phone. 'I've checked and I've checked and there's nobody with me. I guarantee it. But I'm going out the back and down the alley. I'll be at your place sixty seconds after I hang up here. Buzz me in…'
'Man, if anybody sees you…'
'I know, but I'm wearing a hat and a jacket and sunglasses, and I'll make sure the lobby's empty before I come in. If you're ready for my buzz… I'll come up the stairs. Have the door open.'
'All right. If you're sure…'
'I'm sure, but I need you to say yes, he's the one.'
Bekker hung up and looked around. Was he being watched? He wasn't sure, but he didn't think so. The woman customer was using the phone now, paying no attention to him. An elderly man was going through the check-out with a can of coffee, and the only other people in sight were store employees.
He'd taken a quick trip around the store once before he picked up the phone. There was an exit sign by the dairy case…
He got a pushcart and started to the back of the store, checking the other customers. But you couldn't tell, could you? At the dairy case, he waited until he was alone, then left the cart and walked straight out a swinging door under the exit sign. He found himself in a storage area that stank of rotting produce, looking at a pair of swinging metal doors. He pushed through them to a loading dock, walked briskly along the dock and down the stairs at the far end, watching the door behind him.
Nobody came through, nobody looked through. Five seconds later he was in the alley that ran along the back of the store. He hurried down the length of the block, around the corner, another hundred feet and into the outer lobby of Druze's apartment building. He pushed the button on Druze's mailbox, got an instant answering buzz, pulled open the inner door and was inside. Elevator straight ahead, stairs through the door to the right. He took the stairs two at a time, checked the hallway and hustled down to Druze's apartment. The door was open and he pushed through.
'God damn, Mike…' Druze's face was normally as unreadable as a pumpkin. Now he looked stressed, uncharacteristic vertical lines creasing the patchwork skin of his forehead. He was wearing a tired cotton sweater the color of oatmeal, and pants with pleats. His hands were in his pockets.
'Is this him?' Bekker thrust the photo of Philip George at Druze.
Druze looked at it, carried it to a light, looked closer, his lower lip thrust out. 'Huh.'
'It must be him,' Bekker said. 'He fits: he's blond, he's heavy-he's even heavier in real life than he is in that picture. That photo must be four or five years old. And he wasn't in any of the other photos. And Stephanie was calling him secretly from New York.'
Druze finally nodded. 'It could be. It looks like him. But the guy at the house, I just saw him like that.' Druze snapped his fingers.
'It must be him,' Bekker said eagerly.
'Yeah. Yeah, I think it is. Give him a couple of more years… Yeah.'
'God damn, Carlo,' Bekker crowed, his beautiful face absolutely radiant. He caught Druze around the neck with the crook of his elbow and squeezed him down, a jocklike hug, and Druze felt the pleasure of approval flush through his stomach. Druze had never had a friend… 'God damn, we beat the police.'
'So now what?' Druze asked. He felt himself smiling: What an odd feeling, a real smile.
Bekker let him go. 'I've got to get out of here and think. I'll figure something out. Tonight, after your show, come up to my office. Even if they're watching me, they won't be inside the building. Call me before you leave and I'll come down and let you in at that side door by the ramp. If you look like you're unlocking the door, they'd never suspect…'
Philip George.
Bekker worried the problem all the way back to the hospital. They had to get to George quickly. He stopped at the secretary's desk in the departmental office.
'Lucy, do you have a class schedule?'
'I think…' The secretary pulled open a filing cabinet and dug through it, and finally produced a yellow pamphlet. She handed it to him. 'Could you bring it back, it's the only one…'
'Sure,' he said distractedly, flipping through the schedule. Pain flared in his hand, and he stopped and looked at it more carefully. He should bandage it…
'Lucy?' He went back to the secretary's desk. 'Do we have any big Band-Aids around here? I've burned my thumb…'
'I think…' The secretary dug through her desk, found a box of bandages. 'Let me see… Oh my God, Dr. Bekker, how did you do this…?'
He let her bandage it, then walked down the corridor to his office, unlocked it and settled behind his desk. Law school, George… he glanced at his watch. One-thirty. George: Basic Torts, MWF 1:10-3:00.
He would be in class. Bekker picked up the phone, called the law school office and twittered at the woman who answered: 'Phil George? In class? I see,' he said, putting disappointment in his voice. 'This is a friend of his over at Hamline, I'm just leaving town, terrible rush, we were supposed to meet one of these nights, and I'm trying to get my schedule together… Do you know if he has classes or night meetings the rest of the week?… No, I can't really wait, I've got a seminar starting right now, and it runs late, then I've got a plane. Tried to call Phil's wife, nobody home… Yes, I'll hold…'
The law secretary dropped the receiver on her desk and Bekker could hear her walking away. A minute passed, then another, and then she was back: 'Yes, tomorrow night, seven to ten, he has preparation for moot court. The other nights are clear here at the school.'
'Thank you very much,' he said, still twittering. 'You've been very kind. What is your name?… Thank you very much, Nancy. Oh, by the way, where is the moot-court prep going to be?… Okay, thanks again.'
He hung up and leaned back in his chair, making a steeple of his fingers. George would be working late. That could be useful. What'd he drive? It was a red four-wheel-drive of some kind, a Jeep. He could cruise by George's house later on. He lived in Prospect Park and probably left the car in the street… • • • Druze was sure that Bekker was using, but he wasn't sure what it was. An ocean of cocaine flowed through the theater world, but Bekker wasn't a cokehead; or if he was, there was something else involved. At times he was flying, his beautiful face reflecting an inner joy, a freedom; at other times, he was dark, reptilian, calculating.
Whatever it was, it moved through him quickly. He'd been manic when Druze arrived at the hospital. Now he was like ice.
'He'll be out tomorrow night,' Bekker said. 'I know that's not much time… He drives a red Jeep Cherokee. Fire-engine red. He'll be parked behind Peik Hall.'
He explained the rest of it and Druze began shaking his head. 'Happy accident? What kind of shit is that?'
'It's the only way,' Bekker said calmly. 'If we try to pull him out, set him up, we could spook him. If he thinks we might come after him… I can't just call him, cold, and ask him to meet me down at the corner. He's got to be a little afraid-that somebody might figure him out, that the killer might come after him…'
'I just wish there was some other way,' Druze said. He looked around and realized he was in some kind of examination room. Bekker had met him at a side door, normally locked, and led him down a dimly lit hallway to a red metal door, and had opened it with a key and pulled him inside. The walls were lined with stainless-steel cabinets, a stainless cart sat against one wall, and a battery of overhead lights hung down at the center of the room. Their voices ricocheted around the room like Ping-Pong balls. The room was cold. 'It seems pretty… uncertain.'
'Look, the hardest thing to investigate is a spur-of-the-moment thing, between strangers. Like when you did that woman in New York. How can the cops find a motive, how can they find a connection? If you try to set something up, it leaves traces. If you just go there, where he is, and do it…'
'You know he'll be there?' Druze asked.
'Yes. He's got the moot court. He plays the part of the judge, he has to be there.'
'I guess it's got to be done,' Druze said, running his fingers back through his hair. 'Jesus, I don't like it. I like things that can be rehearsed. Your wife, that was no problem. This…'
'It's the best way, believe me,' Bekker said intently. 'Look for his car. It should be in the parking lot right behind the building. There's a lot of foliage around the lot-I checked. If he parks there, try to get close to the car, let the air out of one of his tires. That'll give the students time to get away from the building and it'll keep him busy changing the tire while you come up on him…'
