The Talbot Odyssey (29 page)

Thorpe nodded. “But you say you didn’t mention I was looking for this guy Edwards?”

“No. Honest. Hey, fuck them. That’s none of their business. Right? I figured you could tell them if you wanted them to know. Members’ privacy got to be protected. Right?”

“Right. When is your appointment downtown?”

Donald looked a bit surprised and uncomfortable. “Tomorrow. My day off. Who needs it?” Donald changed the subject. “Hey, that July Fourth thing. I’d like to work that . . . but, you know, we get triple time on a holiday.”

“No kidding? I might do it myself.” Thorpe laughed. “Well, no problem. Do you drive?”

“No, I guess I need transportation, too.”

“You got it.” Thorpe looked at his watch. “Well, that’s it for me.” He slipped Donald a twenty-dollar bill. “Thanks.”

“Thank
you
.”

Thorpe slid off the barstool. “Where you heading?”

The bartender shrugged. “Home, I guess. Nothing happening on a Sunday night.”

“No, there isn’t. Subway, cab, or bus?”

“Subway. North Bronx.”

“Be careful. Banjos and bongos.”

“Hey, tell me about it.”

“I just did.”

Katherine Kimberly sat up straight in bed, her heart beating rapidly as her hand groped for the Browning automatic on the night table. She stopped moving and remained motionless, trying to get her bearings.
Telephone. Damned telephone.
She took a long breath and picked up the receiver. “Yes?” She looked at her clock. It was a few minutes before six.

Thorpe’s voice came on the line. “Good morning. Did I wake you?”

She cleared her throat. “No. I had to get up to answer the phone anyway.”

Thorpe laughed. “Terrible joke. Are you running today?”

“Yes. Where were you last night? I tried to reach you until midnight.”

“Ah, the wicked walk at night. Old Latin proverb.”

“Latin or otherwise, it doesn’t answer the question.”

“The question cannot be answered over an unsecured telephone, my sweet. When are you going to learn the business?”

“Don’t lecture me.”

“Sorry. Listen, are you going to Van Dorn’s bash?”

She sat back against the headboard and took a glass of water from the night table. She finished it, then said, “You called me at six to ask that?”

“I didn’t want to miss you. I knew you’d be running. It starts at about four. Fireworks and music begin at sundown.”

“Oh, God. . . .”

“I enjoy the show. Listen, I’ve got my boat at the South Street Seaport. Meet me at . . . let’s say, four.”

“I guess you don’t want to drive?”

“No, I want to float. Beat the holiday traffic. We can be at Glen Cove Marina in forty minutes.”

She said, “Do you know if Pat O’Brien is going? I haven’t heard from him.”

Thorpe replied, “You know, if he wasn’t an older man, and your boss, I’d be jealous of your attentions toward him.”

“I’m fond of him.”

“Everyone is. He’s a gentleman. I try to emulate him. Anyway, I spoke to him yesterday. He can’t make it.”

“Oh . . . how about Nick? How many people will the boat hold?”

“I can get five in. But Nick had an early meeting in Washington, holiday notwithstanding. He must be on the way to the airport by now. Don’t you want to ride alone with me?”

“I just think that you ought to offer someone a lift. Maybe the Grenvilles.”

“They ran back to the suburbs as soon as the police got through with them Saturday morning.”

“What do you think of what happened?”

Thorpe didn’t speak for some time, then said, “Suspicious. We’ll discuss it later. Anyway, I’ll offer Claudia a lift.”

Katherine looked out her bedroom window. There was a hint of dawn penetrating the alleyway outside her building. She said, “You heard about Arnold, too, of course.”

“Of course. The police are looking for you.”

“I’ll see them in my office Tuesday.”

“Real lawyer. Where are you running this morning?”

“Brooklyn.”

Thorpe said, “Are you running alone?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Well, be careful of muggers.”

“I haven’t yet met a mugger who could keep up with me.” She hesitated, then said, “Tony Abrams is running with me.”

Thorpe didn’t respond for a second, then said, “Ah, that’s interesting.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t know he ran. Why him? He’s not your speed, you know.”

“I’m running right by his place.”

She let the silence drag out, then said, “You’re welcome to come along. It might do you some good.”

“You’re welcome to lift weights with me, practice karate, and navigate the obstacle course at the Farm.”

“I’m not in the mood for one-upmanship. Also, I think your behavior Friday night was crude and uncalled-for. What’s gotten into you?”

“I’m under some pressure—”

“Also, you weren’t around Saturday night, and all day Sunday. And now you call me at six—where are you anyway?”

“The Lombardy. Actually, I’m in the damned garret. With the computer. I’ve been working all night. All weekend. I’ll explain it to you later.”

She drew a deep breath. “Okay . . . I’ll see you at four.”

“Wait. I may be able to join you. When and where do you start?”

“City Hall at about seven. Then over the Brooklyn Bridge.”

“Too early. Then where?”

“I should be at Tony Abrams’ place by eight. He’s at 75 Henry Street. If you’re going to meet me, do it there, or later.” She gave him the route she expected to follow.

Thorpe said, “I thought Abrams was staying at Thirty-sixth Street.”

She didn’t answer for a few seconds, then said, “I think he’s moving around.”

“Why? Scared?”

“Cautious. You should be too.”

“And you. You can stay here at the Lombardy after tonight.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Okay, maybe I’ll run into you in Brooklyn. If not, the Seaport at four.”

Katherine hung up and got out of bed. She pulled on a short kimono and went into the small living room. She bent over the couch. “Tony.” She shook him.

Abrams opened his eyes and she could tell he hadn’t been asleep. She said, “I’ll shower first.”

“Okay.” He sat up and yawned.

She said, “I’m sorry about the couch.”

He stretched. “What were our options?”

“Well . . . I could have slept on the couch. . . .”

“There was barely room for me. And why let a good bed go to waste?”

“You know what I mean.”

He put his legs over the side of the couch, keeping the blanket partly wrapped around him. He rubbed his eyes, yawned again, and said, “Did anyone try to kill you during the night?”

She smiled. “No.”

“Me neither. I would have welcomed the excitement.”

“I’ll be finished shortly.” She turned and reentered the bedroom through a paneled door.

Abrams stood in his shorts and touched his toes a few times. He retrieved his shoulder holster and revolver from under his pillow and laid them on the end table. He walked over to the small galley kitchen and found a pitcher of orange juice in the refrigerator. He poured some into a paper cup, then surveyed the room.

It was small, but tastefully done in a few good contemporary pieces. In an alcove was a desk piled high with paperwork. It was, he realized, a transparent acrylic desk and must have cost thousands. The building, which he knew Katherine owned, was ancient, at least a hundred years old, and there was not much to recommend the neighborhood except the fact that the realtors had named it West Greenwich Village, which was, he thought, stretching the geography a bit far.

Abrams walked to the single window, a double-hung sash that looked too warped to be workable, and glazed with glass that had swirls and bubbles in it. “Jesus, this place was old when Indians lived on the next block.” The room also had a tilt, like the house on 36th Street.

Abrams looked down into the narrow street. It was picturesque. He peered up and down the block. The streetlights were still on, though a thin morning sunlight provided most of the illumination. The street looked quiet enough, and no one seemed to be hanging around.

He speculated on what this place said about Katherine Kimberly. He had pictured her as an East Side bitch whose major outdoor activity was watching the displays change in Bloomingdale’s windows. Then he found out she was a runner, simpatico with O’Brien, whom Abrams respected, and all sorts of other positive things. “Just goes to show you . . .” There was, however, still Thorpe.

He sipped his orange juice as he regarded the interesting tilt to the room. The Kimberlys must have a penchant for crooked houses, he thought. A shrink might say that was a clue to why she was here—a nostalgic reminder of a happier childhood. Perhaps, too, the Village reminded her of Georgetown, where she’d lived with her mother.

Abrams heard a noise behind him and spun around.

Katherine stood at the bedroom door. “Oh . . . I’m sorry . . .”

“That’s all right. This is what I run in.”

She suppressed a smile and kept her eyes on his face.
Boxer
shorts. Plain white.
She thought of Peter’s multicolored bikini underwear. She said, “I wanted to tell you to help yourself. I see you have. Make coffee if you want. There’s . . . well . . . something in the refrigerator.”

“Yes, a light bulb, and it’s burned out.”

She laughed. “I don’t do much cooking. There
are
eggs.”

Abrams looked at her. He’d had conversations like this before, but they were postcoital conversations. This was not, and so it was clumsier. He said, “I’ll have something when I get home.”

She hesitated, then said, “Peter may join us somewhere along the route. I hope that’s all right.”

“He’s your fiancé, not mine.”

“It won’t be awkward. I mean, I run with other men.” She laughed. “That didn’t sound right.”

Abrams finished his juice, then said, “I’ll take a taxi to my place and meet you about eight.”

“Fine. If you walk down to Houston and Seventh, you can get a cab at this hour.”

Abrams remembered a girl who had this sort of useful information printed, with a map, for her one-night stands. “Thanks.”

She began to turn away, then asked suddenly, “Would you like to go to George Van Dorn’s Memorial Day party this afternoon?”

Abrams shook his head. “One O’Brien function a weekend is enough.”

“Well, think it over. All right? You can go out with Peter and me—by speedboat.” She shook her head. “Oh, that sounds like I’m trying to bribe a child. What I mean is, it only takes about forty minutes by boat. You can take the train home if you’re bored. . . . There will be people you know. . . . Why do I sound so patronizing?”

He walked across the living room and put his paper cup on the sink. She didn’t sound patronizing, he thought. She sounded flustered. He said, “Actually, I have another engagement.”

“Oh . . . well, I’d better get moving.” She went into the bedroom and closed the door behind her, then reopened it again. “Where’s my head this morning? Do you need to use the bathroom?”

“No,” he answered, “go ahead. I’m fine for the next fifteen minutes or so. I can warm up for the run. Uphill, downhill.”

She glanced at the uneven floor, gave him a look of mock annoyance, then disappeared again into the bedroom.

Abrams heard the shower go on. He picked up the telephone and dialed. “Spinelli. Abrams.”

Captain Spinelli’s voice came on the line, groggy and hoarse. “Well, the Wandering Jew. Where the fuck are you, Abrams? Why weren’t you at your place?”

“I slept at Thirty-sixth Street.”

“Like hell you did. Where are you?”

“Down in the West Village.”

“Where in the West Village?”

“Apartment 4B. Listen, what did the ME determine as Arnold Brin’s cause of death?”

“Accidental choking.” Spinelli cleared his throat. “No evidence of foul play.”

“There were files missing.”

“Impossible to prove or to tie it in. What difference does it make? We know it was murder. How come you’re not murdered yet?”

“The weekend’s not over. Anything on the Thirty-sixth Street jumper?”

“Yeah. There was a scuffle on the roof. Three men. But I guess you know that. We got your prints on the fire escape, fella.”

“Well, I had sense enough to climb down. How about the body?”

“Foreigner. Probably East European, though the clothes were all American brands. What happened up there? Who would want to kill
you?
Except me?”

“I’ll tell you about it later. Meanwhile, keep an eye on Claudia Lepescu.”

“We’re keeping an eye on everyone—everyone we can find. I’m trying to get a line on this Kimberly broad. Would you believe we can’t even find an address for her? Even Ma Bell has nothing on her. Everybody has a phone. Right? So she’s using an alias. Can you believe a classy lawyer has an alias? We tried to run down a few other characters in this script, but there’s nothing on them. Everyone must have an alias. Friggin’ lawyers. But it’s more than that. Right? Who are these people you’re working for, Abrams? Where do they live?”

“O’Brien lives on Sutton Place, but I’m not sure of the address. Van Dorn has an estate in Glen Cove. The Grenvilles mentioned Scarsdale. Thorpe is at the Lombardy. Kimberly is at 39 Carmine Street. Check the Bar Association.”

“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?”