Part 3 (2/2)
Kent shook his head. ”I can get it for you.”
Thinnes nodded. ”Tell me about Bisti.”
”He was talented.” As if that summed him up. There was a plaintive quality to the statement.
”He have any enemies?”
”I don't know. One, apparently.”
”Arguments with anyone lately?”
”Not that I know of.”
Thinnes had seen every imaginable reaction to violent death in his years as a cop, from paralyzing depression to hysterical laughter at the mention of the deceased's name. So he didn't attach much significance to Kent's apparent lack of emotion.
”How did you come to work for Bisti?”
”Lauren-his wife-introduced us. She knew I had money to invest and sold me on the idea that the work of an undiscovered genius would be a profitable way to invest it. When David got big enough to incorporate, he offered to cut me in if I'd take over the business end of things. It was a very nice arrangement.”
”Hear about his run-in with Harrison Wingate?”
”No.”
”Why was Wingate invited?”
”d.a.m.ned if I know.”
He was lying. Why? Thinnes said, ”How'd Bisti get on with his wife?”
”Very well. He adored her.”
”How'd she feel about him?”
”The feeling was mutual, as far as I know.”
”He cheat on her?”
Kent looked startled, as if he'd never thought of it. ”I don't think he'd do that.”
”But you can't be sure.”
”I was his partner, not his confessor.”
”Are you and Mrs. Bisti close?”
Kent scowled. ”We weren't involved, if that's what you're getting at. Lauren idolized David.”
”Who would stand to benefit from his death?”
”d.a.m.ned if I know!”
Thinnes waited.
Finally, Kent said, ”I suppose his paintings will appreciate in value now that there won't be any more, but he wasn't Pica.s.so.” He shook his head. ”It doesn't make any sense.”
”How was business?”
”Very good. Until tonight. I mean...” For the first time he showed signs of losing control. ”We had a little insurance but-Christ!-David was the business. You can't just go out and buy another artist.”
Half an hour later, Viernes came in and held up a pile of notes. ”This is all those who didn't see anything, didn't hear anything, and don't have a clue about who done it. I sent 'em home.” He handed Thinnes a second, smaller pile. ”This is all those who won't say a thing until they talk to their lawyers.” He hooked his thumb toward the much-smaller crowd. ”They're all yours.” He held up one more piece of paper. ”This one knows who did it but he won't talk to anyone but the chief.”
Thinnes took the paper. ”He'll talk to me. Send him in.”
The man Viernes showed into the office was in his sixties, five ten, 190 pounds, with silver hair and faded blue eyes. He was clean shaven and well dressed. He looked carefully at Thinnes, then around the room. ”You're not the chief of detectives.”
”No. I'm the detective in charge of this case.”
”I have to talk to the chief.”
”On this investigation, I'm him, Mr...” Thinnes looked at the paper Viernes had given him. ”Roth.” When Roth didn't respond immediately, he added, ”I don't have time for games. You told the detective you know who killed Mr. Bisti. By refusing to tell us what you know, you're obstructing justice.”
Roth thought about that. ”If I tell you, you'll pa.s.s it on to the chief of detectives?”
Thinnes sighed inwardly but kept up a perfectly neutral front. Why did these cases always bring the nuts out of the woods? ”I'll do what I can, Mr. Roth.”
Roth nodded. ”I read a great deal. I've read Freud in the original German. And I've read a great many true-crime stories and police procedurals. I know about these things. Mr. Bisti was stabbed, was he not?”
”I'm not at liberty to divulge that information. If you know anything, let's have it.”
”Such impatience.” Roth shook his head. ”I know that most murders are committed by family members or acquaintances of the victim. Indoor murders, that is. Outdoor murders are, sadly, most often committed by psychopaths or drunks. Well, some indoor murders are committed by inebriated persons, but no one here fits that description. So the murderer must have been his wife.”
By the time they'd interviewed everyone, Thinnes felt like lying down. His stamina seemed to have been cut out with the two and a half feet of gut they'd removed last summer repairing the gunshot wound.
The whole story was pretty routine-n.o.body saw anything. n.o.body knew anything. No one could even imagine who would want to kill a nice man like the victim.
There were too many whose alibi was ”I didn't do it” or ”If I'd done it, wouldn't I be all b.l.o.o.d.y?” The relative absence of blood was no help. Bisti had bled to death into his lungs. Until his wife moved the body, there was virtually no external bleeding, and it would have been possible for anyone to wrap a napkin or two around the handle of the knife before wielding it. No one would've noticed. Thinnes had long since ceased to be amazed by how un.o.bservant people are.
He'd have to talk to the alarm people and check on whoever serviced the system last-see if there was any way of circ.u.mventing the alarm on the fire door. He made a note to get the security tapes. No camera on the murder scene-no such luck-but he'd noticed the elevator and the fire exit were covered.
It was almost a cla.s.sic puzzle-man killed in an otherwise empty room, no one seen leaving, no one with blood on himself. And the only ones known to have had a beef with the deceased weren't around at the time. Nearly all the suspects were people from Who's Who, like some bizarre American version of a cla.s.sical mystery. Agatha Christie in Chicago. If it had been anybody else's case, it would have been hysterically funny.
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