'I'm coming over.'
Kathy didn't remove her light clutch before taking David's hands in hers. 'Look, darling,' she said, 'I think you're trying to do too much too soon. Rest up. Collect yourself. I really think you've gotten a little … well … frankly … emotional.'
'Collect myself? Emotional? For Christ's sake, we've got bodies dropping like flies. You and I could have been two more, and you say I'm emotional?'
Kathy took a step back. 'Listen to yourself,' she said.
David's silent concurrence dominated the next two hours along with the blare of a football game he had trouble processing. But, after drinks and hamburgers on the barbeque, he and Kathy mixed business and pleasure talk, and he realized he couldn't remember the last time he had heard the roar of his own belly laugh.
At one point, Kathy phoned Nick to get exact directions to Bernie's New York apartment. And David leveled with her that he always believed Nick's one-day stake-out there had been a new Chief of Detectives' effort to impress his superior as a hands-on guy.
Later in bed, he hugged her for most of the night.
The top was down on the speeding Mercedes, a toy beneath its towering driver and a slouching passenger. The Merritt Parkway at nine-thirty was cleared of its earlier morning traffic rush and the weather, deceptive in January, rendered use of a heater redundant.
'Someday, I'll get me one of these Benzos,' Musco said, patting the dashboard.
'Uh-huh,' David replied.
It was their only conversation for the initial fifty-mile stretch as David sifted through a logjam of thoughts and the cabby mostly dozed, his cap pulled down over his eyes. David felt the manufactured wind leveling his hair and watering his nose, and he knew it would be a day when he was alert for any contingency and ready to take on any question-one of which was why in hell he was making the trip in the first place.
He wasn't sure what he'd find at Bernie's apartment on Manhattan's Upper West Side nor what he was even looking for. But if he's on 'Suspect-6,' and if the discoveries at Bugles', Foster's and Spritz's are any measure, then Bernie's place is worthy of inspection, and a drive there, especially without snow or ice, is a fair price of admission.
He believed Bernie was the most enigmatic on the list. Were there shady ties-drug ties-to the Far East? Was 'medical equipment consultant' simply a cover? Did he have similar ties to his departed stepfather and to the departed Spritz? They clearly had territories. Did Bernie? Or Robert? Was his half brother thought capable of maintaining a territory, or had he been cut out of a deadly family affair? And what of the hospital connection on the list: Foster or Corliss, the psychiatrist? And the police connection: Nick or Sparky? Drugs? Other motives?
Often, even in diagnostic quagmires, the more David tried to purify its waters, the more darkened they became, but he was used to that, familiar with the feeling of wading through distractions and red herrings. So he still felt alert and ready as he drove along the Hudson River, beyond the George Washington Bridge with its double-decker ant procession, and, on the left, Riverside Church, its spire saluting the heavens.
Deep in its canyons, David realized he had forgotten the smell of New York City-not altogether unpleasant but distinctive. He hadn't forgotten its vehicular frenzy though, the cagey maneuvering and charging and honking, the competition of taxicabs and delivery trucks and cars darting around one another, eager to secure yet another advantage.
He was acquainted with the area, having spent some time training at St. Luke's Hospital back in the mid- eighties, yet he gave Nick Medicore a mental bow for providing expert directions. As David idled before the designated brownstone off Cathedral Parkway, he saw an Avis Parking Garage diagonally across the street.
In its cramped waiting area, he remained in the car and said to an attendant, 'Tell you what. I'll double your fee if you let me park my own car.' The man agreed and pointed to an empty spot just inside a tunnel.
The door to Bernie's ninth floor apartment was fifty or sixty of David's paces down from a glass and gold- plated elevator. Musco, following close behind, made it in one hundred. They passed no other doors on the way. Monet and Renoir replicas lined both walls of the carpeted hallway, ornately framed paintings David thought might have been reserved for the apartments themselves. It was a thought related to the incongruity of a building with outward elegance but without a security guard or elevator operator.
At the door, ten feet from a fire escape, David shielded a crouching Musco who gave the usual knock, then performed his skewer routine with silence and speed. He cracked the door open an inch and whispered, 'I'll wait out on the landing here. Do a good job, whatever it is.'
'You can come in this time, you know,' David whispered back.
'What, and go around with my eyes closed? Dr. David, like I told you, I don't want to know nothin'.'
David walked through the entrance and into a narrow antechamber with a large window on his right and, to his left, double doors as high as the ceiling, as wide as the span of his arms. He yanked out his Beretta Minx and used Friday to nudge open the doors, all the while calling out Bernie's name.
The apartment was enormous, extending as far back as the elevator, and laterally a similar distance. It was a 'Master Quarters' space he had read about but had never seen during his study of Japanese culture through the years. In the center there was one main room containing a raised platform covered by a mat and pillows and surrounded by panels of antique lace and netting. Sitting and storage rooms encircled the apparent bedroom. A kitchen and dining area were located in a far corner and what appeared to be a study was adorned-or unadorned- with simple furniture pieces of lacquered wood: small desk, cabinets with grapevine designs, two straight chairs with single vertical splats forming their backs. There were no interior walls per se: the rooms were divided by hanging bamboo screens, sliding paper screens or draperies. Scattered about were bronze mirrors, wind chimes, ewers and goblets of hammered gold and silver and dishes made of porcelain and blown glass. The dominant colors of the quarters and its contents were those that David recognized as the colors of the finest jade: white, pale blue and green.
Stalking from room to room to ensure he was alone, he cleared his throat of a smell he finally pinpointed as an admixture of cooking oil and spices. He banged his head on a wind chime as he gravitated toward the platform bed and stood looking down at it, puzzled over something that seemed strange, or out of place-something inconsistent with what he had learned about Japanese furnishings.
He walked around the bed before tensing to a halt. It was too high! It should be a simple slab on the floor, not raised on two-foot sideboards. He pushed aside the netting as he would cobwebs and lifted a white skirt at the foot of the platform. The slab was attached to the footboard with hinges.
He circled to the head of the bed and, swatting the pillows to the floor, lifted the skirt and raised the slab. David gaped in disbelief at a king-size compartment stuffed with batches of four-by-four bags at one end, and at the other end, tiny glassine bags with 'HORNET' stamps. All bulged with white powder.
David took several Polaroids of the cache and lowered the slab, having documented what he had suspected all along: first, there was papa Bugles; then, Victor Spritz; and now, we discover, Bernie Bugles, U.S. citizen but devotee of Japan and probable narcotics operative there.
He took stock of the rest of the apartment and photographed each room. In the study, he ran his hand along the over-lacquered desktop and, instead of searching each drawer, followed his usual hunch and pulled open the one on the bottom right. Inside was a metal box containing a ledger book. He riffled through its pages; it was the exact ledger he had seen and photographed at Charlie Bugles' condo.
David made several entries in his notepad as he sauntered out of the study and toward a side stationary wall dotted sparingly with colored photographs. He focused on three; they were captioned in Japanese characters, some of which David identified. One photo depicted The National Stadium of Tokyo. Another was a much smaller version of the stadium, though still immense. It sat on a lush hillside beyond a stone driveway that snaked to an unattached garage. Bernie's Nipponese hangout? The third, an interior shot, was a facsimile of Manhattan's 'Master Quarters,' but with one exception. The elevated platform was longer, wider and higher.
He snapped pictures of the photographs and, feeling like a gourmet who had overindulged, packed his camera in Friday and headed for the entrance. Pulling back one of the double doors which he had left open, his knees quaked at the sight before him. Twin leather sheathes hung from the wall. One was empty. The other contained a pearl-handled dagger.
