The Sentinel (21 page)

"Yes, I can see."

"Can you?"

"I'm not blind, Michael-or crazy."

"I never said you were."

"That might be subject to argument."

He looked away, eyed the moonlight that invaded the living room through the uncovered window and asked, "How do you feel?"

"Better."

"The headache?"

"Gone."

"And the nausea?"

"Gone also."

"Good."

Their voices parried tonelessly, as if each were waiting for the other to open up and submit.

"You shouldn't have run away like that. In the condition you were in anything could have happened."

"It seems that's been my fate, no matter what my condition."

"You were irrational."

"I made it back, didn't I?"

He mumbled a drawn-out "Yes."

She took off her shoes and threw them in the corner. "Can I have some water?"

"You don't have to ask."

She stood, walked to the kitchen and returned quickly, glass in hand.

"Where'd you go?"

"For a ride in a cab."

"For two hours?"

"No, I went into a church."

He frowned. "Why on earth would-"

"To pray. If there ever was a time in my life for prayer, it's now."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. I took confession and the priest absolved me. My headache and nausea subsided. First my father's room, then the crucifix and now this. I feel like I've come back to myself. Like it hasn't been me all these years, but someone alien."

"Nonsense."

" 'Nonsense' is a catch-all for 1 don't understand.'"

"Who fell in love with me? Mother Hubbard?"

"Maybe."

"Allison!" His tone was harsh, as if he were about to attack her, but he stopped, reflected and slumped down in the chair. He sat quietly, then whispered, "You know how important you are to me."

She nodded and turned away.

"While you were gone I was thinking," he said.

"So was I."

"About the brownstone?"

"No, about you."

"Anything interesting?" Michael asked.

"Yes," she said.

He leaned over the desk. "I've had some interesting thoughts also. Maybe there's more to this than I thought. Maybe you weren't imagining everything that happened."

She turned back to him, surprised that he had finally admitted the possibility, but then again he was still under suspicion-the wax statue of the woman. Yet she kept hearing the words of the priest: Trust, believe, especially in those who love you.

"I just don't know," said Michael. "I keep going over this entire thing and something keeps kicking me in the gut. I think it's time I took a careful look at that house!"

"Now?"

"No."

"When?"

"Tomorrow. In the morning. If I have to, I'll tear the place apart."

She stared hard at him. "I want to go with you."

"No."

"Michael."

"No. That place is off limits for you."

"I said I want to come." Her voice was unnaturally stern.

"And you can't stop me."

He rose, walked to the window and stared at the bright lights that shone in the silhouetted skyline. "I'll think about it tonight. More than that I won't say. But if I decide you're not coming with me, then you're not coming. And that's final." He walked across to her. "Finished?" he asked.

"Yes," she replied as she stood up and handed him the glass.

They were face to face; not more than six inches apart. Her expression was less contorted. He could sense the absence of pain. That for the first time in days she was feeling some kind of peace, both physical and mental. Yet there was still something wrong. It was her eyes. He lifted his hand and touched one of the lids with the tip of his finger. It rasped like sandpaper. But he had known that. The doctor had seen it earlier that day. It was just getting worse. He would have to call the doctor in the morning.

"I'm going out to get the paper and something to eat. Do you want to come?"

"No. I'm tired." She yawned.

He walked solemnly past her, then turned. "After you ran off, I didn't come back here right away." He stopped and thought for a moment. She looked up. "I walked over to The New York Times and went through the edition you used to find the apartment. There was no advertisement in the real estate section or any section for the brownstone. Nothing."

She grimaced.

"There was never a placement! But we know you saw something. Another hallucination? A big fat irrelevant coincidence? A fraud? I don't know. But I'm going to find out."

"I showed the ad to Miss Logan. She saw it!"

"Did she?" He paused. "Or did she pretend to see it?"

"I don't know," Allison said thoughtfully.

"After I examine the brownstone, I'm going to speak to her."

"If you can find her," added Allison softly.

"Yes," he stated, "if I can find her."

"Miss Logan told me the landlord placed the notice."

"His name is Caruso. Do you have the lease? His address would be in it."

"I never received a copy."

He bit his lip, reflected briefly. "I'll find him tomorrow. He may know something." Shaking his head incredulously, he turned and left the apartment.

Chapter XVIII

Detective Gatz eased into the squad car and shut the door. "Damn car's freezing," he said.

"It'll warm up," said Rizzo.

Gatz beat his arms with his hands to speed the circulation. "Where's the lot?" he asked, stiff-jawed.

"Near Amsterdam," said Detective Richardson, seated next to Rizzo.

Rizzo started the car and raced it out of the precinct garage.

Gatz pulled a cellophane bag from his raincoat pocket. He laid it on his lap, opened the top and took out a ham and cheese sandwich, heavily bathed in mustard. "Anyone want part of this?"

Neither officer replied.

"It's not poisoned."

"We ate," confessed Rizzo.

Gatz scowled and sat back, quietly chewing, watching the car slide along the streets on the upper West Side, past the broken tenements and small shops that had resisted the onslaught of high-rise apartments, supermarkets and chain stores. The sidewalks were dirty. Broken. Choked with the odor of decay. He hated the neighborhood; he had been there too long.

"What do you think?" asked Rizzo.

"Don't know. Let's wait till we get a look. Did you get a list from missing persons?"

"I have it with me," said Richardson, indicating the bulge in his breast pocket.

"Good." Gatz turned to Rizzo. "Who's there now?"

"Jake Burstein."

Gatz smiled; Burstein was a good cop.

Rizzo pulled the car to a stop behind another police car, parked mid-block in front of a pizza parlor, where a group of spectators had gathered behind a blockade. Next to the parlor was a small lot, bordered by a gray tenement on the other side and covered with the rubble of the building that had been razed some time ago.

They got out of the car and walked over the bricks and shattered wood.

In the rear was a larger area, ringed by aging brownstones and strewn with garbage and discarded kitchen appliances. To the far right was a pile of auto bodies, encrusted with rust. A spotlight had been set up nearby, the beam focused on the cars. A swarm of police officers crawled over the refuse. Seated on a bench behind the pizza shop was a group of boys in their early teens.

Gatz approached a plainclothesman standing in the center of the debris.

"Tom," the tall man said, seeing Gatz.

"Jake," Gatz acknowledged.

"Want a look?"

"Yes," said Gatz.

"It's messy."

"Aren't they all?"

Gatz followed the officer to the autos and into the frame of the beam, which reflected brilliantly off the mangled chrome. The trunk of one of the cars was open, revealing a mutilated arm. Inside was a blood-soaked body.

"A bad way to die," said Jake, shaking his head.

"No worse than most," announced Gatz disdainfully, leaning closer to get a better look. "Any identification yet?"

"No."

"Nothing on the body? Cards? Notes?"

"No," said Jake. "But the print boys just took an impression."

Gatz toyed with the trunk lid; it rasped loudly as it moved slowly open. He bent down and examined the victim's clothes. The raincoat was badly torn as was the gray suit beneath. The black sport shirt was encrusted with blood and it too was badly mangled. He pulled out a flashlight and turned it on the wounds. They were deep and irregular, discolored and heavily scabbed. Most were on the chest and face. "How many wounds?"

"It's hard to tell."

"A guess?"

"Fifteen. Twenty. It doesn't matter much."

"Perhaps."

Jake leaned against the fender of the car. "He's been here awhile."

"How long?"

"At least a week. Could be longer. He's pretty decomposed."

Gatz ran his thumb along the victim's forehead, then rubbed his fingers together, examining them with the flash-light.

"Any trace of makeup on the body?"

Jake looked at Gatz quizzically.

"Makeup," Gatz repeated irritably. "You want a definition?"

"No. No makeup."

Gatz shrugged. "Who found him?"

Jake pointed to the tallest boy on the bench. "They were playing hide and seek. He tried to get into the trunk. It was locked. He wedged it open and out popped the arm."

"Like opening a box of Cracker Jack."

"Almost." Jake smiled. "There are blood tracks leading to the street. Want to see?"

"Later."

They stood aside as a police photographer approached and began to snap pictures of the corpse.

Jake glanced at the searchers. "A waste of time," he said. "There's so much junk in the yard it'll be impossible to tell if something was dropped by the murderer."

Gatz looked about. "Were you able to question any of the storekeepers?"

Jake shook his head. "They were all gone. We'll pick up in the morning."

Gatz motioned to Rizzo, then turned to Jake. "When can we get a blood type?"

"Very soon, they've already taken some samples."

Rizzo arrived; Gatz looked at him levelly. "Compile all the information you can on this by the morning and have it on my desk."

Rizzo nodded and hurried away.

Jake bit his lip. "Doesn't look like a robbery or gangland."

"No," said Gatz, agreeing.

"Could have been killed by a nut."

"That's the best bet."

"Any psychos on the loose?"

"Officially?" asked Gatz. "No. Unofficially the city is filled with them." He looked over the area. "No knives around?"

"None."

"And the weapon definitely was a knife?"

"Yes. A big one."

"Two-edged?"

"One."

Gatz turned and began to walk about the enclosure, thinking. Another murder. So what? Homicide was averaging about five a week. Yet he felt a peculiar twinge in his stomach, telling him that there was something special about this one. He bent down and picked up a broken doll that was losing its stuffing. He held it up, put the material back inside and shook it; the head fell off. He tried to put the head back on its post, but could not. He threw the dismembered body back and walked over the piles of beer cans, sifting vainly for a clue. Failing to find anything, he unwrapped a new cigar, shoved it into his mouth and squinted at the spotlight.

Rizzo walked over, the missing persons list in his hand. "There are a few MP's that fit the description."

Gatz nodded. "Run them down. Get pictures." He paused. "But for some reason I don't think this cat has been reported." He stood up, walked to the bench and sat next to the tall boy who had discovered the corpse. He pulled a picture of Michael Farmer from his pocket. "Son," he said, "do you play here often?"

"Yes, sir," answered the boy tensely. "At least several times a week."

"At what time?"

"Sometimes early. Sometimes late. Tonight we snuck out around eleven."

"Ever see people back here? Not the storekeepers. Or kids. You know. People?"

"Yes, sir. They bring junk."

Gatz held up Michael Farmer's picture. "Ever see this man around?"

The boy looked closely, then shook his head.

"You sure?"

"Yes."

Gatz handed the picture to the other boys; none of them had ever seen the man before either.

Gatz smiled and stood. "Stay out of old cars," he advised. "They're dangerous." He walked away and rejoined Jake and Detective Rizzo. "What time do you have?"

Rizzo looked at his watch. "Two twelve."

"I'm hungry. A ham and cheese can only hold me for so long." He puffed heavily on his cigar. "Rizzo, you stay with Jake."

Rizzo nodded. "Yes, sir," he said.

"Jake," called Gatz. "We'll speak in the morning."

"Want a quick look at the blood stains?" asked Jake.

Gatz nodded and they walked into the alley entrance.

Jake pointed to several markers that identified traces of brownish-red scratch marks. They extended halfway to the street.

"There are eight," said Jake. "Probably all from our friend in the trunk. We're checking to make certain." He looked at the trail of markers, shaking his head. "It's hard to believe that the victim was still alive when he was brought here."

Jake smiled as he tugged at his gloves. "You look as if you have some ideas."

Gatz smiled back. "Just one, and a wild one at that. I'll tell you in the morning if the additional information we get supports it."

Gatz turned and waved for Richardson. Reaching the car, he turned to the cop. "Did you get a look at the stiff's face."

"From a distance."

"He was terrified when he died. A big tough-looking guy, but he died horror-struck."

Richardson lifted his shoulders, unable to form an opinion.

Gatz started to open the door, then looked back toward the lot one last time. "Not just frightened, but horror-struck," he repeated.

They slid into the car and drove off.

Gatz slept in his office and woke at 8:00, sore and stiff-backed. But it had been better than the alternative: a quick trip home, a short nap, and a faster trip back to the precinct.