shoulder so that he would wake up, which he did, but then she dozed off herself.
The palms of his hands rubbed her breasts lightly. What beautiful duplicity. How generous of nature to multiply such a perfectly firm and smooth living shape. He lifted his hands, then touched one breast, then the other. 'Two,' de Gier murmured dreamily, then he frowned, thinking about being the second Road Warrior, being dragged to Twelfth Street by a horse.
Good twos, bad twos.
Two Road Warriors in Central Park.
Chapter 17
De Gier, breakfasting late with a somewhat rested commissaris at the Cavendish the next day, was handed Grijpstra's and Cardozo's faxed report on the visit to Old Man's Gate. The document had been delivered by the bellhop Ignacio to the commissaris's suite together with his morning coffee and his spare glasses, brought over by a courier at considerable expense.
The commissaris couldn't see well, as the spare glasses had been manufactured ten years ago according to a much weaker prescription.
He complained about have bad dreams again. 'About a streetcar driver.'
'What did he do, sir?'
'It was a she.'
'What did she do?'
'I think she wanted me to deliver something.' The commissaris took off his useless glasses and stared hopelessly at de Gier. 'All legs, no eyes.' He waved. 'Never mind. Read that report, Sergeant. Let's catch up with the homefront.'
De Gier read aloud while the commissaris cut kiwis and arranged the slices on his yogurt.
'More juice?' the commissaris asked. 'Try grapefruit this time. Another aspirin? Feeling better?'
De Gier felt worse but he was forcing himself to pay attention. 'What do you think, sir?'
The commissaris was done thinking. De Gier was in charge. The commissaris had another lecture that day, on homemade lethal weapons. Chief O'Neill would pick him up in an hour. He was still interested in the Termeer case, of course. He was more than willing to hear about de Gier's progress.
De Gier suggested that, on the strength of the report from Amsterdam, Jo Termeer might be a suspect.
The commissaris, while buttering a crisp white bun, investigated his choice of cheeses. 'You see possibilities that weren't available to us before?'
De Gier argued that Bert Termeer-according to Bieber and to Sara Lakmaker, who had only met Termeer briefly, and to Antonio, partner of de Gier's Horatio Street landlord, Freddie-was a charismatic figure, a latter-day prophet. Prophets, by definition, spend their time and energy trying to share uncommon and beneficial insights. They may use odd methods.
'Tell me about Antonio,' the commissaris said.
De Gier reported. 'He sails model boats in Central Park, sir. He has seen old Termeer stand still and jump about. 'The prophet' impressed him. There has even been some interchange. Antonio is New Age. He likes to be told what to do by Higher Spirits, then 'he grows and he shares.''
'You're being facetious? Aren't you always looking for teachers yourself?'
De Gier drank more juice.
'Good,' the commissaris said. 'Let me have your thoughts. What else does Grijpstra's report tell you?'
So far so good, de Gier argued, but Bert Termeer could, according to Bieber, be someone who had an unhealthy interest in little kids, a pedophile.
'Because the man sold pictures of Greek child wrestlers and homely bathroom scenes? Shouldn't we take note that Grijpstra checked for a record?'
Grijpstra had found no record but that didn't keep de Gier from defending his proposition. Old Termeer lived alone, and the connection with landlady and travel companion Carolien seemed like an early LAT-living apart together-relationship, so popular nowadays, preferred by couples who share abstract, but no carnal, interests. Jo Termeer had described Carolien as an attractive woman who liked to prance about in French underwear, was intelligent, a good travel companion, with a sense of humor. Bert Termeer still wasn't sharing his nights with her.
'Are you a pedophile?' the commissaris asked.
De Gier saw the point. Just living alone didn't necessarily indicate a sexual aberration. 'But Bert Termeer did sell pedophilic literature, sir. And he did not live alone.
There was the little live-in helpless nephew.'
The commissaris nodded.
What Bert Termeer really liked was sexual play with little kids, de Gier proposed.
Not being checked by objections, de Gier now suggested uncle had abused nephew. He also suggested revenge, more than thirty years later. Jo Termeer falls into uncle's hands at age eight; nephew rips uncle to pieces after nephew turns forty.
'Raccoons did the ripping, Sergeant.'
Yes, de Gier said, recalling the horrifying photograph of Termeer's remains.
'And then this murdering nephew bothers me?' the commissaris said. 'And his former teacher Grijpstra? He alerts his own superiors, skilled criminal investigators?' The commissaris remembered sending his assistants to Crailo Golf Club. 'Well, fairly skilled, in my case anyway…'
De Gier also remembered the golf expedition. He mentioned Baldert bothering the Crailo Rijkspohtie lieutenant, and later Grijpstra and himself De Gier evoked an image of Baldert pathetically offering his wrists, begging for handcuffs.
The commissaris was rearranging his kiwi slices. 'You see an analogy?'
Possibly. Both Baldert and young Termeer, de Gier now argued, were appalled at their own misdeeds, craved punishment, but had been too clever for their own good.
The commissaris nodded. So much for motive.
'The nephew has reasons to murder the uncle. You have thought about opportunity, have you?'
Was Jo Termeer in Central Park when his uncle died? Something for Grijpstra to check, de Gier said as he made a note on his napkin. He excused himself and walked over to the buffet to hunt for more juices. He selected apple and cranberry this time, carried back two tall glasses. He also found some yogurt.
The commissaris commiserated when de Gier could not eat the yogurt. 'Poor fellow. What did you do last night, Rinus?'
De Gier looked pained. 'What didn't I do last night?'
'With the police lady?'
'Not with the police lady, sir.'
'But you were with her all night, weren't you?'
De Gier's mouth, in spite of all the healthy liquids he kept imbibing, stayed dry. He smacked his parched lips. 'Yessir, I was. We tried, but then we didn't.' He stared at his juice. 'We fell asleep.'
'And this morning?' the commissaris asked.
'She had left, sir.'
'No note?'
'A pot of coffee.'
'Stale?'
'Well yes,' de Gier said, 'she had to go work. I slept in.'
'Dear me,' the commissaris said.
The commissaris was glad, he told de Gier, that he had spent his virile years in a different, more fearless, period. 'The years of breasts and penises,' the commissaris whispered pleasurably, as he closed his eyes, enjoying numerous visions.
'You're feeling better, sir?' de Gier asked unhappily.
