The Burglar on the Prowl (23 page)

I
liked the phrase enough to say it again. “The long arm of coincidence. The law has a proverbially lengthy arm, but so does coincidence. I checked my
Bartlett’s
this morning, and a fellow named Haddon Chambers coined the phrase back in 1888, in his play
Captain Swift
. He was born in 1860 and died in 1921, and except for his one immortal line, that’s as much as I know about Haddon Chambers. Of course you could go and Google him, and you’ll probably get his blood type and his mother’s maiden name, along with Whittaker Chambers and Haddon’s Notch, New Hampshire.

“The long arm of coincidence. There’s a hand at the end of that arm, and it’s left its fingerprints all over this business. Starting with the time a couple of weeks ago when Mapes took Volume Two down from the shelf to show off to his latest girlfriend.”

“That’s terrible,” Lacey Kavinoky said. “On top of everything else, the man cheats on his wife.” She colored, embarrassed by her outburst. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pipe up like that.”

“How could you help it? It’s shocking, and we’re all shocked. Still, there’s a fair amount of it going around. What’s coincidental is that the woman in question was the daughter of a Latvian immigrant.”

“And he showed her Cuckoo’s pitcher anyway?” Ray said. “Not too bright, is he, Bernie?”

“Not the sharpest scalpel in the autoclave,” I allowed, “but all he knew about Kukarov was that he was Russian. The man wouldn’t have mentioned the Riga connection, let alone that he was the Black Scourge thereof. ‘Now this man,’ Mapes told her, ‘came here from Russia to make a new life for himself, and thanks to me he doesn’t have to look over his shoulder for KGB operatives.’ The pictures didn’t mean a thing to her, Before or After. But she knew the name. There aren’t too many Latvians—or half-Latvians, for that matter—who wouldn’t recognize the name of Valentine Kukarov.”

Grisek said something in an undertone, but even in an overtone I wouldn’t have understood it, because he was speaking in his native tongue. I found out later that it was something along the lines of
May the fires of Hell consume him, starting at the toes and taking eternity to reach his cursed head.
I’d have pardoned his Latvian, but nobody asked me to.

“Marisol was the girl’s name. That doesn’t sound Latvian, but don’t worry about it. She’d heard her father talk about Kukarov, and would have gone to him for advice, but he was back home in Oakmont, Pennsylvania. But she had an aunt and uncle in Bay Ridge, and they agreed that she had to get hold of those photographs.

“But how? She’d been to her lover’s office once, at his invitation. There was no reason for him to invite her again, and no plausible way she could invite herself. The way things stood, if the book disappeared he’d never suspect her; he’d put it back himself before ushering her out of the office. But if she were to pay him another visit, and
then
the book went missing…

“Her cousin Karlis came up with the answer. An artist with a loft in Williamsburg, he made an appointment with Dr. Mapes. He showed up twenty minutes early, looking perfectly respectable in his weddings-and-funerals suit, and when the receptionist was out of the room he pulled down
Principles of Organic Chemistry
and popped it in his tote bag. He could have torn out the four pages with
Kukarov’s photos on them, but maybe that would have taken too much time.”

“I never saw the man,” Karlis said. “Or the photos. So how would I know which ones to take?”

“But when you showed the book to your cousin, she could point out the photographs Mapes had identified as Kukarov’s.” He nodded. “Once she did, why not tear out those pages and return the book?”

“What, go to his office again? The one time I saw him I had to make up a reason. I couldn’t think of anything. He asked me what I wanted. ‘Look at me,’ I said. ‘What do you think?’ Well, he tells me, my nose is crooked, and my ears stick out a little, but these are all things he can fix. Up until then I thought I looked fine. Now every time I pass a mirror I turn my head the other way. I should go back there? Hey, Doc. You know what? Screw you!”

“Your ears do stick out,” Mapes said, “and your nose
is
crooked, and I never asked you to come to my office in the first place.”

“The book,” I said. “
Principles of Organic Chemistry.
After Marisol identified Kukarov, you took it home and gave it to your father.”

“So?”

“And he showed it to a man who was living under the name Rogovin, but who’d been calling himself Arnold Lyle. I don’t know what his name was originally, or what scam Lyle and his wife or girlfriend were working at the time.”

“Hard to say,” Ray put in. “He was a guy who took what came along. When opportunity came knockin’, he opened the door, even if it was somebody else’s apartment.”

“The Lyles had sublet a place in Murray Hill,” I said, “and whatever they had going on, they were glad to make room for Kukarov. Lyle was a Latvian, after all, and he’d gladly do his part to give the Black Scourge of Riga what he deserved. But Lyle didn’t see why they couldn’t turn a profit on the deal. Not from their fellow countrymen, but from some parties who might be interested in some of the other fellows who’d posed for Mapes’s candid camera.

“So he got the word out, letting a few interested parties know
what he had to sell. I believe you were one of those parties, Mr. Blinsky.”

I looked at him, and he looked back at me, and I could feel myself shrinking under his gaze. If you wrote a play called
The Black Scourge of Riga,
he’s the guy you’d cast in the title role. His clothes were all black, and so was his hair and beard, and his whole affect was decidedly scourge-like. I was going to tell him he hadn’t answered my question, but then I realized that I hadn’t asked one, and I decided to move on.

“Marisol had done her part,” I said, “but now she was beginning to have second thoughts. She’d grown up hearing about Kukarov’s evil deeds, but the closest she’d ever been to Latvia was a weekend in East Hampton, and he’d done the bulk of his scourging before she was born. And what had she done? She’d betrayed a trust, for one thing, and she might have imperiled Mapes’s other clandestine clients, men who may have run afoul of the law but who had done nothing to her, or to her fellow Latvians.

“So she did what a lot of people do when they’re feeling disturbed. She went out and had a couple of drinks.”

Wally Hemphill went into a quick huddle with his client. “She’s over twenty-one,” he told the room. “If she wants to have a drink it’s her business.”

“I never said it wasn’t.”

“Well,” he said, “I object to this whole line of questioning, and I’m advising my client not to answer any more questions.”

“I haven’t asked any.”

“If you do, I reserve the right to object.”

I closed my eyes for a moment, but what good did it do? When I opened them, everybody was still there. This next part was tricky, and I hoped he’d shut up so I could get it right.

“She lives in Hell’s Kitchen, but she didn’t want to go where she might run into someone she knew. So she went east and south a short distance, to a place someone had recommended. A nice place, some of you may know it. She went in and had a drink, and then a man came and bought her another drink, and the next thing she
knew she was in bed in her own apartment with a man on top of her, and—”

“Objection!”

I glared at him, and he shrugged apologetically. “You know,” I said, “you’re not in court, but if you were I’d hold you in contempt.”

“I’m sorry, Bernie.”

“Just keep a lid on it,” I said. “She came out of a blackout, and she tried to make the guy stop, but she couldn’t, and then she went back into a blackout, and when she came to hours later he was gone, and so was a piece of jewelry Doc Mapes had given her.”

“The necklace,” Mapes said, and colored deeply when eyes turned toward him. I don’t think he meant to say anything.

“The necklace,” Marisol confirmed. “The beautiful ruby necklace you gave me, that I loved so much. I woke up and it was gone.”

“And what did you remember?”

“At first,” she said, “I hardly remembered anything. I remembered him buying me a drink, and I remembered waking up and…and trying to fight him off, to make him stop what he was doing. It was horrible.”

“And did your memory come back?”

I saw Wally lean forward, and I was afraid he was going to cite me for leading the witness. But he got himself in check.

“Parts of it,” she said. “I was so upset about the book of photographs, and I remember that I talked to him about it. I don’t know exactly what I said, but I told him things I should have kept to myself.” She frowned. “I don’t understand it. I didn’t have that much to drink. I never get like that, not on two drinks.”

“You were drugged,” I said.

“I thought maybe that’s what happened.”

“The man who drugged you,” I said, “and went home with you, and raped you, and stole your necklace. Do you know who he is?”

“I don’t know his name. I never saw him before that night, and I never saw him since.” She paused, and her timing was right on the money. “Until today, in this room.”

“Could you point him out?”

She got shakily to her feet, hesitated, touched her forefinger to her lower lip, trembled, and then thrust her hand dramatically in the direction of William Johnson. “Him,” she said. “He did it.”

You’d think the dumb son of a bitch would have seen it coming. After all, it was his MO, and I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d tried to patent it. But he was at a distinct disadvantage, in that he knew for a fact he’d never seen the girl before. With her Northern hair and eyes and her complexion out of the warm South, she wasn’t someone he could have seen and forgotten, and he’d certainly remember her if he’d taken her home. He might not know where she was going with all of this, but there was no way she could be coming in his direction.

And here she was, sticking her little finger straight at him.

“No way, man. No fuckin’ way. I never saw this chick before in my life.”

“Really,” I said. “The bar’s called Parsifal’s. Do you know it?”

“I was there maybe once or twice.”

“Ever take a woman home?”

“Maybe. But not this broad. I told you, I never saw her.”

“Ever put something in a drink to improve your chances?”

“Hey, c’mon,” he said, and flexed some muscles. “You think I need any help?”

“Then you’re saying you didn’t slip Rohypnol to Marisol Maris?”

“Is that the chick’s name? No, I never slipped her nothing. Not what you just said, and not what
she
says I slipped her.”

“In fact you never saw her before.”

“Never.” He changed expressions, trying for sincere. “What happened to her’s horrible, but I had nothin’ to do with it. You got the wrong guy.”

There was a silence, and Sigrid waited a beat before picking up her cue. “Oh, William,” she said, exasperated. “You’re so full of shit it’s coming out your pores.”

He stared.

“I’ve seen you operate,” she said. “You’re quite the stud, showing off your muscles and chatting up the ladies. You buy them one drink and the next thing I know they’re out the door with you. I figured you had a hell of a line, or maybe you were oozing some kind of sex appeal that I couldn’t see. I noticed that some of them looked a little woozy on the way out, but I just assumed lust was interfering with their motor skills. It never occurred to me that you were feeding them Roofies.”

“This is crazy,” he said.

“I’ll say it is.” To me she said, “He hit on me a few nights ago. I brushed him off, or it would have been my turn to wake up sleeping in the wet spot with my Diamonique earrings nowhere to be found. You came in the night before last, William. Remember? You tried to pick up two girls at once, and I think maybe they switched drinks on you, because you got a fit of the blind staggers and barely made it out the door.”

You could see him processing the information. So that’s what happened—the bitches had switched drinks with him, and next thing he knew he was coming to in an alley, covered with his own vomit, with his cash and cards gone and an aching groin that only bothered him on days ending in a
Y
.

And there were people in the room he might have seen before. The brunette, for instance, dressed for success, her hair up. He’d pulled her out of someplace, and it could have been Parsifal’s. And even I looked vaguely familiar, like maybe we hung out in some of the same bars. But this chick going on about her necklace and the pictures her cousin stole, he knew damn well he never saw her before in his life.

But I was just guessing. I couldn’t really read his mind. For all I knew, he was thinking about super-setting bent-over rows with reverse-grip chins, and what that might do for his lats.

“You went home with her necklace,” I said, “not to mention the warm glow that comes from an evening spent doing the Lord’s work. And when you woke up you thought about the story she’d told, about a book full of photos of men who’d bought new faces in
an effort to keep the past from catching up with them. You figured that kind of information ought to be worth something to the right people, and so you picked up the phone and called your Uncle Mike.”

His jaw dropped, but I didn’t care if it hit the floor and went through to the basement. I was through with him for now, and turned to Michael Quattrone, who’d been following the proceedings with interest. “Your nephew called you,” I said, “and you saw an opportunity. You put the word out, and somebody picked up something about two people named Rogovin in an apartment at Third Avenue and 34th Street.”

I’m not sure what my next sentence would have been, but Quattrone stopped me there by raising one well-manicured hand six inches into the air. “You put on a very good show,” he said judiciously. “It’s instructive and entertaining at the same time.”

“Thank you.”

“But you’ve got one thing wrong. My nephew never mentioned anything about Mapes and his photographs.”

“You’re saying you were unaware of them?”