overstimulation by a lethal combination of alcohol and other drugs.'
'Opium up his ass,' the lieutenant said. 'There was that too. He used suppositories. Too vain to suffer needle marks. Can you imagine? And as for the contents of the baron's intestines-'
De Gier got up abruptly.
'Are you okay now?' Grijpstra asked, after de Gier had gotten back into the Fiat, some five miles out of Amsterdam, near a cluster of dwarf pines decorating the bank of the Al motorway.
De Gier wasn't sure.
'It will be hard to find emergency lanes closer to the city,' Grijpstra said. 'Try those pines again. You'll have something to hold on to. It's hard to vomit out of a car's window.'
A municipal police patrol car stopped. Grijpstra showed his identification. The constable sniffed. 'Beer? How many?' Grijpstra told the constable about stewed eel, carrion and an autopsy related to a murder case he and the sergeant had been forced to imagine in progress. He went into details while de Gier vomited within hearing distance.
'Yech,' the constable said.
'Our colleagues should be informed that they handle their vehicle too roughly,' de Gier said, after watching the patrol car jump back into traffic. 'I hope you noted a number.'
De Gier had, while holding on to a tree, been thinking, about golf.
Grijpstra had been thinking too, about Central Park.
The detectives agreed that they had chased a red herring.
'Not fish,' de Gier said.
'Goose,' Grijpstra said, 'wild goose. You think he really set us up to go to Crailo? Or could this be stupidity?'
De Gier still didn't feel well.
Grijpstra drove for a while. 'You have been to New York.'
De Gier had, twice. On both occasions he had walked through Central Park. It's what you did in New York. The park had impressed him. He had listened to jazz, rowed some ladies across a pond, watched caged wild animals, observed children on a carousel, dodged bicyclists and joggers. He was sure nobody would be allowed to play golf there. Golf would be too dangerous, like having people taking rifle practice. He had seen folks playing baseball and football on playing fields behind the Metropolitan Museum, so maybe Uncle Bert had been hit by a random ball that covered some immense distance. But why think of golf?
'Immense distance?' Grijpstra asked.
When de Gier interviewed Johan Termeer, the nephew, Jo had placed the death of his uncle near the Sheep Meadow. The Sheep Meadow, as de Gier recalled, was over a kilometer from the ball playing fields he remembered.
'You didn't tell me,' Grijpstra said.
It hadn't occurred to de Gier to question the cornmissaris's line of thinking. It did now. De Gier liked that. 'It's nice not being able to hold on to things, isn't it?'
'Bah,' Grijpstra said. 'Now then. If anyone in Central Park were playing golf, which you say no one would, they would hit their balls nearly a mile from where Termeer was found. So we are wasting our time. And the chief is wasting his.'
Relying on the given situation and their knowledge of the cornmissaris's personality and capacity of endurance, Grijpstra and de Gier diagnosed temporarily impaired judgment due to stress, plus depression about his forthcoming retirement. The old man was ill. He had been limping and coughing when de Gier saw him off at Schiphol Airport. He would now be required to run about in strange territory while attending fatiguing lectures. Pursuing the Termeer case had to be an unbearable extra burden.
'He needs help,' Grijpstra said.
Chapter 8
The commissaris had planned to see, and to interrogate if possible, the mounted female officer whose horse had been in contact with the older Termeer, and to pay a visit to Termeer's neighbor Charlie, but the codeine had worn him out and he had trouble getting up. His dreams had been bothersome again. He dragged himself to Le Chat Complet where Mamere served him coffee instead of the tea he ordered, saying, 'You mess too much with tea, monsieur.' She brought him crisp croissants and fresh strawberry jam. He was told to have patience regarding the boiled eggs he had ordered.
While eating his breakfast he reflected on his nightly adventures. His dreams the previous night seemed more complicated than before. Once again the tram driver played the leading part. The commissaris was a little boy, on his way to school. He wore short pants and a jacket that were hand-me-downs from his older brother, Therus The boy-commissaris was carrying his lunch in a foldable metal lunchbox, closed with a red band of elastic. The tram driver wanted to share his lunch, after asking him, via the tram's intercom, to come over and sit next to her 'Little boy in the hand-me-down clothing, come and sit up here with me,' hidden speakers in the car said. It was embarrassing. It also made him jealous. He didn't want to share the tram driver's wonderful presence with his fellow passengers.
The commissaris remembered that, in the dream, the tram driver's voice was deep and husky. He wondered what this could mean. Was he feeding a demon or a goddess? The sharing of his cheese sandwiches and apple with the long-legged creature had been erotically interesting, despite the fact – or maybe because – his dream companion stared at him with empty eye sockets. The commissaris remembered that, as a young boy, adult women, when they displayed their legs, often drove him mad with desire.
What could the symbol of the blond tram driver's legs have to do with his present quest?
Cats were passing the restaurant's windows and the three musicians behind the counter were harmonizing their song, much encouraged by the cafe's clients.
The commissaris concentrated on the painting of the youthful and naked Mamere and her tongue-lolling dog under the palm tree of her native Haiti.
'You like?' the real Mamere asked when she finally served the eggs. He nodded. She pointed at the huge painting. 'That was dreamtime when I got my sons.' She named the men behind the cafe's counter. 'Dieudonne, Zazeu and FilsTrois,' Mamere said proudly. 'I very fertile then.'
'Beautiful voices Dieudonne, Zazeu and FilsTrois have,' the commissaris said.
'You better accent in French than in English,'
Mamere said. 'What you do for profession?'
The commissaris said that he was a policeman from Amsterdam, investigating the recent death of a countryman, another Hollandais, near Central Park West.
'Ah,' Mamere said noncommittally, then rushed off to pour more coffee.
Back in his suite the commissaris still had a few minutes before he was to be picked up. He looked down at the park. There were benches there where people kept sitting down and getting up. Young men on roller skates whizzed around at high speed. The commissaris noticed a system in the complicated movements, a well-organized activity. He concluded that, possibly, drugs were being dealt. He watched a young woman, dressed in a neat suit with a tailored blouse: an office worker, a secretary maybe. She made signs at one of the roller skaters. She raised her left hand, made a fist, then made her thumb pop up. Then she got up and sat down on another bench. The roller skater sped by the vacated bench and scooped up a green piece of paper. Another roller skater passed the waiting woman and dropped something in her lap.
There was a knock at the door. Chief O'Neill came in. 'How're you doing, Yan?'
Yan was doing fine. He showed O'Neill 'what was going on below.
O'Neill nodded. 'The roller skaters are members of Trevor's gang. Small stuff. Dime bags. Retail bullshit. We're after Trevor for the murder of Maggotmaid. Or, rather, Hurrell is after Trevor.' The chief smiled. 'We all have our hang-ups.'
O'Neill talked about Trevor while he drove the commissaris to the lecture. Traffic was congested, but they had ample time. The commissaris learned why Hurrell was particularly interested in Trevor E. Lee, an oil heir from
