Part 27 (1/2)

”Curing?”

”War.” His gaze lingered on the worn hem of James's coat, on the practically threadbare thighs of his trousers. ”And fighting it on one's own terms.”

In that instant James wanted nothing more than to pull up a chair and talk, to this man or even to his dog, about the difficulty of coming up with excuses to get out of working protection for a gambling joint or collecting the department's take from a cathouse, about Helen and baby John, about the cold seeping up through the tape around his shoe.

He didn't, of course. He could not bare his soul to another; men didn't do that. And he had some concerns about the tenants of 4950 Pullman. The first two bodies had been found on the slope outside, only a few hundred feet to the west of this building. The man in the blue coat might have come to Corliss looking for work. And Flo Polillo had tended bar at Mike's. ”About a job with the railroad, I didn't ask for myself. I am trying to retrace the steps of a man who might have come here looking for work as a mechanic.”

A young man with tousled dark locks and a pencil behind one ear bounced in through the door behind James. ”Got the grub?”

Corliss held out a sandwich. ”Here you go, Mr. Metetsky. Though you know it's a crime to eat corned beef on anything but rye.”

”So you say. Did your housekeeper send any biscuits today? No? What a pity.” The architect plucked the wrapped food from the man's hand. Then he bounced back out, but not before taking in James's form from the softened hat to the shoelaces mended in three spots. He said nothing, though, and merely added over his shoulder to Corliss, ”I'll settle up later, okay?”

”I doubt I'll ever see it,” Corliss said to James. ”He's a bit of a chizz, that one. Hasn't learned that those who fail to contribute their share fail in their very humanity.”

”Young men are often careless.” James pulled out his notebook. ”The man I'm tr-”

”But there's no excuse, in his case. He earns a good amount of money at his trade. What I paid them in design fees for this building alone could buy a year of sandwiches.” Corliss continued to stare at the door as if waiting for the young man to return, and with sufficient coinage this time.

The dog decided to scratch, sending a shower of its yellow hairs onto the floor beneath the radiator. The sound distracted his master.

”Well, young men, as you say.” Corliss sliced part of the meal off for himself. ”They thrill at nothing so much as getting away with something. Who did you say you were looking for?”

James explained about the man in the blue coat. ”He may have come here inquiring about work as a mechanic. It would have been late spring, early summer. June, probably, perhaps July.”

”Six months ago? Detective, I get ten men a week begging for work, any work. And those are the skilled ones-the rest apply at the station and never get to me. I'm sorry, but I can't possibly remember-”

”He did have skill-he might have been a mechanical supervisor. And this is the coat.” James pulled out the color photograph he had hounded the Bertillon unit into making for him, insisting that the style of the coat would not stick in people's minds, that it became memorable only with the color.

Corliss took the photo with one hand, holding his sandwich in the other. He peered at the blue coat. He set down the sandwich. The hand holding the photo began to quake, very slightly, yet his expression did not change, the helpful curve of his lips still in place.

Louis Odessa appeared in the doorway. ”I forgot to get my lunch. You still here, Detective?”

James made no reply, and Odessa didn't seem to care. He picked up his parcel and, unlike the young architect, left his share of the bill on Corliss's desk blotter. Corliss watched him approach, take, and leave, without saying a word.

Then he held the photo out to James. ”I've never seen this. Nor do I recall the man you describe. I'm sorry I can't help you, Detective.”

”Are you sure?”

”Quite sure, I'm afraid. I have a fairly good memory for people-not perfect, of course, but good.” He held out the wrapped corned beef.

”Here, give this to your partner. You'll need it to lure him from Auralina's charms.”

Still stuffed from their restaurant rounds, Walter showed a rare indifference to the food but willingly departed from the medium. Apparently she had a habit of talking money more than sweet flirtations, and Walter didn't care for conquests with an entrepreneurial bent. ”Did you show him your little picture?”

”Yep.”

”What'd he say?”

”Didn't ring a bell.”

”Big surprise there. n.o.body would remember some b.u.m's coat from six months ago. Well, you would, but n.o.body else.” They got in the car and began its sliding ascent toward East Fifty-fifth.

”He's lying.”

”Huh?”

”He recognized that coat. It startled him. But after his buddy Dr. Louis walks in and out, then he's never seen the coat before. We always wondered how one guy carried two full-grown men down a steep hill. Do you think there could be two of them, working together?”

”I think your imagination is working overtime, that's what I think.”

James wrote Corliss lying in his notebook and circled the second word in heavy pencil.

CHAPTER 35.

FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 10.

PRESENT DAY.

They drove separately. Frank might have to leave the crime scene at some point to chase down a witness or a lead and Theresa hoped to need the supply of equipment she kept in her trunk. But it also forestalled any conversation.

Perhaps this was just as well. There was nothing she could think of to say that would not sound condescending. She could not tell Frank that their grandfather had loved him as well, because he knew that. She could not tell him that their grandfather had beamed for days after Frank's graduation from the academy, because he knew that. She could not tell him that Theresa had not been the favorite grandchild, because that was not true.

So she would say nothing at all.

Now she drove through the dying light, leaving the Cuyahoga River behind, following the access road to the RTA station and administrative offices. The task force would meet up there, the only place in the valley where cars coming and going would not seem like unusual activity, and it had parking to boot. Frank had suggested they use the building at 4950 Pullman, but Theresa had vetoed him in the hope that their copycat might consider it some sort of shrine and stop in to pay his respects. Cops were secreted in the woods and at the electrical station to keep an eye on it.

She drove past the slope where she had found the two dead men, starting for a moment when her headlights caught a pair of glowing eyes. Racc.o.o.n. She patted her chest, drove under the East Fifty-fifth bridge, and found the employee parking lot.

RTA had loaned them a conference room and set up a number of monitors with feeds from their station platform cameras. All three transit lines-Red, Blue, and Green-pa.s.sed through the East Fifty-fifth station. This might make a getaway easier, or it might not, as the Red Line boarded from the west end of the building and the other two lines at the opposite. At this time of day a train left at least every fifteen minutes. To use them as transportation with cops in pursuit, the killer would have to employ split-second timing and the driver could easily be radioed to stop the train at any point. Theresa figured their killer was smarter than that.

Frank went over the facts of the original case. Angela Sanchez had Theresa use a map to point out the locations of the original body.

”This is guesswork to a large degree,” she warned the men. ”But I believe they found the head-wrapped in pants, so it might not be immediately obvious-south of the tracks roughly between Fifty-fifth and Kinsman. Directly across from this building, in fact. They found the head just east of the Fifty-fifth bridge, but between the sets of tracks. Those are my calculations, made with case studies and Google Earth. The killer might come to different conclusions, so we need sharp eyes at least a half mile west of Fifty-fifth as well, level with the building on Pullman.”