Part 33 (2/2)
”Thinnes, I got six calls this week from people in high places,” Rossi said, ”wanting to know when we're gonna solve this Downtown Indian murder.”
Only six? Thinnes thought.
”The commander wants to know. The chief wants to know, and so do I.”
”You read my reports. What more do you want me to do?”
”Find the f.u.c.kin' killer!”
Half an hour later, the sergeant handed Thinnes a handful of telephone-message slips. ”Thinnes,” he said, ”I got good news for you and some bad news.”
Thinnes glanced toward Rossi's office. ”I could use some good news.”
”The good news is, they matched the sh.e.l.l casing found at your Uptown Indian scene with the gun District Three took off Elvis Hale.”
”That's nice. What's the bad news?”
”Hale's escaped.”
Thinnes shook his head. ”How'd that happen?”
”He took some other prisoner's court call and got let out on an I-bond. Just walked away.”
”Why doesn't that surprise me?”
Thinnes hung up the phone and sighed and told Oster, ”Wingate's secretary says her boss is out of town-indefinitely. And Kent's lawyer-I'm sorry, attorney-is gonna sue me for everything I've got if I don't stop hara.s.sing his clients.”
Oster laughed and hitched a thumb toward an interview room. ”Maybe we should start calling 'em hara.s.sment rooms.”
”Kent and Wingate are in cahoots, but good luck proving it.”
”Kent and Wingate,” Oster repeated thoughtfully. ”There's a match made in heaven.”
”Where?”
”You know what I mean-Kent's got the product. Wingate the buyers.”
”The sixty-four-thousand-dollar question is, does Wingate know what they're really peddling?”
Sixty-Five.
Caleb stopped at the Margolis Gallery to give Anita the cymbidium he'd gotten her for Christmas. It wasn't as unique or expensive as Bisti's painting, but he knew it would please her. ”Carlos said you could bring it back and exchange it for something else when it stops blooming,” he told her.
”I'll let him board it for me until it blooms again, but I won't give it up. It's lovely.”
”What are you doing Christmas Eve?”
”I was hoping you'd ask me out.”
”Would you join me for dinner?”
”I'd be delighted. By the way, I came across the name of someone else who sells dubious artifacts, if you're still interested...”
”I want something for Christmas,” Caleb told the man. ”Maybe something Anasazi. I'm willing to pay a premium.”
”I haven't got anything right now.”
”I'd be willing to pay a broker's fee if you could give me a name.”
”All I have is an address.”
”That's a start.”
The address was a Gold Coast high-rise. It was late in the evening by the time Caleb got there. The doorman was just turning a shabbily dressed man away from the door. He greeted Caleb quite differently.
Since he didn't know who he was looking for, Caleb tried the absentminded-professor routine. ”A friend of a friend's,” he said vaguely. ”I'm so stupid. I left home without the name. And there's no one home I can call to ask.” He waved his hands as if to conjure up the name. ”Native American art, pots and-”
”You must mean Mr. Wingate.”
”That's him. Is he home, by any chance?”
”No. Sorry. Maybe you ought to phone first next time.”
Caleb nodded as if he found the advice profound. ”I'll do that, of course. Thank you.”
When he got into his car, he phoned Thinnes's pager.
The vagrant Caleb had noticed when he arrived was still loitering near the entrance to the building's parking garage, where the doorman couldn't see him. There was enough light for Caleb to notice something familiar about him, so he looked more closely as he got in the Jaguar. The man looked just like Elvis Presley!
Caleb realized he had to be the Elvis Thinnes was looking for-Elvis Hale-and Hale apparently realized, simultaneously, that he'd been noticed.
He stepped closer until he stood just forward of Caleb's door and said, ”What the f.u.c.k are you looking at?” Then he reached under his coat and drew out a gun. It was a loaded revolver. He pointed the weapon at Caleb's head. ”Park it.”
Caleb put the gears.h.i.+ft in neutral and set the parking brake.
”Open the door!”
He did.
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