Ed McBain_Matthew Hope 12 (27 page)

“Well, this won’t take a minute,” I said. “I know you’re in a hurry.”

“Always time for a drink,” he said.

“Are you having one?”

“Sure. What’ll it be?”

“Little Scotch on the rocks would be fine,” I said.

I would have preferred a Beefeater martini with a couple of olives, but Diaz had a dinner date and I had questions to ask.
He poured Johnnie Black over a handful of ice cubes, handed the glass to me, and then mixed himself a gin and tonic.

“Cheers,” he said.

“Cheers.”

We drank. Outside at the pool, one of the girls trilled a laugh that sounded like a kingfisher running a river. Diaz sat opposite
me on a blue sofa against a white wall. The condo was furnished sparingly in severe modern upholstered in varying tones of
blue and green. Throw pillows and paintings echoed splashes of complementary colors. Even the wedge of lime floating in his
drink seemed part of the overall design.

“What’s this all about?” he asked.

“Lainie,” I said.

“So you told me on the phone. But what now?”

“A video,” I said, and watched him.

Nothing showed on his face.

“Something titled
Idle Hands.

Still no sign of recognition.

I opened my briefcase. I removed from it a glossy black-and-white photograph I’d had made by a commercial photographer three
blocks from my office. It showed the cover art for the video. Lainie’s hands caressing the crotch of the white panties, the
Victorian ring, the title.

“Recognize this?” I asked, and handed the photograph to him.

He took it in his right hand.

Studied it.

“Forgive the photo,” I said, “but at some point I may have to introduce the actual video in evidence.”

Which was bullshit.

“Am I supposed to know something about this?” Diaz asked, looking genuinely puzzled.

“You’re supposed to have ordered it from a company named Video Trends.”

“Ordered what?”

“The video.”

“
I
ordered a video?”

“Titled
Idle Hands
and starring four women performing respectively as Lori Doone, Candi Lane, Vicki Held, and Dierdre Starr.”

“I thought you said this was about Lainie.”

“It is. She used the name Lori Doone. It’s a porn flick, Mr. Diaz.”

“A porn flick, I see.”

“Yes.”

“And you’re saying I ordered this video from…”

“Yes, that’s what I’m saying.”

“Well, I never heard of this video.”

“The man who did the photography…”

“I’m sorry, but I never heard of it. That’s that.”

“Then how’d your name get on the list of people who’d ordered the video from him?”

“I have no idea. Anyway, I didn’t know it was against the law to buy a pornographic video.”

“It isn’t.”

“Then what the hell…excuse me, Mr. Hope, but I still don’t know what you’re doing here.”

“If we can get past…”

“There’s nothing to get past. You’ve got the wrong person. I didn’t order a video from any magazine, and I don’t know how…”

“Who mentioned a magazine?”

“What?”

“I didn’t say anything about a magazine.”

“Well, I…I just assumed that someone advertising a pornographic video would…”

“I didn’t say anything about anyone advertising it, either.”

We looked at each other.

“Okay?” I said. “Can we at least get past
this
part of it?”

“Depends on which part we go to next.”

“Did you at any time own a video titled
Idle Hands
?”

“I did.”

“Okay.”

“So?”

“Did you ever watch it?”

“I did.”

“Did you recognize Lainie Commins as one of the performers in that video?”

“I did.”

“When was this?”

“When I first received it. A week or so ago.”

“Would you remember the exact date?”

“Well, yes. But only because it got here on my birthday.”

“Nice present.”

“Better than a tie.”

“When was that, Mr. Diaz? Your birthday?”

“The eleventh.”

“Of September?”

“Yes. September eleventh.”

“The day before Brett Toland got killed.”

“Well…yes. I suppose it was. I recognized the ring the minute I looked at the cover. Lainie wore it all the time. I thought,
Hey, what’s this?”

“So you knew it was Lainie even before…”

“Well, let’s say I suspected it. Then when I watched it, of course…”

“When was that?”

“That night.”

“The night of the eleventh.”

“Yes. UPS delivered it that afternoon, it was waiting in the manager’s office when I got home from work.”

“So you watched it that night.”

“Yes.”

“The eleventh of September…”

“I’m sure it was.”

“And recognized Lainie Commins that same night.”

“Yes.”

“What did you do then?”

“I went to sleep.”

“What I mean, Mr. Diaz, is when did you tell Brett Toland you’d seen Lainie Commins performing in a porn flick?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I think you know what I mean.”

“I
never
told Brett about it.”

“Then how’d the tape get in his possession?”

“I have no idea.”

“You didn’t give it to him?”

“Never even mentioned it to him.”

“Do you still have the tape?”

“I’m sure I do.”

“May I see it?”

“I’m not sure I know where it is.”

“Could you look for it?”

“I’d be happy to. But as I told you…”

“I know. An early dinner date.”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Diaz,” I said, rising and putting my empty glass down on the coffee table, “here’s what I think. I think you called Brett
Toland the minute you spotted Lainie on that tape…

“No, I’m sorry, I didn’t.”

“I think you told him he had nothing to worry about anymore because…”

“He had nothing to worry about, anyway. The bear was ours. Lainie stole it.”

“How’d
that
happen to come to mind just now, Mr. Diaz?”

“What?”

“How’d you happen to make
that
connection?”

“Because the only thing Brett had to worry about was Lainie’s false claim.”

“So now he didn’t have to worry about
that
anymore, did he? Because you had a tape of Lainie Commins masturbating.”

“Please.”

“Well, isn’t that what she was doing, Mr. Diaz?”

“Well, sure, but…”

“What’s the matter? Does the word bother you?”

“No, but…”

“Does the act bother you?”

“No, but…”

“
You’re
the one who ordered that tape, you know?”

“I realize that. But what an adult does privately…”

“Ah.”

“…isn’t always a suitable matter for discussion.”

“Do you think Mr. and Mrs. America would buy a teddy bear from someone who’d masturbated in a porn flick?”

“I don’t know what Mr. and Mrs. America would buy.”

“Well, you design toys for Mr. and Mrs. America, don’t you?”

“I design toys for children.”

“The children of Mr. and Mrs. America.”

“I’m telling you I never once discussed this with Brett Toland.”

“Never told him you’d watched Lainie Commins masturbating on your birthday?”

“My birthday was a coincidence.”

“Never called and said, ‘Hey, Brett, guess
what’?”

“Never.”

“Never gave him that tape.”

“Never.”

“Never told him he now had a bargaining tool…”

“Never! He didn’t
need
a bargaining tool. Lainie stole my design for that bear, the bear was
ours!”

“What?”

“I said…”

“No, no, just a minute, Mr. Diaz. The last time we…”

“Look, this is ridiculous, Mr. Hope. Truly. I never gave that tape to Brett, I never discussed…”

“Forget the tape! The last time we spoke, you told me Lainie delivered working drawings of the bear…”

“No, you must have misunder—”

“I didn’t misunderstand
you,
and I didn’t misunderstand
Brett,
and I didn’t misunderstand
Etta,
either. All of you said the idea for the bear was Brett’s and that he’d assigned its design to Lainie while she was still
working for Toyland. Isn’t that what all of you said? You were there at the meeting, Mr. Diaz, isn’t that what you told me?
You were there when Brett gave Lainie his brilliant idea and asked her to design the cross-eyed bear and its corrective eyeglasses.
You were
there,
Mr. Diaz. You told me you were
there
!”

“Yes, I was.”

“Okay. And you also told me she delivered working drawings of the bear by the end of last September…”

“That’s where you’ve got it wrong.”

“Oh? What have I got wrong?”

“I told you I saw some drawings…”

“Yes?”

“…but I didn’t know if they were Lainie’s.”

“Then whose drawings…?”

“Sketches, actually.”

“Sketches?”

“Yes. Of a bear with glasses.”

“Well, who did you think
made
these drawings, these sketches, whatever the hell they were?”

“I thought maybe Brett did.”

“I see, you thought maybe Brett did. So the bear was Brett’s idea, and these sketches you saw were maybe Brett’s, so Lainie’s
out of the picture altogether, right? She never
did
design the bear while she was working for Toyland, is that what you’re saying now?”

“I’m saying…”

“No, no, Mr. Diaz, you’re saying
now
what you didn’t say
earlier.
You told me you saw working drawings before you…”

“I told you I didn’t know if they were working drawings.”

“Then what the hell were they?”

“Sketches.”

“When
did
you see working drawings?”

“I told you I didn’t remember
when
I saw working drawings.”

“Okay, Mr. Diaz, flat out. A few minutes ago you said Lainie stole
your
design for that bear.” I looked him dead in the eye.”
What
design?”

“I said she stole
our
bear. The bear she designed for Toyland.”

“No, that’s not what you said.”

“Are you telling me what I said?”

“Yes.”

“You’re wrong. Mr. Hope, I have a date at the Plum Garden at six-thirty. It will take me half an hour to get there, and it’s
now five to six. If you’ll excuse me…”

“Sure,” I said, and gingerly picked up the photograph and dropped it into my briefcase.

Dr. Abner Gaines was sitting on a high stool drawn up to a counter upon which were microscopes, test tubes, pipettes, Bunsen
burners and a dozen other scientific measuring tools and instruments I could not have named if you pulled me apart on a rack
or burned me at the stake. As sole proprietor and principal analyst at Forensics Plus, the private lab with which I had worked
on several other cases, Ab was a scientist with exacting standards and meticulous work habits, a faultless professionalism
belied by his uncombed hair, his nicotine-stained fingers, his rumpled trousers and unshined shoes, and an allegedly white
lab smock stained with the residue of God knew how many previous tests here at this very same counter.

He was expecting me, and so he greeted me with his customary gruffness and the impatient air of a very busy professor who
had very little time to spend with inquisitive students. Actually, he
was
a very busy professor at the University of South Florida.

I tented a handkerchief over my hand, and showed him the black-and-white glossy of the dancing fingers on the white silken
crotch of the Victorian-ringed lady on the
Idle Hands
cassette box. I showed him the actual black vinyl cassette box, with the original color photograph on its front cover, and
then I opened the case to reveal the cassette within.

“There should be one set of fingerprints on the photograph,” I told him. “I’m looking for a match with anything on the cassette
or its case.”

“When?” Ab asked me.

“Yesterday,” I said.

“Tomorrow,” he said.

I went back to the boat again that night.

The yellow CRIME SCENE tapes were down, there was nothing to prevent me from going up the gangway and onto the boat itself,
but I simply stood there on the dock, looking at her. If I’d ever known the lines that follow “I must down to the seas again,
to the lonely sea and the sky,” I’ve forgotten them since the coma. I’ve forgotten a lot of things since the coma. I was dressed
in the colors of the night. Black denims and black loafers and a black T-shirt and a black windbreaker. A mild breeze blew
in off the water, riffling my hair. Sniffing the salt air that spanked in off the Gulf, I think I realized something of what
John Masefield must have felt when he wrote his poem.
Toy Boat
’s outline was sharp against a moonlit, midnight sky. A man had been killed aboard this boat. And my client had been with
him on the night he’d died.

I wished she hadn’t posed for a pornographic tape.

But she had.

I wished Brett Toland hadn’t tried to use that tape in a blatant blackmail attempt.

But according to my client, he had.

Two bullets in the head.

But she kept insisting she wasn’t the one who’d killed him.

I kept staring at the boat, perhaps willing it to yield its secrets. As I listened to the high clinking sound of halyards
striking metal masts, the lines came to me. “And all I ask is a tall ship, and a star to steer her by.” Progress.

“Help you, sir?”

The voice startled me. I wheeled away from the dock, my fists clenched, the hair at the back of my neck bristling. I was expecting
my cowboys, the twin horrors that come in the dead of night and strike terror to the heart, my nightmare apparitions. But
I was looking instead at a rotund little man wearing gray polyester slacks and a blue T-shirt bearing a logo, in white, that
read SILVER CREEK YACHT CLUB. He was carrying a flashlight in his left hand, its beam casting a small circle at his feet.
In the moonlight, I could make out a round face and a white mustache. Blue cap with a long bill. Nothing menacing about the
face. Nothing even mildly challenging.