He smiles; he likes that. 'Couple more weeks of welding before it's finished.'
'Then what?'
'Out to the synagogue for the installation. She'll weather nicely, I think. I'll leave her a little ragged here and there. I'm working for a sense of timelessness.'
'You old man's why I'm here, Chip. I'm hearing stories that don't match up. You told me he was a fine photographer. No one disputes that. But they're some who say he did bust-in work, in flagrante photographs.'
'I don't know what that means.'
'It's Latin for “in the act.’ Say a couple of lovers are making it in a motel room, then suddenly Max bursts in. Flash-zap! He's got proof that can be used against them in, say, a custody battle, or used to make them pay blackmail so the pictures won't be shown around.'
Chris scratches his head. 'I heard the old man did stuff like that.'
'Sort of a far cry from gorgeous still lifes of shiny objects.'
He shrugs. 'What can I tell you? Dad was an all-around photographer. He did what he had to do to support his family.'
'Did he know Walter Maritz?'
'The PI down the hall? Sure, he and Walt were old friends.'
'Did they work together on the bust-in stuff?'
'You know, David, I think you ought to talk to my mom about this. She may be able to help you.'
'I would definitely like to talk to your mom. I'd also like to see your father's Fesse album.'
Chip is fine with both requests. He'll speak to his mother, set up a meeting, and leave word for me at the hotel.'
There are messages from Mace and Kate Evans at the desk. From my room, I call Mace first.
'That case study – quite a document,' he says. 'Puts your dad in a whole different light.'
'Does it put him on your suspect list?'
'Does it put him on yours?'
'You know as much as I do, Mace.'
'Yeah. Too bad he didn't finish writing up his case. Too bad he killed himself just at the pivotal point.'
I know what he's thinking – that Dad took his life because he couldn't cope with writing down what finally occurred between him and Mrs. F.
'What strikes me,' Mace continues, 'is he wrote this after she was dead. He mentions that she was killed at the start. Obviously he was a very troubled man. It's like he was trying to make sense of everything that happened, but hard as he tried, he couldn't manage it. That makes me feel sorry for the guy.'
Hearing that, I'm gratified. Mace is showing himself to be a lot more sensitive than he lets on.
'Those footnotes are amazing,' he says.
'Dad's old training analyst says that's where his madness shows.'
'I don't know about madness, but I don't think he killed her.'
'You're not saying that to make me feel better?'
'I'm saying it because it's what I think. What happened between them may have been crazy, but it wasn't murderous-crazy. Call it a cop's hunch.'
'Well, thank you… because that does make me feel better.'
And I continue to feel good after I put down the phone.
I pull a vodka out of the room minibar, pour it over some ice, then call Kate Evans.
'The man who was asking about you, he's been around again,' she tells me. 'Johnny didn't tell him anything of course.'
She says Johnny will be on duty tomorrow one to five. I ask her to tell him I'll be dropping by.
'David, about that sketch we did – I wasn't that helpful, was I?'
'That remains to be seen.'
'He looked a lot like you. I realized that after you left.'
'That happens sometimes, Kate. People get faces mixed up. Or else they forget what someone looked like and end up describing the artist.'
'I don't think I did that – describe you, I mean. But the other thing-'
'What?'
'Getting faces mixed up.'
'Yes?'
'I think that could've been what happened – I got two people confused.'
11
It's a little past one-thirty when I reach the Flamingo. The area seems quieter than usual. There's some late lunch action in Moe's but the drapes at the Shanghai Sapphire are tightly drawn, suggesting one of those cheerless Chinese places where the cook overused MSG and the cornstarch-thickened sauces are way too sweet.
I check the pool area. A couple of teenage girls are splashing about in the deep end. I find Johnny in the office behind the reception desk staring at the lounge TV.
'Howdy,' Johnny says. 'Kate told me you'd be around. Said you want me to describe that fella came in asking ‘bout you again. Can't tell you much. Like I said before, he had a cop's way about him. You know – a stache and a cheap suit.' Johnny scratches his head. 'Come to think of it, he didn't have a stache. Just seemed like the type.'
Johnny's eager to have me start on a drawing, but as soon as he begins talking, I realize nothing's going to come of it. Everything he says is too general and ambiguous, much like his statement that the man had a mustache and then that he didn't.
'I don't know, Mr. Weiss. He was kinda average. No distinguishing marks or features. I'd put his age between forty and fifty, maybe fifty-five. He was medium built, medium high give or take an inch, two, or three. Eye color?' Johnny shrugs. 'Didn't catch any color in them. Mouth? Man's mouth. You wouldn't mistake it for a woman's. Skin kinda rough and there were pouches beneath his eyes. Clean-shaven, I know that. Don't know why I thought he had a stache.' He pauses. 'One thing for sure, though. The guy smokes. His clothes stank of it.'
Johnny looks away. He's embarrassed. As much as he'd like to help, he can't describe the man. It's as if there was nothing memorable about him. I've dealt with witnesses who've had the same trouble, and often it turned out it wasn't their fault. The subject's appearance was so neutral there really wasn't anything to describe. In such cases, however closely I'd follow the witness's description, I'd always end up with the same useless drawing, a nothing blah sketch of a nothing blah face I've come to call ‘Mr. Potato Head.’
Driving back downtown, I find myself checking my rearview mirror. And even though I don't notice anyone following, I have the distinct feeling someone is.
3:30 p.m.
I reach Covington and luck into a parking spot in front of Spezia. The restaurant's closed, but I spot Jurgen sitting alone at a little table in the rear, bottle and a glass in front of him.
I grab my sketchpad and go to the door. Jurgen appears to be brooding. When I knock he looks up annoyed, then recognizes me and comes to the door to let me in.
'Mr. Weiss! What a surprise. I didn't expect you so soon.'
'I happened to be in the neighborhood so I took a chance.'
The way he raises his right eyebrow tells me he doesn’t believe that for a second.
'I'm always here. As Jack Cody used to put it: ‘A restaurant is a harsh mistress, me boy.’'
