The Hollow-Eyed Angel

PS3572.A4292H65 1996

813'.54—dc20                                         95-26296

                                                                                                                                         CIP

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 1

The commissaris, chief of detectives, municipal police, Amsterdam, Holland's capital, sighed. Because the gendeman (whose name—he said it again—was Johan Termeer) had added a question mark to his summing-up, an answer would be expected.

The commissaris could just say yes, that it was indeed terrible. That the world is not getting any better. That an uncle goes out for a quiet walk, in Central Park of all places, in New York, richest city in the most powerful country—God help us!—Sunday morning—the sun is shining—kids at play—music—balloons—and, inexplicably, the dear old man
dies
between the azalea bushes? That's terrible, yessir.

Not a witness anywhere to tell what caused his death. And, 'when his remains are finally found the next day, the entire lower part of uncle's torso has been consumed by beasts or birds or something. The dead body of your Uncle Bert, your only relative on earth, turns up in a goddamn
park.
Discarded. Robbed. Dismembered. Two loose legs and only the top part of the rest. The loved one's final breath ratded while, on the nearby freshly mown lawn, the Park Stompers struck up their next tune. Complainant Johan Termeer whistled, not unmusically, "When the Saints Go Marching In."

The commissaris frowned. "And the police?"

"The New York Police Department?" complainant asked. Well, the NYPD ignored the matter. They filed away the whole thing—the murder or manslaughter— under "heart attack," if you please.

"Now," complainant said, "if you are police yourself—okay, a Reserve, an unpaid volunteer, auxiliary, even so, that's some sort of cop, right?—does it help? Especially if you are in a faraway country?"

It had taken some time before complainant even learned that Uncle Bert was dead. Complainant heard it later, early the next day. Because of the time difference of six hours. It took a while before it occurred to Charlie, his uncle's neighbor, that he might inform the dead man's only relative that Bert Termeer was no longer with us. Okay, so that relative lived across an ocean but, jeez, what with modern phone connections, satellites and answering machines and so forth, it's no big deal to cross an ocean by voice. "Is it?"

The commissaris put in another frown, indicating that people's proverbial thoughtlessness is, indeed, despicable.

So what do you do? complainant continued.

You hand over your elegant hair-care establishment in Amsterdam's luxury suburb Outfield to partner Peter.

You yourself travel to New York, by the next Royal Dutch Airlines flight. You find the Central Park Precinct and you talk to the desk-sergeant. Okay. You
try
to talk. Your English could be better.

Does anything happen?

Nothing happens.

You're told this was an accident. Uncle Bert, out for a stroll in Central Park, got hit by a falling branch or something, or a ball, or a rock, right smack in his chest. This didn't kill him, but the heart attack did. Shock or something. That's Mr. Park Cop's verdict.

Jeez!

So what comes next? Flying home comes next.

And in the 707 you begin to think.

You are — right?—yourself Mr. Cop. And America— right?—and Holland, the Netherlands, are friendly countries. Aren't there all kinds of police connections between the two, re drug trafficking and bank fraud and whatnot? So why can't you get some justice going if you now think of the highest office you can reach—reach-ability, that's a factor—and you go and actually see that powerful godlike figure?

Who to use as go-between? How about Adjutant
*
Grijpstra? Grijpstra is a professional cop, a good guy, he taught you for a year at Police Reserve Evening School where you got your official police diploma.

And so, through the good offices of "Master Steel-brush," as Murder Brigade Detective Grijpstra is known, because of his silver-gray cropped hair, you do manage to enter the antique-looking command post of Amsterdam's chief-detective, and there sits "Mr. Little Old Gentleman," as the commissaris is affectionately referred to within the force, and you are requested to state your case.

So you do that.

The commissaris offered Verkade Assortie cookies from a tin, poured Egberts Gold Label coffee from a silver pot. This was Class A treatment. The visitor should take note.

Be easily approachable, even to lower rank and file, the commissaris instructed himself. An executive officer behaves "like a good father of the family."

In fact, he told himself, he had no time for all this nonsense. He had to go home, to his nice Queens Avenue residence where his wife, Katrien, would have lunch ready, to be served in the back garden: an open-faced beef sandwich, perhaps, a bowl of broth. At his advanced age chicken broth seemed to restore his frail body. He never used to go home for lunch but approaching retirement had weakened his discipline. A few more weeks and he was all done.

Chief-detective, personally in charge of Serious Crime. Renowned master of the famous Murder Brigade. Nice sounds, little substance. A drab little gent in a suit from yesteryear, bought in another epoch, in an expensive Baerle Street Store, where salesmen bowed, might even scrape.

Did anyone still know what bowing and scraping meant?

You had to make your own selection from the racks these days and hearty salesmen slapped your shoulders, even tweaked your buttocks if you gave them half a chance.

"Commissaris?"

He looked up. "Yes, dear boy?"

"Could I have your comments?"

The commissaris nodded helpfully, his inviting smile showing long yellow mousy teeth. "Is that correct?"

"That's correct, sir."

"Your English was good enough to enable you to understand Charlie's message?"

"Sumzing bat, Unkel det," Jo Termeer said in his best Amsterdam accent. "I watch lots of movies.
Det
means 'It's all over.'"

"Right," the commissaris said. "So neighbor Charlie knew your telephone number?"

"He found it in Uncle's desk," Jo Termeer said, remembering he was a policeman now, that he had to be precise. "Uncle Bert rented both his work and living space; Charlie was his landlord as well as his neighbor. Charlie had Uncle's keys. There were only the two of them in the whole big building. They needed each other. Uncle ran a mail-order business and Charlie sometimes helped him. Uncle Bert sold books. The building is on Watts Street, Tribeca, New York City."

"They weren't roommates?"

Termeer shook his head. "Charlie lives on the top floor. Uncle had the rest of the building. Separate households."

The commissaris switched tactics. He wanted to get to know complainant. "You flew out straightaway. Expensive?"

The ticket was cheap enough, Jo said, even at short notice. It pays to have friends.

"Friends?"

Termeer meant Marilijn, from the travel agency. Whoever was in with Marilijn traveled practically for free. He and Peter knew her.

"A personal friend?"

"Business. My partner, Peter, gives her free haircuts."

Marilijn threw in a New York hotel room too, with a view of an airshaft, but hey, sixty dollars.

"One moment," the commissaris said. His tape recorder's red eye no longer gleamed between milk jug and sugar bowl. He changed the battery. "Continue, dear boy. What did you do on arrival?"

"Found the police precinct that dealt with the incident, right there in the park, sir. I made inquiries, first of the desk-sergeant, then of a detective-sergeant, a man called Hurrell. Hurrell knew all about the case but wasn't sharing his information." Jo growled. "Goddamn asshole."

He was taken aback by his own profanity.

"I beg your pardon, sir."

Termeer blushed as he looked straight ahead, over the commissaris's shoulder.

Jo's features were flawless, the commissaris thought. Termeer would do well as an actor in commercials. A hero. The driver who stops for an old lady at a crossing. He who returns lost valuables. The magazine mannequin who brushes his teeth with the latest fresh-tasting soda and salt toothpaste.

Straight nose, firm mouth, nicely rounded chin, the commissaris thought grimly. The large sea blue eyes would be clearer if Termeer wasn't suffering, or, perhaps, frustrated. There might be some shyness here too, because he was a mere reserve constable who had penetrated police headquarters' superspheres. There might also be regret, after the use of bad language just now.

"You will inherit everything?" the commissaris asked pleasantly.

Termeer shrugged. "I'm the only relative but I'm not in need of money. Me and Peter own the hair-care. The shop generates piles of cash."

"Tax free?"

Termeer winked. "Right, sir. Me and Peter used to be socialists until we saw that we were supporting the silly people."

"You refer to the unemployed?"

"You know the big sign on the East Highway Homeless Shelter?" Termeer asked, worried that the commissaris might misunderstand. "Ever see that sign on your way home, sir? After working all day?"

The commissaris knew the sign well. It had been made and put up by the shelter's inmates.

"HEY SUCKERS!" the sign shouted. "DID YOU HAVE A NICE DAY ON THE JOB?"

Sixty percent of the Amsterdam population collected national assistance.

"You're no socialist, are you, sir?" Termeer was asking.

The commissaris reminded himself that he was in charge. Not to be distracted. One dead uncle. Was he dealing with a serious complaint here?

"What party do you vote for, Jo?"

"I don't vote, sir."

"Gave up hope?"

Since Year Zero. Jo explained the term. The year he realized that ever-multiplying humanity would strip the planet's surface was when he started rethinking his attitudes. He had come to see that "this will not get any better," that "hope leads to disappointment." Jo explained that he hadn't come to Year Zero on his own; he had to thank his partner. Peter was the wise one. Nature people were, by nature, wise. Peter, back in the former Dutch South American colony of Surinam, had seen the rain forest being cut down. It had to be cut down to feed the desire of a relendessly growing world population.

"Give up all hope," nature person Peter would say wisely. "Enjoy what is still left. Practice detachment!"

The commissaris smiled.

Jo Termeer looked hurt. "You don't agree, sir?"

"Dear boy," the commissaris said, "what's so detached about demanding justice? Aren't you here to avenge your uncle's murder?"

His uncle was a free soaring spirit brought down by self-serving desire. Jo tried to formulate that insight. How the detached should defend the detached. Make an exception. Idealism, pure and clear. "The last hurrah, sir."

"More nature people wisdom? You're quoting your partner, Peter?"

When two men live together the spark of illumination could jump across. "Wouldn't you say so, sir?"

The commissaris thought about being illuminated by sparks coming from Katrien or Turtle. He nodded. "You and Peter live together?"

"Above the shop, sir. In Outfield, in a large apart-t ment. The mortgage is paid off."

"Gay?"

"Yessir," Termeer said clearly.

"Quite," the commissaris said. Being gay was hardly a delicate matter these days, even in his own generation, now mostly out of commission, due to advanced age. Consenting adults, of course. Even so, the police are reactionary. Outmoded rules tend to be maintained. Within the police the Reserve was most old-fashioned. Volunteers were screened. Gay candidates, if they made a point of mentioning their preference, would not be admitted, not because of their homosexuality but for some other reason. The committee was manned by older dignitaries, retired staff officers, of the same useless type he—the commissaris looked grim—would soon belong to: conservative, senile....

He mumbled. "Old fogeys."

"Beg pardon, sir?" Termeer asked.

Nothing, the commissaris was just thinking. A Police Reserve screening would mean coffee, offering of cigarettes, a word of welcome. Candidates enter one by one. The chief fogey asks why the volunteer feels he has to "serve and protect" on his own time, without pay.

Any fascist inclination?

A power problem? A need to arrest prostitutes and feel them up in the cop car?

No?

Well, that's just fine then.

"Fellow committee members—I, as chairman, propose that this fine fellow be allowed to study at police school, evenings only, as he has a job to do during the day.

"I say let's have him learn how to fire a handgun. Let's put him in uniform. Let him pass all the required exams.

"He may wear the police shield pinned to his chest if he passes all hurdles. He will help guard the Olympic soccer games, prevent racists from throwing bananas at nonwhite opposition players, forestall Neo-Nazis from making hissing sounds to imitate gas faucets when Jewish players score. At Christmas time he can take care that no youngsters are trampled when St. Nick rides into the city.