of his head.”
“Jesus Christ—”
“Right. Hey, the ice pick was a nice touch, though — get it? Bartender… ice pick… Well, anyway, how come you’re still alive? How we gonna find you, Abrams? Crushed to death under a mountain of subpoenas?” Spinelli laughed loudly.
Abrams trailed the telephone cord to the refrigerator and poured another cup of juice. He took a long drink, then said, “Nicholas West. You watching him?”
“Yeah. Everybody’s watching that sucker. Who the hell is he?”
“A man with lots of answers.”
“Yeah, well, we’re not even allowed to talk to him. Anyway, he’s tucked in at the Princeton Club.”
“Okay, how about—”
“Hold on. Now it’s your turn, Abrams. Fill me in on what you know. What’s this with the O’Brien firm, for instance? Why is all this shit going down on my turf? Why not Newark, or Berlin or someplace?”
“This phone may not be secure.”
“Oh, cut the shit.”
Abrams realized he wasn’t going to tell Spinelli anything about O’Brien and the OSS Veterans, and this surprised him, but not completely. He heard the shower shut off. “I have to run—”
“Your place is staked out, you know. So is Thirty-sixth Street.”
“I know. Stake out 39 Carmine, too. Thanks.”
“Yeah. Thanks my ass. As soon as you go home to get your socks, I’m pulling you in. I have a warrant for your arrest. You’ll be better off in the slammer anyway.”
Abrams finished the orange juice. “Look, cancel the warrant and I’ll be in your office at nine tomorrow morning.”
“I had an appointment with the bartender at nine this morning. You people keep turning up early in the morgue.”
“I have things to do today. I’ll know more tomorrow.”
Spinelli let a long time go by before responding. “Okay. Tomorrow at nine.” He hesitated, then said, “Hey… Tony… watch yourself. Okay?”
“Okay.” Abrams hung up and stood in the middle of the living room. He heard Katherine’s hair dryer go on. He figured he should put his pants on to walk through her bedroom to the shower. On the other hand, she’d already seen him in his shorts, and he didn’t want to appear unduly modest or shy. The logistics of these things got sort of muddled.
The hair dryer went off and she came to the door wearing the kimono. “Are you going to shower? I’ll dry my hair in the bedroom. There are shaving things in the bathroom… I have disposable razors and toothbrushes.”
“Does one have my name on the handle?”
“Possibly. Look under T.” She went back into the bedroom and he heard the dryer go on again.
Abrams hung his holster over his shoulder and went into her bedroom. She was sitting at the vanity with brush and dryer and took no notice of him. He saw the bathroom door and went in, closing it behind him. The bathroom at least was modern, which was to say circa 1955.
He slipped off his shorts and stood in front of the mirror. Neatly laid out on the sink top were the disposable razor and toothbrush along with a can of aerosol shaving cream. There was a bottle of aftershave lotion sporting a little man playing polo. A haberdasher had tried to explain to him once why the little polo player was worth about twenty to thirty dollars more than, say, an alligator or a penguin. He sniffed the bottle. It was definitely Thorpe’s scent.