The 56th Man (40 page)

"My Green Card."

"I saw the movie, with Gerard
What's-His-French-Ass." Carrington studied Ari's picture, the
biometric thumbprint and the arcane rows of numbers at the bottom
of the card. Then he glanced over the personal information. "Born
July 1, 1966. What sign is that?"

"Sign?"

"You know. In the horoscope. No idea? Hell if
I know, either. My wife keeps track of that kind of thing. Every
family needs a crackpot." The detective returned to the card. "Sex
male. Country of origin, Italy. Resident since August 6, 2006.
Where did you spend your time the last month and a half?"

"In Sicily, waiting for my card."

"How long you have to wait?"

"Almost three years."

"You sat around on that hot desert island for
three years waiting for this?"

"Your Hispanic workers wait at long as
thirteen years." Ari ventured a smile. "Theoretically."

"You've got an Italian passport?"

"A European passport. Upstairs."

Carrington thought for a moment. "I guess it
won't say anything different from this," he said, tapping the Green
Card.

"No."

"Forget it, then. Anything else in here?
Where's your Social Security Card? You can't work legally in this
country without one."

"It's in the mail."

"No pictures? You haven't got any family or
friends you care to look at?"

"I'm not a sentimental man."

"No kidding." Carrington laid the driver's
license and Green Card side by side. "This stinks. I mean, you've
arrived all processed and prepackaged. I've got one thing solid,
and it doesn't make any sense."

"And what is that?"

"Iceland."

It was Ari's turn to be shocked into
stillness. He immediately comprehended his mistake. The phone
call....

"Fortunately, our department has a better
relationship with the phone companies than fucking Nova Scotia and
their Canadian comrades. It seems that someone used your credit
card to make a call to Iceland from LaGuardia Airport a couple of
weeks ago. It only lasted a few minutes, but it was pricey as hell.
You should know better than to use a credit card to make a phone
call. They'll gouge you blind."

Ari glanced down at the envelope. Carrington
noticed, but stayed on topic.

"I called the number, of course. The
department gets better rates, not that it matters, with the
taxpayers ponying up and all. I got a nurses' station at
Foosvug…Foss…Fossvogur City Hospital in Rayjack…Ray…aw shit.
Reykjavik! That’s it! I asked if there was someone named Ciminon
there. Nada. I asked if there were any Italians there. Nyet. I
asked them if there was someone from the Middle East there. They
asked me who I was. I said I was a cop and they hung up. Fucking
foreigners."

Ari made no comment.

"So what am I supposed to make of this? You
don't look Icelandic. You don't even look Italian. If you were some
sort of foreign spy, you would've picked a house in Washington or
New York, near one of the hot spots. Hell, you'd be living out of a
suitcase. Unless you're one of those moles they talk about. But
there again, you couldn't pick a less important place than
Richmond, unless it's Fleatown, Arizona or something."

"So you've come to no conclusions?" Ari
asked.

"I intend to find out more. Right now, what I
think, you've got a relative hiding out in
Rejectvick…Rackjack…fucking Ratville. So I've got your wife or
somebody by the neck."

"And I've got your daughter."

"Yeah..."

"I will be happy to explain all of this to
you if you will allow me a few minutes to digress."

"Those missionaries who taught you English
must've had cucumbers stuck up their ass."

"It was your friend and my neighbor who first
told me about the murders. In fact, I learned about it on my first
day."

"Howie Nottoway is no friend of mine."

"Your acquaintance, then. Don't you know each
other through the Neighborhood Watch Association? I believe you
have provided liaison services for them on occasion."

"Fucking internet," Carrington groused.

"My interest was piqued. As you may have
surmised, I was once an officer of the law, myself."

"Would you stop talking like that? I know you
can talk normal. So you were a cop..."

"In a small way. A desk cop, I believe is the
phrase. I was in charge of the registration department of a large
prison."

"From what I've heard, all Sicily should be a
jail," said Carrington. "So you were a clerk."

"I happen to have a lot of time on my hands.
When I found out about the Riggins family, I thought it was my
opportunity to take on a real case."

"Amateur hour."

"Perhaps. But I think I've done very well
within my limitations. I know who the killer is. And his
accomplices."

"Go on."

"Several years ago, Jerry Riggins entered a
severe state of depression that did not lift until his death. You
can see it in his paintings. Those 'smudges', as you call them.
They got darker and darker as the years wore on. I don't think
there was any profound artistic symbolism at work here. Jerry
didn't have that kind of talent. It's an open question as to if he
had any talent at all."

"None whatsoever," Carrington grunted.

"He
did
win some regional award for outstanding new artist of the
year before his marriage. Perhaps that was his downfall. The award
inspired delusions of grandeur. When sales of his artwork did not
match those delusions, he did not console himself the way most
failed artists do, by claiming he was ahead of his time, that he
was misunderstood, that the mass of humanity is philistine in the
extreme...which I would agree with, by the way," Ari added, giving
the detective an arch look.

"Yeah right, I can't tell Rembrandt's ass
from Picasso's elbow. Get on with it."

"Using his new father-in-law's money, he
began hiring galleries to display his work. There were gushing
reviews on the internet, which I'm fairly certain Jerry wrote
himself. I understand Hemingway wrote anonymously to Edmund
Wilson--"

"Cut it out."

"Jerry began receiving civic awards for
outstanding contributions to the city's welfare. Again, his
father-in-law's money was at work, but there was another force,
also. You."

"I don't follow."

"You are very much involved in community
affairs. You were Sergeant Santa for three years running until, I
suppose, other duties took you away from that. You helped sponsor
Howie Nottoway when he set up the Riverside Neighborhood Watch. You
were well-established to assist Jerry, and Moria, as up-and-comers
in local affairs--thereby increasing publicity for that novel young
artist, Jerry Riggins."

"The little fuck piggy-backed."

"As you say. During those early years, the
Riggins couple produced two wonderful boys. Jerry was secure in his
delusions, while Moria seemed content with married life."

"Only 'seemed'?"

"I've heard things that lead me to think she
wasn't a sterling wife."

"You mean you've been listening to that slut,
Tina."

"But then Jerry found out something that put
a crimp in his enthusiasm. He must have wondered why you were
always in the vicinity of his family. There are two pictures of you
and Jerry and Moria in the newspaper archives. In the older one,
Jerry and Moria are all smiles. In the last one, it almost seems
that Jerry finds you repugnant. He must have first thought you were
having an affair with his wife. Then he somehow discovered it was
even worse than that, because it could cost him a fortune. When did
you tell him?"

"When the little shit accused me of sleeping
with Moria. I set him straight. His jaw dropped to China."

"It was when I saw a family portrait sitting
on Moria's dresser that I realized the truth. The resemblance
between the two of you--"

"How could you see a family portrait? This
house was cleared out long before you ever got here."

"When I reviewed the pictures of the crime
scene. In one of the pictures of Moria's body, you can see--
Detective! Do not strike me, or you will pay a terrible price."

Carrington had risen from his seat, his fist
raised. He stopped. There was not a trace of bluff in Ari's words.
"What, you're going to sic your Mafioso worms on me? Do I look like
I give a shit?"

"I give you credit for common sense. You
haven't heard me out. I can assure you that beating me will only
make me stubborn and silent."

"Those photos are police property."

"Another reason for you to sit quietly and
listen. You have no idea of who else knows about this. Don't you
want to find out?"

Suddenly, the detective took his gun off the
table, pressed it to Ari's temple, and pressed the trigger.

There was a click.

"Oops. Forgot to load the damn thing." He
leaned over Ari's shoulder. "Hmm. You didn't piss your pants."

"They're new. I wouldn't want to ruin them."
Ari took in a long but discreet lungful of air. He had misjudged
Carrington's sadistic streak. It was quite a bit longer than he had
suspected. "Would you please sit?"

Carrington sat. The weight in his eyes had
grown heavier. His show of power had given him no pleasure. It had,
in fact, drained him. Ari wondered if he might not fold his arms on
the table, lay down his head, and fall asleep.

"I can't tell you how I came by those
pictures. Only that they provided me with the final pieces. I know
what happened that night."

The detective watched him carefully, as if he
wasn't handcuffed.

"At around five o'clock on December 23,
neighbors heard a loud argument and banging at the Riggins house.
Some of those neighbors chose to ignore what they assumed was a
private domestic dispute. Another neighbor watched the house
closely, waiting for any sign that things had gotten out of hand.
Things quieted down, but the neighbor kept an eye out--if for no
other reason than out of concern for his property."

"Howie."

"He had seen Jerry steal a sledgehammer out
of his shed. He must have noticed a peculiar look on Jerry's face
and decided not to confront him about it. Then he heard the
banging. He couldn't see what was happening through the trees and
must have assumed Jerry would return the sledgehammer when he was
done. But night came, and Jerry didn't come back."

"If Jerry did this, why wouldn't Moria call
the police?"

"Because she had a large stash of cocaine in
the house, and she was on the verge of getting more. I believe she
had found someone who was willing to buy beyond the going price.
She was going to make a big 'score', as they say in your
country."

"She didn't need money."

"She might have felt the need for money,
which comes to the same thing. This would be especially true after
her father disinherited her."

"Jesus."

"You knew about that."

"I just can't believe
you
know."

"She was bartering her jewelry for drugs, so
there had to have been some stress on their financial situation."
Ari paused. "Remember the family portrait on Moria's dresser? It
appeared to have been taken in the Massington home. In the
background was a painting by Matisse. Mr. Massington might have had
a fondness for modern art. Perhaps he began funding Jerry's
exhibits because he had faith in his rising star. But once it
became apparent that Jerry could only repeat himself, he stopped.
That was when Jerry became angry and told him you were his
daughter's real father. Hence the disinheritance and the sudden end
of Moria's allowance."

Ari found this last sentence felicitous and
nodded to himself.

"Moria was familiar with the drug world
through her friend, Tina Press," Ari continued. "She decided she
could make up the loss in income by buying large quantities of
'product' and reselling it at various cooperative taverns. She
laundered the income through Moria's Notions. She felt fairly safe.
After all, her father was keeping an eye out for her."

"I tried to make her stop."

"As any good father would. But while Moria
felt secure outside, she was afraid for the lives of herself and
children in her own home. Jerry's behavior had become more erratic
as galleries refused to display his art based on merit alone,
without rental fees. She bought a gun to protect herself and hid it
in the small water-control cabinet near the front door. The outlet
to the yard had probably been switched off for the winter. It was
unlikely Jerry would find it. So she felt safe that night after she
locked Jerry out of the house. Even if he managed to break back
inside, she had the gun to protect her. Except Jerry had found the
gun. He had hidden it under the gazebo floorboards."

"You still have five or six hours unaccounted
for, between the door business and the murders."

"When Jerry broke through, Moria ran for the
gun and found it missing. She had no idea where it was, and if she
tried to run away, Jerry could easily shoot her and the boys. So
she played for time. She calmed him down. Perhaps they even made
love. The boys, who had been terrified by all of this, were
reassured. They were told to dress for bed--small boys never do
such things voluntarily. They sat in Joshua's room, which was the
only one with a TV, and watched television or played computer
games. No one told them to switch them off and go to sleep. So they
played far into the night."

"Why would they be fighting in the first
place?"

"Jerry was on a hairtrigger. Two things
conspired to set him off that night. I don't know what the first
was. Perhaps Moria had made a disparaging remark about his
paintings. A frustrated artist would be sure to overreact,
especially with the criticism coming from his lifemate. This was
perhaps the first time Moria had given her opinion about the
smudges. In any event, the house settled down. Jerry might have
even gone to bed. Did you notice the shirt he was wearing when he
was killed? No buttons, quite baggy...as much of a pajama top as a
regular shirt. And he was wearing no socks under his shoes.