the back side of a fruit and vegetable wholesaler's, it swerved up a ramp and spurted onto Riverside Drive. It sliced its way to the far left and, gathering speed, weaved among lanes, with David and the others in its wake. Within seconds, ten to twelve cars separated Bernie's from the rest. But, within minutes, the gap had narrowed to five as David intensified the pursuit north, focusing on the bobbing antenna. At 178th Street, the Lincoln veered to the right. The Mercedes followed, climbing a series of narrow bends, along graffiti-sprinkled walls, in the direction of the George Washington Bridge.
Chapter 29
At a virtual standstill, David drummed on the steering wheel as he inched along the lower deck of the bridge spanning the Hudson, four bumpers behind Bernie. Their starts and stops did little to change their position between George Washington's two massive towers, and for as far as David could see, the line ahead was a packed one. And also for as far as he could see, he counted three closed-down lanes, leaving three open for passage. He hated exhaust fumes at tollbooths, and this was worse.
Robert, whose periodic glances back at the others had fast annoyed David, said, triumphantly, 'I think we lost them.'
'We're not trying to lose them, Robert, we're trying to gain on the son-of-a-bitch … sorry, I mean, Bernie … ahead of us.' David's comment was reflexive because he was lost in a debate over whether or not to abandon his car and rush Bernie on foot. The risk that traffic might unsnarl settled the issue, and David stayed put. He wondered whether Bernie knew he was being followed.
He checked the time. They had been stalled within the towers for twelve minutes. He pretended to scratch his ankle but nudged the snubby there, and then tucked his elbow into the Beretta Minx. He thought about chewing gum. And with time on his hands, he harked back sheepishly to his reference to Robert's brother and, though he felt Bernie was guilty of murder, still he hadn't yet been convicted. David would atone for an insensitive remark.
'It must be tough on you, Robert. First, your father is killed in an awful way. A terrible way. And now your brother's being hunted for murder.'
Robert shifted his weight. 'Yeah, I know,' he said and paused. 'One day at a time.'
In the honking that began to crescendo, David wasn't sure he caught the last phrase. Still, he felt his body grow taut. He turned and glared at Robert. 'What did you just say?' he asked.
Robert hesitated, then answered, 'You mean 'I know?' I said, 'Yeah, I know' because you said …'
'No, no, not that. What did you say following that?'
'One day at a time?'
Oh, my God! Him, after all? I'm chasing the wrong man and the killer's along for the ride? David gripped and regripped the wheel as fear welled up and gagged him. Couldn't this have been avoided?
In the silent vacuum that followed, he felt Robert's eyes on him and he struggled with the urge to confront his passenger. About the phrase he used, about his relationship with Victor Spritz, about where he really was Friday night. And, about the red motorcycle with the saying attached to its license plate.
But he looked straight ahead. If Robert had tipped a losing hand-a killer's hand-the middle of a traffic jam on the George Washington Bridge was no place to acknowledge you'd seen it.
David felt the charged circuitry of his mind, coiled lights as bright as those strung along the cables above. Motive. Opportunity. Means. Past conversations. Options. Is Robert armed? But most pressing: Did he get it? Does he realize his giveaway? David wished he could vitiate the suspense once and for all.
He convinced himself, however, not to question further, not to draw his Minx, not to call out to the police officers roaming among the congestion of cars and angry drivers hanging out their windows and doors. It was a combustible situation: there might be gunfire. Get off the bridge first.
Whistles blew. Lanes moved. Officers waved their arms. Finally, on the New Jersey side of the bridge, at the edge of Fort Lee, cars fanned out and resumed the speed of the highway.
'Pull over, Dr. Brooks,' Robert said, baring his canines.
In the rush of traffic, David caught only a glimpse of Robert, but it was sufficient to behold a pistol aimed at his head. David's eyes darted about wildly as he tried to maintain the wheel. He felt his foot tremble when he eased up on the accelerator and, changing to the far right lane, his eyes met the glinting pistol head-on. Even in semi- darkness, he recognized the gold grip and stainless steel barrel of a Kimber.45, the same model missing from Spritz's collection and the same model used in his murder.
'Hurry it up,' Robert said, menacingly.
'Put the gun away, Robert,' David said, galvanizing the same composure he'd shown in medical emergencies.
'Just do like I say, Dr. Brooks.'
David slowed further and spotted a boarded up factory set back from the highway, two-hundred yards ahead. He decided he must act swiftly and knew that the maneuver he had in mind hinged on a precise synchrony of reflexes, on certain movements he hoped were engraved in his muscles. The factory's sprawling vacant lot was exactly what was required to execute it.
He coasted into the lot, floored the accelerator for a count of two and slammed on the brakes. Quick as a spark, before Robert's whiplash sequence was completed, David unleashed a karate-chop to his wrist. The pistol squirted to the floor. Robert clutched the wrist, groaning and writhing in his seat.
'You broke my arm!' he screamed.
David's intention had been to stun, not to shatter, and the trick was to deliver the blow with the speed of a chop but without its force. 'I didn't break it, Robert, but believe me, if I'd wanted to, I could have.'
David used his Minx to wave Robert out of the car and to lean over the hood. As he frisked him, two cars screeched in beside the Mercedes. Nick and Kathy piled out of one, Detective Johnson out of the other.
'Forget Bernie,' David said with finality. 'Here's your killer.'
During the return to Connecticut, David decided to drive with the top down. Robert sat handcuffed in the passenger seat, Kathy in back with her new Beratta Cougar at her side. The others followed close behind.
At the factory lot, David had capsulized what had happened, and Kathy had phoned back to headquarters to have Bernie seized on suspicion of major narcotics trafficking. In a brief verbal exchange out of earshot of Robert, Nick joined her in claiming that jurisdiction of the suspect belonged to the state of New Jersey. But David argued that if there were no arrest and Robert agreed, they simply had embarked on a joyride and could then turn around and head home. Robert agreed, and at the border in Greenwich, Connecticut, Kathy arrested him.
Midway on the Merritt, Robert continued to massage his wrist and, for the first time since he'd complained Nick resorted to police brutality in applying handcuffs, he spoke. 'Dad would have been proud of me,' he said, mawkishly. 'I got the guy who cut him up.' Neither David nor Kathy responded.
'He was a good dad. He gave me the motorcycle, you know. He was the boss and he was tough, but that was no reason to kill him like that. He was a sick man, too. That there pancreas. Those bastards-they were doin' good but Spritzy wanted more.'
David wished he had a tape recorder turned on.
'Bernie!' Robert shouted, 'that son-of-bitch, he hated my father.'
David had not anticipated such an effusive suspect and decided to milk the opportunity. He began gently.
'Robert, you said your father-who incidentally was a friend of mine at the hospital-you said he gave you the motorcycle. Is that the red one?'
'Yep. It's a 1969 Honda. Only two more like it all over the world. His friend in Japan gave it to him four years ago and Dad gave it to me on my birthday.' Robert brushed an eye with his cuffed bands. 'He told me not to drive it where people could see me because Japan wouldn't like it. So I only used it out in the country, except when I went back to get Spritzy. He wanted to kill me, you know, but I took care of him.'
'So that was you with the rifle at the cemetery?'
'Yep.'
'Where did you get it?'
