'What about duplication?'
Oh-oh-don't push it, Ray.
'I'll worry about that,' Kit said.
'Sure, you'll worry. But what about the people we're going to interview? Two detectives coming from different directions-that'll get everyone confused.' He glanced at Janek. Then his voice turned bitter. 'Of course, Janek here's such a famous investigator they'll probably fall all over themselves they'll be so flattered.'
'That'll be enough, Detective.'
Boyce stared at her, nonplussed. 'I may look dumb, Chief. But I can read the writing on the wall.'
'What's that supposed to mean?' Kit's hoarse whisper should have cut straight to Boyce's ears. But the slob wasn't listening; he was too wrapped up in his self-pity.
'You don't want me in on this. You want Janek. I know why, too.'
'Why?' Kit demanded.
'Because he's your you know.'
Oh, you poor hotheaded son of a bitch.
'My what?' Boyce sputtered. 'Your special friend's what I hear.'
'Want a letter in your file, Boyce?'
'All I want is fair treatment!' But then something must have told Boyce he'd gone too far because suddenly he clamped his mouth. When he opened it again, his tone was different. 'I respectfully ask permission to withdraw from the case,' he whispered with restrained fury. 'Permission granted.' Kit rose. 'I've got work to do.
Boyce, report to your precinct commander. Janek, stay. I've got a few choice words for you, Detective.'
She walked across her office to the window, stared out at the failing snow until Boyce had shut the door. When she turned to Janek, her eyes were glowing.
'You're really a prick.'
Janek shrugged. 'You're the one who told me to go down to Quantico.'
'And you played Sullivan just right, didn't you? I should have known.' 'I don't see the problem… now that Boyce has so graciously stepped aside.'
'The problem, my friend, is he's going to talk. It doesn't do anything for my reputation to have a pissed off detective saying Chief Kopta's not a straight shooter.
'Everyone knows you shoot straight.'
'Yeah.' She looked resigned. 'Well, you did it, Frank. Set things up just the way you wanted them.'
'So punish me for it. Put another letter in my file.'
She shook her head. 'I hope I won't be sorry about this.'
'You won't be.' Janek walked briskly to the door. 'Sullivan's the one'll be sorry.'
Aaron had begged them space on the fourth floor of the Police Property Building in Greenwich Village between Fifth and University Place. The office was on the same floor as the narcotics storage room, past the detectives' lounge, down the hall, down three steps, up two, first door on the left. Aaron had borrowed two gray hard-rubber-top desks, two swivel chairs, a beaten-up filing cabinet, and an answering machine.
When Janek appeared in the doorway, he was in the midst of sweeping out an accumulation of used Styrofoam coffee cups, empty potato chip bags, and cigar ash from the last special squad to occupy the space. 'I see we're slumming,' Janek said.
'It's okay, Frank.' Aaron gestured toward a dustpan. Janek handed it to him. 'Remember last spring when the President was here?
Secret Service unit used this for a command post. That's why we got so many phones. Connected, too.'
Janek looked at the phones, six five-button models, three on each desk.
Then he sniffed the air. The room was overheated and much too dry.
He turned to the ceiling; the fluorescent lights buzzed. He peered around, noticed a disgusting crust on the far wall, most likely pizza sauce, he hoped not blood. A radiator hissed out steam. He looked at Aaron, who nodded back, mutual acknowledgment that though their office was a shithouse, it was at least their own.
He helped Aaron sweep out the remainder of the junk, then returned the brooms and trash can to the cleaning closet. The corridor smelled of stale cigarette smoke.
When he returned to the office, he noticed his rubber boots were leaking. He pulled them off and stared out the window. It had stopped snowing. On the street the buildup of perfect flakes was already turning gray. He knew what he wanted to do: talk to everyone who'd had close contact with Jess, particularly the last few days of her life. He wanted to chart every hour of her final days: where she'd gone; what she'd done; the name of every person she'd spoken to.
He drew up a rough grid chart, showed it to Aaron, instructed him to get a police artist to paint it on their largest wall.
'And while he's in here with a brush,' Janek said, pointing, 'maybe he can do something about that crust.'
He also assigned Aaron to talk to all the members of the Greg Gale group.
'Check them all out; get them alone; squeeze them hard. If you smell anything murderous or that smacks of a cult, let me know. But please keep the details of the fun and games to yourself. I'd just as soon not hear any more about Jess's sex life.'
Aaron understood.
Janek had set himself another task. He taxied to La Guardia Airport, found a seat on the noon shuttle to Boston, then sat in the plane for an hour before it left the gate.
There were numerous announcements from the pilot: Air traffic was snarled up and down the eastern seaboard; half a foot of snow had fallen on Logan in Boston. Stewardesses prowled the cabin, offering tiny cellophane bags containing honey-roasted cashews. Then everyone was ordered off the plane. Then, suddenly, mysteriously, they all were ordered back on. And then, with undue haste it seemed to Janek, the plane reved up and took off with a roar.
When he reached Boston, it was nearly three o'clock Janek took one look at the taxi line, found his way to the subway, transferred at Park Street, and fifty minutes later got off at Harvard Square. Some helpful students guided him to the Law School, an immensely long building, where numerous assistant D.A.s of his acquaintance had, in their student days, undergone excruciating torture.
Janek appeared in the doorway of Dr. David Chun's second-floor office just as the psychiatrist, already in his overcoat, was stuffing file folders into a briefcase.
Chun was not pleased to see him. 'You should have called, Lieutenant. Unfortunately I can't talk to you now. I'm going home before the snow gets too deep.' 'The snow stopped falling a couple hours ago, Doctor,' Janek replied. 'If you wait another hour, everthing'll be shoveled out.'
Chun stared at him. 'You know better than to show up here without an appointment. Please tell me why didn't you call.'
'I didn't think you'd see me. So I came up anyway, took a chance.'
Chun sat down. 'Why didn't you think I'd see you?'
Janek sat, too. He'd gotten the psychiatrist's attention. Now all he had to do was hold it.
'You were upset down in Quantico. I had the feeling you wished Sullivan had never involved you in the case. Something frightens you about it, something you don't want to discuss. I need to hear you discuss it, Doctor. That's why I came.'
Chun studied him. 'You're different from Sullivan. You're a listener.
II try to be.
Chun thought a moment before he spoke. 'Okay, Lieutenant, take a seat outside. I'll give my wife a call; then we'll talk.'
When Chun came out, he was carrying his briefcase and still wearing his overcoat. Uh-oh, Janek thought, he's changed his mind. But Chun was no less anxious to talk; he just didn't want to do it in his office.
He guided Janek across Harvard Yard. Students were walking briskly on the freshly shoveled paths, and some freshmen were putting finishing touches on a snowman that bore a vague resemblance to Fidel Castro.
Janek watched while a rosy-cheeked girl in a white ski parka struck a piece of black wood into the effigy's mouth to simulate a cigar.
At Harvard Square the snow had turned to slush. A newsdealer hawked hometown papers. Chun led Janek
