On, Off

“Carmine! Is the Pope a Catholic?”

“I hope so,” said Carmine, squeezing his cousin’s arm.

From there it was on to Silvestri’s office, Marciano ambling in his wake; Abe and Corey were still out at Griswold Lane, asking its inhabitants if they had seen or heard anything unusual.

He filled Silvestri and Marciano in.

“Is it possible,” Marciano asked afterward, “that this guy doesn’t belong to the Hug, but has a grudge against the place or someone in it?”

“That begins to look more and more likely, Danny. Though I wish I could be sure that all the Huggers really were where they were supposed to be Wednesday of last week when Francine was snatched. It would have taken a good twenty minutes to get from the Hug to Travis and back again – at a jog. Whereas Miss Dupre didn’t locate the senior Huggers for thirty minutes. However, they do seem to have been together on the roof, and as there are only seven of them, I’m sure a twenty-minute absence followed by heavy breathing on return would have caused comment. Dr. Addison Forbes might not have reappeared breathing heavily, I take that into account. Leaving that aside, the killer definitely wants us to believe that his murders are connected to the Hug. Otherwise why choose the Kynetons’ as a dump site? He wanted her found quickly, so he hardly scraped away enough mud to cover her. Every scavenger for a mile must have come running. He’s pissing on someone or something, but who or what I don’t know.”

“You don’t think the Kynetons have anything to do with it?” Silvestri asked.

“I haven’t checked Hilda and Keith out yet, but Ruth Kyneton is a straight shooter.”

“Where do you go from here?”

“I’ll see Hilda and Keith today, but I’m going to put off the other Huggers until Monday. I want them to stew over the weekend watching news bulletins and listening to all the TV couch cops.”

“He’s going to keep on killing, isn’t he?” Marciano asked.

“He can’t stop, Danny. We have to stop him.”

“What about that new bunch of psychiatrists the FBI and NYPD consult? No help from them?” Silvestri demanded.

“Same old song, John. Nobody knows much about the multiple killer. The shrinks yack about ritual and obsession, but they can’t come up with anything helpful. They can’t tell me what this guy looks like, or how old he is, or what kind of job he has, or his childhood, or his level of education – he’s an enigma, a total fucking mystery -” Carmine stopped, swallowed, closed his eyes. “Sorry, sir. It’s getting to me.”

“It’s getting to all of us. Thing is, maybe there are more of these multiple killers out there than we know about,” Silvestri said. “Too many more like our killer, and someone’s going to have to do something to help catch them. Our guy got away with ten murders before we even knew he existed.” He got out a new cigar to chew. “Just plug away at it, Carmine.”

“I intend to,” said Carmine, getting to his feet. “Sooner or later the bastard’s going to slip, and when he does, I’ll be there to break his fall.”

“Oh, this could ruin Keith!” Hilda Silverman cried, her face white. “Just when he’s got a great offer – it isn’t fair!”

“Offer of what?” Carmine asked.

“A partnership in a private practice. He’ll have to buy in, of course, but we’ve managed to save enough to do that.”

Which answers the riddle of why they live in this semi-slum, thought Carmine, his gaze passing from Hilda to Ruth, who looked just as worried about Keith. The United Women of Keith.

“What time did you get home last night, Miss Silverman?”

“Not long after six.”

“What time did you go to bed?”

“At ten. I always do.”

“So you don’t wait up for your husband?”

“There’s no need. Ruth does. I’m the major earner at the moment, you see.”

The sound of a car pulling into the drive galvanized both women; they leaped up, rushed to the front door and hopped about like two basketballers jockeying for position.

Wow! was Carmine’s reaction when Keith Kyneton walked in. Definitely a prince, not a frog from Dayton, Ohio, anymore. How had the transformation happened, and where? His looks and his physique were undeniable, but what fascinated Carmine were the clothes. Everything of the very best, from his tailored gabardine slacks to his tawny cashmere sweater. The well-dressed neurosurgeon after a hard day in the O.R., while his wife and mother bought off the rack at Cheap & Nasty.

Having shaken off his women, Keith stared at Carmine with hard grey eyes, his generous lips thinned. “Are you the one who pulled me out of the O.R.?” he demanded.

“That’s me. Lieutenant Carmine Delmonico. Sorry about it, but I presume Chubb’s got another neurosurgeon to pinch-hit?”

“Yes, of course it has!” he snapped. “Why am I here?”

When he heard why he was here, Keith collapsed into a chair. “Our backyard?” he whispered. “Ours?”

“Yours, Dr. Kyneton. What time did you come in last night?”

“About two-thirty, I think.”

“Did you notice anything different about the place where you parked your car? Do you always park it out front, or do you put it in the garage?”

“In dead of winter I put it in the garage, but I’m still leaving it outside,” he said, gazing not at Ruth but at Hilda. “It’s a year-old Cadillac, starts like a dream on a cold morning.” He was regaining his high opinion of himself. “Truth is, I am whacked by the time I get home, really whacked.”

A new Caddy while your wife and your mother drive fifteen-year-old clunkers. What a piece of shit you are, Dr. Kyneton. “You didn’t answer my question, Doctor. Did you notice anything out of the ordinary when you got home last night?”

“No, nothing.”

“Did you notice that last night was kinda damp and soggy?”

“I can’t say that I did.”

“Your driveway is unsealed. Were there strange tire tracks?”

“I told you, I didn’t notice anything!” he cried fretfully.

“How often do you work late, Dr. Kyneton? I mean, is Holloman overloaded with patients requiring your particular skills?”

“Since ours is the only unit in the state with the equipment to perform cerebrovascular surgery, we do tend to be overloaded.”

“So coming home at two or three in the morning is the norm?”

Kyneton chewed his lip, suddenly looked away from his mother, his wife, his interrogator. Hiding something. “It’s not always the O.R.,” he said sulkily.

“If not the O.R., then what?”

“I am a postdoctoral fellow, Lieutenant. I give lectures that have to be prepared, I have to write extremely detailed case notes, I have to do teaching rounds in the hospital, and I’m kept busy training neurosurgical residents.” His gaze remained deflected.

“Your wife tells me that you’re going to buy into a private neurosurgical practice.”

“That’s right, I am. A group in New York City.”

“Thank you, Miss Silverman, Dr. Kyneton. I may have other questions later, but this will do for the present.”

“I’ll walk you out,” said Ruth Kyneton.

“I really don’t need walking out,” Carmine said gently when they reached the porch and the front door was shut.

“Glad to know there’s two of us ain’t fools.”

“Is that your opinion of them, Mrs. Kyneton? Fools?”

She sighed, kicked a pebble off the boards into the night. “I reckon the fairies musta brought Keith – never