'It's a family resort. If you want fast-lane resort life, the Surf 'n' Smurf is not for you.'
'I suppose not.'
It seemed unlikely that John Rutka had been making cash disbursements to the Dominican Republic, but that was the only D.R.
Zenck seemed to know. Maybe Jay Gladu would know who or what D.R. was.
I said, 'Nathan, I'm going to get up and leave now and you are going to utter a deep sigh of relief. I'm not going to notify the police or the Zantek Corporation of your sleazy practices-not, that is, unless I return for additional information and you refuse to give me what I want. In that case, I'll destroy you. Also, if I ever learn that you are once again spying on any of your guests, as you did for John Rutka, I will do everything within my power to smash your career in hospitality and guest accommodations to little tiny bits and pieces. You'll be an assistant towel boy by the pool at the Surf 'n' Smurf until you're collecting Social Security. Do you understand what I'm saying?'
He glowered up at me. Now he's going to call me a bitch, I thought, but the moment passed and he didn't. He stood up, opened the door to the corridor, and said, 'Good night!'
'Don't forget my warning, you weasel,' I said, and shoved the door shut in his face. The shouted word was just barely audible through the thick door, but I could make it out. end user
17
I phoned Sandifer from the Parmalee Plaza lobby and asked him if he would like to spend the night at our place again. He said no, a friend from New York had come up; the two of them would stay at the house in Handbag and he would be okay. He sounded less desperate than he had been earlier in the day, and I was relieved to hear it.
Jay Gladu's number was unlisted. I phoned the Fountain of Eden on Route 5 between Albany and Schenectady. The desk clerk wouldn't tell me Gladu's home phone number but said I could leave a message, which I declined to do. I asked when Gladu was likely to show up in person and was told between nine and ten in the morning. This was probably to pick up the overnight receipts.
I reached Bub Bailey at his office in Handbag. He said, 'How's your investigation going, Mr. Strachey?'
' 'Investigation' is too grand a word for it, Chief, but I'm doing what little asking around I can.'
'That's nice of you. Have you been able to pick up anything yet?'
'Nothing to speak of. How about you? I missed the six o'clock news tonight.'
'I have had one piece of good luck,' Bailey said mildly. 'Two of my officers were combing the driveway area of the Rutka house and they came up with something the abductor may have left behind-a piece of a mud flap from his car. It broke off somehow, or was ripped off, and my officers came across it. It's not from Rutka's car, and Edward Sandifer says no other cars have parked in the driveway to his knowledge. Most park at curbside. So this may be our first real break.'
'Can you tell what kind of car it came from?'
'Big, probably American, maybe GM or Chrysler. That's as close as we can get. I'm not making news of the mud flap public, and I'm sure you can understand why. The killer would simply replace his damaged flap and we'd be back where we started. And I can't ask every department in the capital district to go crawling around under all the big American cars looking at mud flaps. That wouldn't make me too popular. But I wanted you to know.'
'Thank you, Chief.'
'One of my officers will be in Albany this evening and if you'd like, he could stick a photocopy of the mud flap slice in your mailbox-just in case.'
'That can't hurt. Thanks.' I gave him my street address.
'The bad news is,' Bailey said, 'that the state lab couldn't find any fingerprints on the note left at the fire scene. Whoever wrote it was being very careful. And the only prints on John's wallet were his own. This all fits in with what we already know about the killer-that he seems to be cold-blooded and methodical.'
I said, 'I guess I'm not surprised. It seems as though you're looking for someone who's been so unhinged by John's outing campaign that he'll actually kill for revenge, but not so unhinged he wasn't able to go about it in a businesslike way.'
'It would certainly help,' Bailey said, 'if I could get hold of those files John kept. Edward Sandifer says they were sent to Utica for safekeeping but he claims he doesn't know the name of the person out there who has them.'
'I'm sure he'd give you the name if he had it, Chief. Eddie wants John's killer caught more than anybody.'
'Well, he did give me a list of people who threatened John, and I'm piecing together what I can with copies of Cityscape and Queerscreed and through interviews. Plus, I'm picking up the odd unsolicited tip here and there. I've had two anonymous phone calls, for instance, telling me I'd better check out this Bruno Slinger and find out where he was last night at the time of the abduction and murder. I drove down to the capitol this afternoon and Mr. Slinger wasn't too happy to see me. He had the gall to tell me that he had an alibi for yesterday evening but it was none of my business what it was and I'd just have to take his word for it that he had nothing to do with the murder.'
'That sounds like Bruno. He works for a very powerful man, and he sees himself as a kind of prince.'
'Since I have no other evidence beyond the anonymous calls and the unsubstantiated allegation that Mr. Slinger threatened John several months ago,' Bailey said, 'there's nothing more I can do with him at this point. We discreetly located and checked the mud flap on his car, and the mud flap section found at the Rutka house was not Mr. Slinger's. But if I can come up with anything else on him at all, I'll see what I can do to get him in and depose him. You wouldn't have any information on Mr. Slinger that you're holding back, would you, Mr. Strachey?'
'Chief, I wish I did. I mean, not that I'd hold it back. I just wish I knew anything that could help out, and that I could pass along.'
A silence. This guy had my number-had had it for probably twenty-four hours.
I said, 'Anyway, I'll keep in touch.'
'I'm counting on that,' he said, and it began to dawn on me that that was exactly what he was doing, counting on me.
I phoned the house and Timmy was out-probably, I figured, at Albany Med. I punched in the code and listened to the single message that had been left on my machine. A male voice I did not recognize, and that I was reasonably certain I had never heard, said, 'If you want to find out who killed John Rutka, ask Bruno Slinger who he was with last night.' Click. That was all.
At first I was irritated. I was weary of all the secrecy and duplicity and dreary bitchery and I was also fed up with people like Nathan Zenck who seemed to deserve all the secrecy and duplicity and dreary bitchery. And my first impulse was to dismiss the call, as well as the anonymous calls Bub Bailey had received, as useless backstabbing-one or more of Bruno Slinger's hundreds of enemies setting him up to be harassed and humiliated in public.
Then it occurred to me, why was I receiving an anonymous call? Word could not have spread far that I was working on the case and it seemed likely that only truly knowledgeable people would know that I was the man to call with a hot tip.
Plus, something about the caller's words made me wonder. He hadn't said, 'Slinger did it-I saw him,' or 'Slinger's the killer he'll confess under torture.' The caller had said, 'If you want to find out who killed John Rutka, ask Bruno Slinger who he was with last night.' As if Slinger hadn't done it, but somehow he could provide the key to who had done it by telling me who he'd been with while the murder was taking place. Slinger wasn't the key, but his alibi was.
Or maybe this was just more duplicity. I'd have to find out.
Slinger was unlisted in the Albany phone book, though I knew where he lived on Chestnut Street, around the corner from our place on Crow. I phoned a friend of Timmy's in the legislature who I knew would have Slinger's home number, and he gave it to me on the condition that I not mention where I'd gotten it. I dialed.
'Yes?'
