they’re not, if the price is right and they look good.
I could tell her to come here instead.”
“You could tell her to come next month.”
“Is it going to take that long?”
“To find this guy? There’s no telling. They could pick him up tonight or he could stay out there for weeks.”
“God. You really don’t think it’s safe to have her come here? She’s a little old lady in a babushka.”
“The staff here’s pretty good,” I said, “but they’re not Marines guarding an embassy. If the rule’s ironclad, they might get the idea that it’s important. Every time you make an exception, they take the whole business a little less seriously.”
She opened her mouth to debate the point, then changed her mind and told me I was right. “If he’s really stalking me,” she said.
“What else would you call it?”
“He really did want to kill me. I don’t read minds, but you pick things up. That’s what I was picking up. He had this weapon in his 178
Lawrence Block
hand, and there I was, and the thought went through his mind. But maybe it was just an opportunity, you know? He had a weapon and I was there, and he’s a nut who likes to kill women, and . . .”
“And?”
“And why was he there? Why my shop? It had to be because I was Monica’s friend, and he had to know that. From something she said, or from following her around.”
“Or from following you around, and that’s how he found his way to Monica.”
“You think?”
“I think either’s equally possible.”
“I guess. Matt, he wouldn’t come into my shop looking to buy a murder weapon. It’s this little chichi art and antiques shop, not Macho Toys for Butch Boys. The letter opener was probably the only thing in the shop you could use to kill somebody, unless you smothered them with a hooked rug or beat them to death with one of the marble book-ends. He came in because he wanted an up-close look at me.”
“That sounds right.”
“The hell with the icons. I’m Jewish, you couldn’t even bury them with me. I hate for her to make the trip for nothing, though.”
“Where is she, out in Brighton Beach?”
“No, I think she’s in the neighborhood somewhere, but even so she shouldn’t have to schlep icons there and back. I’ve got her number at the store.”
“I’ll go over there later and get it.”
“Will you? And I’ll call her and tell her what? That the shop is closed until further notice. You know what you could do while you’re at it—”
“I’ll put a sign in the window.”
“I’ll print it out. I print neater than you.”
“You’re a girl.”
“That must be it. Who are you calling?”
“Sussman,” I said. “I want to give him something he doesn’t know he needs, and save myself a trip while I’m at it.”
.
.
.
All the Flowers Are Dying
179
I was waiting at the shop when Sussman got there, a lab technician in tow. I let them in, and the techie gave us each a pair of gloves, then went around collecting fingerprints from all the likely surfaces, concentrating on the glass countertops. I opened the cash box and took out the three twenty-dollar bills it contained and gave them to Sussman. He bagged them and made a point of writing out a receipt for me. I didn’t care about the sixty bucks, which was just as well for all the good the receipt would do. If the past was anything to go by, those bills were destined to spend eternity in an NYPD evidence locker.
“Now where’s this sketch I’ve heard so much about?” Sussman asked, and I showed it to him. He said it didn’t look a whole lot different to him, and I said he’d see the difference when he looked at the two sketches side by side.
He said, “This one’s more artistic, I can see that much. It looks like it was drawn by a human being and not by a machine. That wouldn’t necessarily make it a better likeness.”
“Elaine says it is.”
“Well, she should know. She’s the only one who’s seen the original.
Who’d you say did it?”
