Diamond Solitaire (20 page)

Stein said after a pause, "You really think this represents something?"

"If Naomi did it, yes. She has an individual way of looking at things, but her drawing is pretty accurate."

"Is it a map?"

"I suppose it could be."

"If it's going to be any help to us, it
has
to be," said Stein. "I mean, what have we got here? Is this some kind of overpass? Because they're not common in New York City."

Diamond stared at the drawing. He saw what Stein had obviously seized on—the broad causeway stretching southeast to northwest, apparently crossing minor routes. "If so, what's the rectangular object there?''

"Automobile, I guess."

"A bird's-eye view, you mean?"

"Could be."

"Then what is this elongated shape along the center?"

Stein considered for a moment. "You say this kid has an original way of seeing things. Maybe we're looking at the underside of the Buick. This could be the exhaust."

"The
underside?"
Diamond doubted whether a child of that age had such technical know-how, and said so. He also doubted whether Naomi was capable of the conceptual ability necessary to draw a map. "She draws from memory what she has actually seen. In England she was taken on a train, and later she made an accurate sketch of the back of the seat facing her."

"Was that helpful to your investigation?"

"Not directly, no."

Sergeant Stein lifted his eyebrows as if to question the value of more time spent deciphering Naomi's work.

Diamond said, "This object that you think could be a car looks awfully like an old-fashioned razor blade to me."

"Uh huh," said Stein without committing himself.

"Before they invented disposable razors."

"I remember razor blades," said Stein, "but if that's a blade, I have a problem understanding the rest of the drawing."

"Me too."

"I'll just attend.to a couple of other things that came up."

A bandoned to ponder the mystery alone, Diamond tried turning his notebook to see if die picture made more sense orientated differently. There was no certainty that what he'd taken to be the top was actually so; you can turn a food container any way you like and draw on it. No new possibilities leapt out. The rectangular shape still looked like a razor blade from every angle. Now that he'd lodged that idea in his brain, he couldn't visualize anything else.

Towards noon, Lieutenant Eastland, the officer in charge of the case—the man who had compared him to Winnie the Pooh—came in and said there was some progress in identifying the dead woman. The Japanese police had checked the Yokohama address in the passport. Mrs. Tanaka was divorced and lived alone. Until the previous November she had been employed as a secretary at Yokohama University.

"A secretary? That begs a few questions," Diamond commented. "It could mean she was a high-powered administrator or simply a typist."

"My information is that she worked in the faculty of science as one of the team of people operating word processors," Eastland told him. "As for the kid—"

Diamond interrupted. "Lieutenant, there's something I should tell you about the kid." This would be embarrassing, but it had to be admitted. "I'm pretty sure Naomi wasn't Mrs. Tanaka's child. She had a daughter of her own who died. I, em, I found this picture of the grave. This was the child listed in the passport." He produced the photo from his pocket and prepared to be sliced into small pieces. The withholding of evidence wasn't the way to win friends and influence people.

The inevitable question came: "Where did you get this?"

He answered, explained and apologized.

"Why are you showing it to me now?" Eastland asked without otherwise reacting. He was a tight-lipped, gaunt-looking cop in his forties, with a measured style of speech.

"Because it may have a bearing on the case."

"You knew that last night."

"I only examined it after you'd finished with me."

"Couldn't take more of the same, huh?"

"That wasn't the reason."

"So what was?"

"Priorities. I wanted to keep it simple. The first thing was to get the machinery in place to find Naomi, never mind who she is."

"Did you remove anything else from the wallet?"

"No."

"Can I rely on that?"

"Absolutely."

"You know what you are?"

"I know what you think I am."

"So long as we both understand," said Eastland flatly. "Now would you be so gracious as to share with me the drawing you were discussing with Sergeant Stein?"

The sarcasm couldn't have been more blatant, but at least there was some recognition of Diamond's efforts at consultation.

He opened his notebook again. Not wishing to preempt any ideas the lieutenant might have, he said nothing about the razor blade.

"You believe the kid drew this?"

Diamond explained that he had made a copy.

Eastland frowned at the drawing for some time. Finally, all he could find to say was, "What's your opinion?"

"I think the small object is a razor blade."

"Could be. In that case, what is it standing on—a shelf? Are we in a bathroom here? This semicircular section—does this represent a sink?"

"I hadn't thought of that."

"The bathroom attached to the murder room has a similar basin, only the shelf is at quite a different angle. No bathroom shelf I ever saw is suspended across the width of the basin. Mind you, kids draw things from strange angles."

"She'd have needed to be taller than you or me to look down on the shelf in that bathroom," Diamond commented.

"I'm saying kids get things out of line."

"She's an accurate artist."

"And you think this is significant?"

"With not much else to go on ..." said Diamond, his voice trailing away as a new possibility dawned.

"Even if it is a drawing of the bathroom," said Eastland. "Even if there was a razor blade in there—and I don't have any recollection of one—where does it lead us?"

Suddenly the marks made sense to Diamond. Everything clicked into mental focus. "It's a tattoo."

"A
what

"The razor blade is a tattoo. Take another look. This thing you thought was the shelf is obviously someone's arm against a steering wheel. She draws what she sees in front of her. I think that's the suspect's arm. It's the view Naomi must have had if she was strapped into the front seat beside him."

Eastland stared at it for some time. "You could be right."

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

One of the older cops passing through the office had a memory of a razor blade tattoo. It had been the emblem of a teenage street gang of the late 1970s that had created a certain amount of mayhem in a rundown area of Brooklyn, inspired by the punk-rock movement. The membership had reached about forty at the peak around 1978. By the eighties new gangs had taken over.

"Presumably you kesep records of tattoo marks of known criminals?" Diamond asked.

"They'll be on computer, sure."

They ran a check. Eleven males were listed as having a razor blade tattoo on one arm or the other. Not all had been members of the Brooklyn gang. Several, it seemed, simply liked the razor blade design; one extreme case had a chain of them running from the back of one hand, up his arm and over his shoulder down to the opposite hand.

The computer operator accessed the details of each. Three of the Brooklyn gang had descriptions promisingly close to Diamond's memory of Leather-jacket. He asked for mug shots. This entailed a visit to Records, in another building on the same block. The files were spread on a table for inspection by the time he got there. His pulse quickened.

Naomi's picture had paid off.

One of them was Leather-jacket. No question. The mean, narrow face, the eyes and, in the profile shot, the Charlton Heston nose.

"That's him."

"Lundin? He isn't nice."

The name was Fredrik Anders Lundin. Aged thirty-two. A history of juvenile crime followed by two sentences for armed robbery. Sandwiched between them was one for murder, but he had been released on appeal. There was information that since coming out after serving three years of the second rap for armed robbery, Lundin was offering his services as a contract killer. He was currently under police surveillance (the file claimed), presumably in prospect of putting him away for a long term, rather than some token sentence for the charge of intent.

"It says you have tabs on him."

Lieutenant Eastland said in his slow-speaking way, "You're one hundred percent certain this is the guy?"

"Absolutely."

"You saw him meet with Mrs. Tanaka and the kid in the airport parking lot?"

"Lieutenant, I was as close to him as I am to you right now."

"Okay, we'll pull him in."

"How?"

Eastland gave a shrug that said English detectives were dense. "That's what patrols are for."

"Look, this isn't a simple arrest," Diamond pointed out. "This man is a killer. He's abducted a child. Her safety is paramount. You send two patrolmen in and people could start shooting."

"What's your advice, then—a stakeout?"

"He's already under surveillance, according to this."

"Don't believe everything you reaa in records," Eastland cautioned. "Surveillance could mean we have a guy who watches him play pool a couple of nights a week."

Diamond couldn't be certain how much of this laid-back attitude was the New York detective's insulation against the dangers out there on the streets. He was in earnest, and he meant to leave nothing to chance. "Lieutenant, you asked for my advice. I'm suggesting some subtlety is necessary. I don't think you should attempt to arrest him in the room where he's holding Naomi. That's putting her in real danger.

"Mr. Diamond, I'm deeply obliged to you," said Easdand, affecting an English accent with about as much success as Dick Van Dyke in
Mary Poppins.
"Let's take a jolly old spin out to Queens where the gentleman resides and be subtle. I assume you want to be on the team."

Diamond wasn't amused by the sarcasm, but he accepted an offer from Sergeant Stein to ride in his car. When they emerged from the Midtown Tunnel, the afternoon was drawing on. Some of the streetlights were switched on.

"Do you carry a piece?" Stein asked at some point on the journey.

"No."

"Is that light—mat English cops go unarmed?"

"Generally, yes."

"Didn't you ever need one?"

"Not up to now." He could have added that he was notoriously cack-handed, that in his possession a gun would go off when it was least expected, like now, from the jolting he was getting. The seat had no springs at all that he could discern.

Stein commented, "Me—I'd have been dead five times over without my automatic."

The area they were driving into was neither the best of Queens, nor the worst. The turn-of-the-century tenements had probably been smart addresses when they were built. The fire escapes that fronted them were still festooned with evidence of the warm afternoon that had just come to an end: canvas chairs, pot-plants, bedding, beer cans, take-out boxes.

A patrolman flagged them down on a street corner. "You can't drive past here. The suspect has a view of the street."

"Which side is his apartment?" Stein asked.

"The right."

"Anyone sighted him yet?"

"No. But there's a light."

"So we could get lucky."

They got out and joined Lieutenant Eastland and two more detectives, who had pulled up behind. A third car of uniformed officers had arrived from another direction. Eastland used his mobile radio to make contact with people already in position closer to the apartment. Then he issued orders. He wasn't messing now, and Diamond formed a better opinion.

"We're getting good cooperation from the people in the adjoining apartments," he told Diamond presendy.

"Have they seen the child?"

"Sorry, but no."

"Or heard her voice?"

"Nobody mentioned it yet."

"Maybe the walls are too solid."

"Could be."

"So what's the plan?"

"We can afford to wait awhile," said Eastland. "With luck, he may come out for food in the next hour, and then we grab him. You want to go closer?"

"Why not?"

Stein was told to accompany him. Like two local residents walking invisible dogs, they strolled along the sidewalk until they were level with number 224, where the lighted second-floor windows gave promise of Fredrik Lundin being at home. Any chance of a sighting was forestalled by Venetian blinds. Even so, it wasn't wise to linger. A finger's-width gap between the slats could give a clear view of the street.

They walked almost to the end of the block before stopping. Stein offered his pack of cigarettes.

Tempted, Diamond remembered that he was supposed to be a nonsmoker now.

Stein's personal radio crackled. Eastland's voice asked, "See anything?"

Stein reported back, "Light at the window. Blinds. First floor in darkness, apparently unoccupied. Front door looks easy. Want us to go in?"

"Not yet."

"The problem with this," Stein confided to Diamond when he'd switched off, "is that if Lundin gets suspicious, we could have a siege on our hands."

It was a risk Diamond was willing to take, in spite of the fact that darkness was setting in rapidly.

"Sieges can be heavy on manpower," Stein explained. "We don't let them happen."

Three cigarettes later, the radio broke the silence. "Okay, we can't wait all night for this jerk," Eastland announced. "You and Diamond can enter by the front and occupy the first-floor apartment Be ready to go upstairs as soon as the suspect is flushed and separated from the kid. Check?"

"Check, Lieutenant," said Stein.

Diamond had an impulse to wrench the radio from him and urge Eastland not to provoke a shootout, but cold reason told him it wouldn't alter anything. This was Easdand's operation, and with half his men looking on he wasn't going to take instructions from a limey detective. It was some reassurance that he'd expressed some intention of separating Lundin from Naomi.

He and Stein returned up the street towards 224. It was much darker by now and the front wasn't well lit. They could barely see their way up the stoop to the door. Stein put a hand in his jacket, evidently feeling for the grip of die gun he wouldn't be without He nodded to Diamond to try the door. It opened easily.

No sound came from upstairs. They were in a wide hallway with stairs facing them. Halfway along, on the right, was the door of the apartment where they were supposed to take up position. Diamond gripped the handle. Was it too much to hope that this door, also, would be unlocked? It was securely fastened. Probably a well-aimed kick would resolve the matter, but only at the risk of disturbing the entire house.

Fortunately Sergeant Stein had come prepared, with the strip of plastic known to housebreakers and policemen as the indispensable aid to easing latches aside. He used it confidently, the door opened inwards and they stepped inside. Warm air wafted over them, reeking of cheap perfume and body odor. Just like a knocking-shop, Diamond found himself thinking—a thought that lingered and lodged more firmly when he heard a female voice murmur sleepily but without alarm, "Hey, who is it? What time is it?"

A sofa creaked and something stirred. The woman who had been lying mere said, "Is there one of you, or two?" She got up and moved unsteadily towards a table lamp. "I'm not taking two—not together. Sorry, guys. One of you has to wait"

Her hand was on the lamp.

"Leave it," said Stein in a stage whisper.

She started to say, "What the fuck—" before Diamond moved fast towards her and clapped a hand over her mouth. She struggled, and he had to grab her round the back. She was wearing some kind of silk wrap that made her slippery to hold, because she was obviously naked under it His terse, "It's all right, we're police officers," was not a message calculated to reassure a lady of her calling, but it was the first thing to come to mind.

Stein told her more bluntly, "You make one sound and you're busted. We've come for the guy upstairs. Know him?"

Diamond relaxed his hold on her.

She said, too loudly for comfort, "You mean Fredrik?"

They both made shushing sounds.

With less voice, she said, "What's he done now?"

"Is there a kid with him?" Stein asked.

"A kid?"

"A girl."

She hesitated. "You mean, like, underage?"

"A
small
kid, child, this high, Japanese."

She seemed genuinely shocked. "Fredrik? He never puts kids to work. I'm damn sure he never uses baby-pros. I wouldn't work for a guy who uses kids."

Diamond remained quite still and said nothing, but a pulse was hammering in his head and his mouth had suddenly gone dry. Until this moment, child prostitution hadn't crossed his mind as a possible motive for Naomi's abduction. Now it had to be faced as a sickening possibility. Clearly Lundin had an income from pimping. Pray God the woman was right and he drew the line at selling children for sex.

"You heard any sounds from up there?" Stem asked her.

She shook her head.

"Nothing at all?"

"You can't hear anyone talk."

"But you can hear mem move around."

"Well, yeah. I hear that sometimes."

"Last evening?"

"I guess so."

"More than one?"

"I can't tell."

"Have you talked to Lundin since yesterday?"

"No."

"You think he's home right now?"

"How would I know? I was asleep until you arrived. Did someone give you a key?"

"Why don't you go back to sleep?" suggested Stein without much generosity in his tone.

He radioed Eastland and updated him.

"Okay," came their instruction, "stay where you are. Send the pavement princess out to us. She can help us."

"Did you hear that?" Stein asked the call girl just as she was reclining on the sofa. "Get dressed. Fast."

"And, Stein..." the voice on the radio went on.

"Lieutenant?"

"When he comes out, leave him to us. You go right in and find the kid."

Complaining bitterly, first mat she wanted no part in the police operation and then mat she couldn't see to get dressed, the woman stumbled about the apartment picking up clothes. Diamond scarcely noticed; he was still reeling from the suggestion he'd just heard. A minute ago, he'd been ready to urge the police to go easy on Lundin so that he'd be fit to give information; now, if this grotesque scenario was true, they'd have to restrain
him
from laying into the bastard.

"Jesus, what are you trying to find?" Stein demanded of the woman. He was standing at the open door.

"My face."

"Your what?"

"The bag with my lipstick and things. It's here somewhere."

"I don't believe this! Get your ass out of here."

She went

Eastland would use her as a lure. There was a better chance of Lundin opening his door to the woman who worked for him man to the New York police.

Above their heads the floorboards creaked. Someone was definitely up there. Stein immediately radioed his lieutenant Up to now, this operation couldn't be faulted. No doubt there were men at front and back, waiting for the swoop.

Diamond waited too, striving to apply concentration to the job he and Stein were about to do. He had to believe they would find Naomi unharmed in the apartment upstairs. He kept thinking how small her hand had felt in his. Usually he remembered the eyes of people. He could picture her eyes, but because of the nature of her disability, they weren't so eloquent. It was still the memory of a touch that moved him.

He and Stein took up position with the door fractionally ajar for a view of the hall. They knew this would take time to set up, and they waited at least twenty minutes before anything else happened.

Then there was the sound of the front door opening and footsteps across the tiled hallway. The call girl passed her own door and started climbing the stairs, her leather-soled boots, tokens of her trade, clattering on the wooden treads.

Stein drew his gun.

Two shadowy figures crossed the hallway a short way behind the woman. They made no sound.

She turned on the landing and started to ascend the second flight Her escorts followed.

Down in the hallway, more cops crept across the narrow bar of vision between the doorjamb and the edge of the door.

The woman was out of sight now, but the sound of Lundin's doorbell being pressed was loud and clear and so was her voice saying, "Fredrik, it's only me, Dixie."