'And you were home with them all night.'
'Yes, we had lots of catching up to do.'
David scratched behind his ear with one finger but kept his eyes fastened on Corliss' for a moment. 'That's really all I have, Sam, thanks.'
'And thanks to you for coming. I feel better.'
'So do I.'
David did his assessment thing on the walk to the Hole. Alibi seems sound. But all that gibberish about a guilty conscience? I don't know. He's either one terrific actor who's pulling out all the stops, or else he's terribly innocent. Terribly.
Chapter 26
At the Hole, David was pleased to find his small base of operation had not been included in the shutdown. He hemmed and hawed as he offered Belle a stack of reasons why he shouldn't call Russ Selby, president of the Reliable Box Factory.
'Look, David honey,' Belle said, frenzied, 'people do it all the time. Sometimes, workers have to be called away. Phone the guy and ask if Robert can be spared for five minutes, for heaven's sake.'
'But I don't want to jeopardize his job. Selby will think he's either very sick or in trouble with the law.'
'No, he won't. First, Selby's your good friend, your classmate. Second and third, he knows Robert's father was hacked to death, and he knows five minutes of an employee's time is a drop in the bucket. Fourth, this is no big deal, really, so why are we discussing it?'
'I'm glad we came to an obvious conclusion,' David said, pumping his fist in the air. 'Get him on the phone.'
Belle drew in her breath, then let it out slowly.
If ever there were a commercial building shaped like the products it housed, the Reliable Box Factory was it. And if ever David had felt bathed in the strangest of odors-of a mixture of glue and ink and new paper, and of machinery oil and grease thrown in-this was it. The place was teeming with its work force and whirling noises as he was ushered into a small reception room by a female secretary who, five years ago, he would have engaged in conversation.
Within minutes, the door opened and he flipped a tattered Popular Mechanics back onto a table. Robert strolled in and gave him a puny handshake.
'Sorry to take you away from your work, Robert.' They sat facing each other, on red wooden boxes with simple backrests.
'Are you kidding?'
'I like your shirt,' David said. It was red and long-sleeved, and above its breast pocket was a black and white imprint of a box containing the letters 'RBF.'
'Thanks. See these letters? I tell everybody they stand for `Robert Bugles Factory.'
'Why not? It's funny but it makes sense.' David's words were lost in Robert's burst of laughter.
'Rob-ert,' David said in his most conciliatory voice, 'I haven't seen you since … when? … I suppose it was last Thursday at Bruno's. Remember, in the locker room? You were kind enough then to answer some questions. Well, as I'm sure you know, Victor Spritz has been murdered since then, and we have reason to believe all the murders at the hospital are somehow tied together.' David leaned forward as if to share a secret. 'Anyway,' he continued, 'I thought I'd drop by to ask you a few more questions-the same ones I'm asking anybody connected with the victims: family, friends, co-workers and so-forth. Is that okay?'
'Sure, that's okay.' Robert looked at the clock on the wall. 'It won't take too long, will it?'
'Not at all. Just a minute or two.' David launched into his interrogation as if he expected Robert to reconsider cooperating. 'What kind of car do you drive?'
'A van. It's a Dodge Caravan. Ninety-three.'
'Do you own a motorcycle?'
'No, sure wish I did. Maybe I will someday.'
'How about a gun? Do you own one?'
'No.' It was Robert's turn to lean forward. 'But my dad had both of them-a long time ago when I was a young kid.'
'Both of them?'
'Yeah, a motorcycle and a gun. I saw the gun in the closet.'
'How long ago was that?'
'Way back. I was a kid. Mom was still alive. She used to yell at him about having a gun.'
'I see.' David produced his notepad. 'And just for the record, do you remember the color of the motorcycle?'
'Sure. Black. It was a big black one.' David printed 'BLACK' in the pad. He saw Robert glance at the clock.
'Just one more thing and we'll be through,' David said. 'Friday night. Can you tell me where you were?'
Robert cocked his head in apparent thought. 'That's when who-do-you-call-it got killed, right?'
'Right. I'm not implying anything at all, Robert. It's the same question I have to ask everyone.'
'I'm not worried about nothin'. I went over to Bruno's again.'
'That was at the usual time-five?'
'Yeah, five … five to … around seven.'
'And after that?'
'I went home.'
'And you did what?'
'Watched the shows.'
'What shows?'
'Whatever's on the TV-you know-on Fridays.'
David consulted the blank pages of his pad. 'That's all, my friend. You've been very helpful. Thanks a lot.' They stood and, in lieu of a handshake, David briefly put his arm around the shorter man's shoulders. 'You put in a long day here?' he asked, feigning small talk.
'Eight hours. That's the morning shift.'
'You start real early?' David opened the door.
'Seven. Then we go to three-thirty. They give us a half-hour for lunch.'
In the Mercedes, David contacted Musco. 'Be out front at your place at one o'clock.'
The Chestnut Apartment Complex, a red brick structure of eight units, was an uphill five-minute walk from the hospital, on a street otherwise reserved for physicians' and dentists' offices. Word had it that once Charlie Bugles had assumed the Board chairmanship years ago, he finagled a shady deal for his complex to be built by the same construction company retained by the hospital for future expansion projects.
David had made house calls there and was familiar with its interior layout: two floors of four units each, their entrances approached from a center stairwell. He recalled the opposing doors on each landing, the knockers instead of bell buttons, the name cards askew in their metal frames.
From Red Checker to Chestnut Street, he thought of his Tactical Plan and 'Suspect-6' list, particularly in the context of Robert's involvement or noninvolvement in murder, of his operative role or nonoperative role in the drug ring. Almost reverently, David had stuck to the Plan and satisfied all but one of its items. This, the inspection of Robert's apartment, was the last, and he didn't expect it to reveal much. Because if his suspicion that the entire batch of killings was drug-related and that Robert was incapable of managing a territory, the upcoming inspection became academic.
The weekend warm rains had melted the snow and two days of sun had dried its waters. David drove into the building's rear parking area, its glossy black asphalt patterned in yellow lines that ran parallel to one another like the teeth of an immense comb. Musco followed in his cab. A solitary car was parked in an end space.
