'Well, Henry, that little job was taken care of this morning,' Piaggi told him. 'Nice and clean.'
'They didn't leave -'
'Henry, they were two pros, okay? They did the job and now they're back home, couple hundred miles away. They didn't leave anything behind except for the two bodies.' The phone report had been very clear on that. It had been an easy job, since neither target had expected anything.
'Then that's that,' Tucker observed with satisfaction. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a fat envelope. He handed it to Piaggi, who had fronted the money himself, good partner that he was.
'With Eddie out of the way, and with that leak plugged, things ought to go back to normal.' Best twenty grand I ever spent, Henry thought.
'Henry, the other girls?' Piaggi pointed out. 'You've got a real business now. People inside like them are dangerous. Take care of it, okay?' He pocketed the envelope and left the table.
'Twenty- two's, back of the head, both of 'em,' the Pittsburgh detective reported over the phone. 'We've dusted the whole house -nothing. The flower box - nothing. The truck - nothing. The truck was stolen sometime last night - this morning, whatever. The florist has eight of them. Hell, we recovered it before the all-points was on the air. It was wise guys, had to be. Too smooth, too clean for local talent. No word on the street. They're probably out of town already. Two people saw the truck. One woman saw two guys walking to the door. She figured it was a flower delivery, and besides she was across the street half a block away. No description, nothing. She doesn't even remember what color they were.'
Ryan and Douglas were listening on the same line, and their eyes met every few seconds. They knew it all from the tone of the man's voice. The sort of case that policemen hate and fear. No immediately apparent motive, no witnesses, no usable evidence. Nowhere to start and nowhere to go. The routine was as predictable as it was futile. They'd pump the neighbors for information, but it was a working-class neighborhood, and few had been at home at the time. People noticed mainly the unusual, and a flower truck wasn't unusual enough to attract the inquiring look that developed into a physical description. Committing the perfect murder wasn't really all that demanding, a secret known within the fraternity of detectives and belied by a whole body of literature that made them into superhuman beings they never claimed to be, even among themselves in a cop bar. Someday the case might be broken. One of the killers might be caught for something else and cop to this one in order to get a deal. Less likely, someone would talk about it, bragging in front of an informant who'd pass it along to someone else, but in either case it would take time and the trail, cold as it already was, would grow colder still. It was the most frustrating part of the business of police work. Truly innocent people had died, and there was no one to speak for them, to avenge their deaths, and other cases would come up, and the cops would set this one aside for something fresher, and from time to time someone would reopen the file and look things over, then put it back in the Unsolved drawer, where it would grow thicker only because of the forms that announced that there was still nothing new on the case.
It was even worse for Ryan and Douglas. Yet again there had been a possible link that might open up two of their Unsolved files. Everyone would care about Raymond and Doris Brown. They'd had friends and neighbors, evidently a good minister. They'd be missed, and people would think what a shame it was... But the files on Ryan's desk were for people about whom no one but police officers cared, and somehow that only made it worse because someone should mourn for the dead, not just cops who were paid to do so. Worse still, it was yet another?? in a string of homicides that were somehow linked, but not in a way that made any sense. This was not their Invisible Man. Yes, the weapon had been a.22, but he'd had a chance to kill the innocent twice. He'd spared Virginia Charles, and he had somehow gone dangerously far out of his way to spare Doris Brown. He had saved her from Farmer and Grayson, probably, and someone else -...
'Detective,' Ryan asked, 'what was the condition of Doris's body?'
'What do you mean?'
It seemed an absurd question even as his mind formed it, but the man on the other end of the line would understand. 'What was her physical condition?'
'The autopsy is tomorrow, Lieutenant. She was neatly dressed, all cleaned up, hair was nice, she looked pretty decent.' Except for the two holes in the back of her head, the man didn't have to add.
Douglas read his lieutenant's mind and nodded. Somebody took the time to get her well. That was a starting place.
'I'd appreciate it if you could send me anything that might be useful. It'll work both ways,' Ryan assured him.
'Some guy went way out of his way to murder them. We don't see many like this. I don't like it very much.' the detective added. It was a puerile conclusion, but Ryan fully understood. How else did you say it, after all?
It was called a safe house, and it was indeed safe. Located on a hundred rolling acres in the Virginia hills, there was on the estate a stately house and a twelve-stall stable half-occupied with hunter-jumpers. The title for the house showed a name, but that person owned another place nearby and leased this one to the Central Intelligence Agency - actually to a shadow corporation that existed only as a piece of paper and a post-office box - because he'd served his time in OSS, and besides, the money was right. Nothing unusual from the outside, but a more careful inspection might show that the doors and doorframes were steel, the windows unusually thick and strong, and sealed. It was as secure from outside assault and from an internal attempt at escape as a maximum-security prison, just a lot more pleasant to behold.
Grishanov found clothing to wear, and shaving things that worked but with which he couldn't harm himself. The bathroom mirror was steel, and the cup in the holder was paper. The couple that managed the house spoke passable Russian and were just as pleasant as they could be, already briefed on the nature of their new guest - they were more accustomed to defectors, though all their visitors were 'protected' by a team of four security guards inside who came when they had 'company,' and two more who lived full-time in the caretaker's house close to the stables.
Not unusually, their guest was out of synch with local time, and his disorientation and unease made him talkative. They were surprised and their orders were to limit their conversations to the mundane. The lady of the house fixed breakfast, always the best meal for the jet-lagged, while her husband launched a discussion of Pushkin, delighted to find that, like many Russians, Grishanov was a serious devotee of poetry. The security guard leaned against the doorframe, just to keep an eye on things.
'The things I have to do, Sandy -'
'John, I understand,' she told him quietly. Both were surprised at how strong her voice was, how determined. 'I didn't before, but I do now.'
'When I was over there' - was it only three days before? -'I thought about you. I need to thank you,' he told her.
'What for?'
Kelly looked down at the kitchen table. 'Hard to explain. It's scary, the things I do. It helps when you have somebody to think about. Excuse me - I don't mean -' Kelly stopped. He did, actually, mean that. The mind wanders when alone, and his had wandered.
Sandy took his hand and smiled in a gentle way. 'I used to be afraid of you.'
'Why?' he asked with considerable surprise.
'Because of the things you do.'
'I'd never hurt you,' he said without looking up, yet more miserable now that she had felt the need to fear him.
'I know that now.'
Despite her words, Kelly felt a need to explain himself. He wanted her to understand, not realizing that she already did. How to do it? Yes, he killed people, but only for a reason. How had he come to be what he was? Training was part of it, the rigorous months spent at Coronado, the time and effort spent to inculcate automatic responses, more deadly still, to learn patience. Along with that had somehow come a new way of seeing things - and then, actually seeing them and seeing the reasons why killing sometimes had to be. Along with the reasons had come a code, a modification, really, of what he'd learned from his father. His actions had to have a purpose, usually assigned by others, but his mind was agile enough to make its own decisions, to fit his code into a different context, to apply it with care - but to apply it. A product of many things, he sometimes surprised himself with what he was. Someone had to try, and he most often was best suited to -
'You love too much, John,' she said. 'You're like me.'
