The Prodigal Son (12 page)

Dr. Jim had to be his next subject. Word had already gone to him that he was expected in Carmine’s office at the Holloman PD at nine tomorrow morning. The East Holloman kids had used to call Jim “Gorilla”— the flat nose and gaping nostrils, of course, plus the black, black skin. How cruel children were! To an East Holloman kid in 1950, before the great waves of black immigration from the South, Jim Hunter may as well have been an alien from Mars. Holloman had “gone black” in the fifties, when factory owners like the Parsons and Cornucopia had realized this work force was both capable and grateful for regular employment, even if the wage scale was lower than for whites. The Hollow had always been black, but not as populous, and Argyle Avenue was a fairly recent overflow. Georgia and the Carolinas would always be
home, but they weren’t where the work was; the South was not industrialized, even in 1969.

A digression, Carmine. Back to Dr. James Keith Hunter, an African-American of enormous promise, one black child who had to be saved, hence his importation to Holloman in 1950. And his impact on Patsy’s family, on East Holloman in general. So ironic, that the vagaries of life should have led him back to Holloman, where he was still living the life of a poor black, albeit as much of an enigma to his own people as to others. Unless his book lifted him out of debt, put money in the bank that meant a nice home, Dormer Day School fees for his children, and freedom for Millie. At going on thirty-three, they were finally at a point where the comforts of success were a definite probability. Not, however, under Tinkerman!

Now Tinkerman was dead, and the Head Scholar replacing him was very much a Jim Hunter fan.

The biggest puzzle was whereabouts John Hall fitted into all of this, if the two murders were committed with the same end in view. And how could they not be? What had John Hall known — or, failing that, what threat had he represented?

Damn
weekends! The real enquiries couldn’t start until tomorrow, which gave the murderer time to cover his tracks.

Something banged hard into Carmine’s leg; startled, he looked down upon an ugly doggy face trying desperately to smile. Frankie had grown tired of waiting for the beloved steps to come through the front door, and gone to find out why they hadn’t.

“Hi, guy,” Carmine said, hunkering down to run a silky ear through his fingers. “It’s cold out here, you crazy mutt.”

Frankie groaned.

“Okay, I give in! Come on, hound.”

They walked up the path together, the dog a respectful half pace behind to guard Carmine’s flank.

Desdemona was in the kitchen. Carmine slid into the booth and sat watching her as the dog took up its usual post at her heels, adept at getting out of her way.

“Smells great. What is it?” he asked.

“Filet of beef with a chateaubriand sauce, potatoes simmered in beef stock, and green beans,” she said, grinning. “This case meant no Sunday midday dinner, and scrod doesn’t fill your tummy for more than two hours, so depending on lunch at Malvolio’s, I thought you might need a treat.” She dropped a block of unsalted butter into her sauce and emptied a saucer of freshly minced tarragon on top of it. “There, we can relax while it melts, after which I have to stir.”

“The kids in bed?”

“As per usual. Alex is asleep, Julian is watching cartoons.”

“I’ll be back.”

Alex was sound asleep, impervious to the racket emanating from the nursery TV set, another Prunella suggestion while she had been in residence with them helping Desdemona get over her depression. It was blatantly reward-and-punishment, but it worked, and Julian had abandoned his defense attorney
persona in favor of a more likeable confidence trickster. As neither impressed his father, he looked away from Bugs Bunny and held out his arms.

“Hi, Daddy.”

“Hi,” said Carmine, kissing him. “Is Fort Delmonico safe?”

“As houses,” said Julian, full of his mother’s sayings.

“Sorry we didn’t get our walk today — work intruded.”

“I know
that
!” Julian’s eyes were drifting back to the television set. “Did you catch them yet, Daddy?”

“No. It’s a difficult case.”

“Night-night,” said Julian absently.

Carmine kissed both his sons and left.

His drink was waiting by his chair; he sank into it with a sigh as Desdemona came to join him.

“I’ll start the meat soon, but I thought you needed a couple of drinks first tonight.”

“Perceptive as ever, lovely lady. How do you know?”

“Emilia. She and Maria are cot cases over Millie. I get hourly updates from one or the other.”

Carmine drank gratefully, and had just put his glass down when his lap suddenly filled with orange fur. “Oh, Jesus, Winston, leave me alone!”

“It’s your hands, Carmine. They stroke so beautifully. Blame them for Winston’s passion. He’s a lap cat.”

“At his size, he’s a menace.”

Desdemona drank her gin and tonic, grinning. “I can hear him purring — what a motor!” She got up and went to the
kitchen, returning quickly. “Meat’s on, we’ll eat soon, and you’re going to enjoy it as it should be enjoyed — no bolting it down.”

“I take it the back massage worked?”

“Like a dream. I told you, Carmine, it’s your hands. A pair of miracle workers. Isn’t that true, Winston?”

MONDAY, JANUARY 6, 1969

T
his was a general conference, held in Commissioner Silvestri’s office, some compensation for the 7 a.m. callout. The coffee was as good as Luigi’s and the Danish and raisin bagels fresh.

“Patrick’s had to recuse himself completely,” Silvestri said, clad in his usual high-necked black sweater and black trousers, “but I talked to Doug Thwaites and we agreed that you shouldn’t recuse yourself, Carmine. Millie’s not your daughter, and she is a cousin to at least half of the Holloman PD. Gus Fennell will be acting on the pathology front, and Paul Bachman will do the forensics. Patrick will be busy handling the rest of the Medical Examiner’s intake. I would prefer that he not be kept in the loop at all, is that clear? Paul and Gus already know, I told them personally.”

“Patsy would never run off at the mouth, sir,” Carmine said.

“I know, but we don’t want some publicity-hungry defense attorney down the track implying that he did.” The sleekly
handsome face didn’t change its expression. “Never forget that the quality of defense attorneys is on the rise. Our police work will be squeaky-clean, and the cop who disrupts the evidence chain is looking at a six-month suspension without pay. Signed, sealed and delivered in triplicate, just like Captain Vasquez prescribes. Is that understood?”

Heads nodded solemnly all over the room; Donny Costello, to whom these high stratum conferences were new, looked quite pale. Getting into Detectives was a triumph, but it sure had its down side.

Silvestri finished scanning the faces, satisfied. “Carmine, how are you going to proceed?” he asked.

“First off, sir, we have to monitor activity in both ghettoes, the Hollow and Argyle Avenue. Nick’s been undercover there for four months now, and I don’t want to stop that.”

Nick looked a little torn, but was more elated than he was disappointed; Carmine’s sole African-American detective, he was doomed to remain so for at least several more years, for it took time to produce detectives. Fernando was enlisting black cops and their quality was high, but always with detectives it boiled down to time.

So Nick Jefferson held the African-American fort alone. He was thirty-four years old and the father of two children, and last year the family had suffered a terrible setback when his wife had a serious brain bleed from which she was still recovering. They were modestly well off and lived in the Valley not far from Hampton Street and the Tunbulls; his kids went to the Dormer Day School on part scholarships and a general
Jefferson family will to keep them there. His present work held an element of danger, as he performed it in two skins: one was as the hip black detective, the other as a middle-aged malcontent tied to Mohammed el Nesr and the Black Brigade. If it were possible to put the two skins next to each other, even a close observer would not have guessed that they were both Nick Jefferson.

“It’s going to be a violent spring in racial terms,” said Carmine, “and I can manage without Nick, if he’s willing to stay with his project.”

“I’d prefer that, Carmine,” said Nick firmly.

“Thanks for that, it’s appreciated. Abe, Liam and Tony will concentrate on the Tunbull murder without weakening their manpower by chasing after the poison. That job goes to Buzz, who isn’t very well known to any of the participants, including the Doctors Hunter.” He paused, looked suddenly autocratic. “Attention, all men on this case! Don’t be alone with Davina Tunbull, who cries rape and is backed up by her servant, Uda.”

More solemn nods.

“Delia, you’re on the Ivy Hall seating and whatever subtle signs that gives you. There are some odd placements — why, for instance, was Ethan Winthrop on the high table and Judge Thwaites marooned next to a mortal enemy? You can question any woman suspect at any time because you see women differently.”

Today Delia was wearing a bright mauve angora sweater with a knobby tweed jacket and skirt in dull reds and yellows, and she had slung the most amazing necklace of what looked
like dyed and painted sewing spools around her shoulders. Everyone snuck peeks — somehow the word had gotten around that she and Davina had had a spat about clothes, so no one had the courage to stare, and of course no one in his right mind would comment on her clothes beyond telling her they were gorgeous. But not, they divined, today.

“Certainly, Carmine,” she said heartily.

“Donny,” Carmine said, looking almost as catlike as the Commissioner, “you receive your baptism of fire by interviewing the Parsons — all five of them, plus five wives — who are at the Cleveland Hotel and not pleased at being told they can’t leave town. You have an appointment at two this afternoon, which gives you this morning and lunchtime to read up on them. My notes on the Ghost case will be a help — I’ve put them on your desk and marked the relevant pages. After you’re satisfied there’s nothing more to be gotten out of them, let them go back to New York City. Then I want you to see the two Gentleman Walkers at the banquet — Dave Feinman and Greg Pendelton.”

He looked at John Silvestri. “And that’s it for the moment sir. Anything I’ve forgotten?”

“If there is, I can’t see it.” The Commissioner rubbed his hands together. “Now we can have some breakfast.”

It felt odd to be promoted to the Captain’s sidekick, Buzz thought as he followed Carmine into the most cheerful of the interview rooms — which wasn’t saying much. It still stank of sweat and fear, it still had that hard cop look and feel to it.

Dr. Jim Hunter was already seated in the suspect’s chair, his head in a massive book whose pages he riffled as a teller did assorted bank notes. If he were genuinely reading, then he got through a page at a glance. As the two men came in he stood.

“Dr. Hunter,” Carmine said, extending his hand. “This is Sergeant Buzz Genovese.”

“A pleasure,” said Hunter, sitting and closing the book.

“As I would like to record our conversation, would you like to have a lawyer of your choice present?” Carmine asked.

The brows lifted above tranquil eyes. “Am I under arrest?”

“No.”

“Then why reschedule to stuff a fourth person in an already crowded room? A recorded conversation surely protects me as much as it assists your case,” Jim Hunter said. “Let’s get on with it.”

Carmine switched the tape on. “Monday, January six, nineteen sixty-nine, time oh-nine-hundred-and-two. Present are Dr. James Keith Hunter, Captain Carmine Delmonico, and Sergeant Marcello ‘Buzz’ Genovese.” He leaned forward, linking his hands together loosely and resting them on the table.

“Dr. Hunter, please tell me what you know about Dr. Millicent Hunter’s tetrodotoxin. I want every word of every exchange that went on between you about this substance, no matter how unimportant it might seem. This is a fact-finding exercise, Doctor, and your own profession indicates that you understand the significance of all the facts. If we are to get to the bottom of this affair, we need everything. Please proceed with that in mind.”

The eyes, Buzz was thinking, are amazing in a face that doesn’t bear much — if any — resemblance to a gorilla. I wonder why they called him that when he was a kid? He doesn’t have huge nostrils or a flat nose, and a gorilla’s eyes are black and fill the whole of its visible orbit — unhuman. This man’s eyes are as human as eyes can get — the color! In this too-bright room, a brilliant darkish green. Cognisant as few men’s eyes are; as if he already knows everything that the interview will unearth. He too folded his hands on the table, their pink palms a striking contrast to the rest of his skin.

“First, you must understand that my wife and I work in very different fields,” he began, his voice low-pitched and calm. “After so many years together, we don’t share every detail the way we did in earlier times, but we always know what each other is doing. Millie — I will call my wife that — is interested in the biochemistry of neural breakdowns. By that, I mean localized breakdowns that affect only one part of the body or one organ, as well as generalized breakdowns that end in shutting the whole nervous system down. It isn’t largely known, and she may not have told you, but her grant ultimately originated with a government agency that is interested in nerve gases like those disseminated on the battlefields of the First World War, and toxins that might be put into, for example, a town water supply. If you want further information, I can’t help you — it will depend on your security clearances.”

He drew a breath; the hands had not tightened at all. “The tetrodotoxin was a catalyst rather than an end in Millie’s experiments — a tool, you might say. It’s too difficult to isolate
in large quantities ever to be considered a weapon. The first I heard of it was when Millie asked me to come and see her fish. She had a large tank of blowfish, and I quite understand why she wanted me to see them. They’re delightful, look a little like marine puppies. I had no idea they were poisonous until she told me about tetrodotoxin, which she intended to isolate herself because the substance is hard to get and very expensive. Millie is a superb technician, I knew obtaining it was well within her level of skill. But it didn’t really impinge, if you know what I mean. That day I was on the verge of making another discovery of my own, so what she was prattling on about was as far from whereabouts my mind was as Mercury is from Pluto. I went back to my own work and forgot all about Millie’s tetrodotoxin.”