Part 14 (1/2)

”Why is life amazing?”

”Why did you become a lab a.s.sistant?”

”It's where the action is, isn't it? I mean the men doing this work are the modern giants, aren't they? At least I thought so. There's a lot of teeny-weenies out there.”

”What are your connections with organized crime, Miss Tangent?”

She did miss half a beat on that one. She shook her head.

”You can talk to me, Miss Tangent, or we can involve the Seaboard Police Department directly. I'm sure you know the drill, the interrogation, the fingerprinting, the surveillance...”

A different Celeste looked at me, as though with a loathing that had been there all the time. ”What do you want to know?”

”What was Professor Ossmann working on that would interest Moshe ben Rovich?”

”Moe? Big Moe? Moe Rovich? You gotta be kidding. n.o.body's seen Moe in years. They say he sleeps with the gefilte fish.”

She was a good actress, but I didn't find her convincing. I had to conceal the sudden excitement of having hit a raw nerve. She overplayed it. She went on, elaborating when she didn't have to.

”Big Moe. Yeah, he used to hang around the Crazy Russian all the time. You'd think he owned the joint.”

”He did own the joint, Miss Tangent.”

”Really. n.o.body ever told me.”

”He also owned the Caucasian Escort Service.”

”Yeah, that doesn't surprise me. The guy was always using the escorts, sometimes two at a time.”

”You have something in common, then, don't you.”

As Mr. Shakur would have put it, she blew her cool at that remark. ”Listen, Mr. Little Mustache, I don't have to take this s.h.i.+t from you. I know guys who could buy and sell you all day long and stick you in a hole at the end of it.”

I nodded. ”Perhaps if you would tell me what guys, we could be of help to you, Miss Tangent.”

She stood up. ”It's the other way around, pal. Take my advice. Pretend you never saw that little tape you probably keep around for jacking off. Pretend we never had this conversation. I'm doing you a favor. You can regard this as a health warning.”

And with that she flounced her admirable behind out of the office, leaving the door open for dramatic effect.

Lieutenant Tracy and I met for an hour in the late afternoon going over each interview in detail. We came up with what might be called ”degrees of complicity.” Miss Tangent had indirectly admitted, with her threats to me, that something very untoward was or had been happening in the Genetics Lab. We surmised that Dr. Penrood was in some manner implicated, but to what extent we could not quite determine.

At one level we found it maddening that we had no real evidence pertaining to a solution of the Ossmann-Woodley murders, if that's what they are. At the same time, we knew for sure that a conspiracy of sorts existed in the Genetics Lab, and we knew at least two of the princ.i.p.als involved in it. I mentioned Diantha's observation about the potential illegal market for a powerful aphrodisiac. ”Exactly,” the lieutenant said. ”That's exactly what I think is happening.”

On another matter, he informed me that the SPD had received a lot of pressure to tell everything it knows about the disappearance of Korky k.u.mmerbund and the reappearance of his column in a way that amounts to a kind of sick parody. Both the SPD and Don Patcher of the Bugle Bugle have kept mute on the subject, leading to wider and wider speculation. I hate to say it, but I'm grateful to both of them that they have kept my name and the museum's out of it. have kept mute on the subject, leading to wider and wider speculation. I hate to say it, but I'm grateful to both of them that they have kept my name and the museum's out of it.

But Celeste Tangent. I must confess that I keep thinking about her. I don't believe I've ever met a woman more palpably s.e.xual. It wasn't just her looks, but a sense that she is, in her hour-to-hour life, a hair trigger away from amorous initiation or response. I have now watched that video clip with her and the two researchers several times, telling myself, of course, that I was looking for some detail that might help with the case.

Just last night, when I knew Elsbeth was asleep and thought Diantha had gone to a movie, I was about halfway through it when the latter came into my old study where we have the enormous television. I hit the STOP STOP b.u.t.ton, and the unmistakable image stayed on the screen. b.u.t.ton, and the unmistakable image stayed on the screen.

She took a long look and laughed, ”Oh, wow, a real menage a t.w.a.t menage a t.w.a.t. So you're into amateurs, huh? I do think it's better than the professional stuff, you know, where the bimbos fake like they're really into it.”

”Actually, it's evidence,” I said, regaining my composure. ”The man being f.e.l.l.a.t.ed is Professor Ossmann.”

”The one who got murdered?”

”Yes.” I hit the PLAY PLAY b.u.t.ton. b.u.t.ton.

”Too cool. So you're not just getting your jollies.”

Or was I? I sat there, my heart in a wringer, reminding myself that Diantha was my daughter, my stepdaughter, it's true, but still my daughter, as she sat next to me on the couch and as l.u.s.t, in all its confusing eddies, swirled around in me.

26.

I have had some good news that's shocking in its own way. Lieutenant Tracy phoned this morning to tell me that Korky k.u.mmerbund, in a state of near starvation and in considerable disorientation, was found staggering along a back road in Worthington State Park, some twenty-five miles north of Seaboard. I called Elsbeth immediately and gave her the good news, although lately she has been in such a weakened state, I'm not sure she understood the import of what I told her.

And what a different human being I found when I walked into Seaboard General, where they took Korky for tests and recovery. He recognized me, lifted his hand to shake mine, and said, ”How's Elsbeth?” His concern touched me nearly to tears, and I sat by his bed, rea.s.suring the nurse that I would not stay long.

”You're safe now, Korky,” I told him. ”The worst is over.”

He nodded. ”The worst thing was...the music.”

”Music? I thought you said it was noise on a loop?”

He nodded, and a look of horror crossed his wasted face. ”They played it twenty-four hours a day, over and over.”

”What was it?”

He wavered a moment, as though reaching inwardly for courage. ”Stockhausen,” he managed. Then, ”Cage.” Then, ”And the dodecaphonic works of Schoenberg. Over and over.”

”You poor man,” I said. ”From the unspeakable to the unfortunate.”

I was still trying to comfort him when Lieutenant Tracy showed up with Sergeant Lemure in tow. The sergeant scowled at me, but the lieutenant asked me to stay.

He conducted his interrogation with an incisiveness and gentleness I found to be the epitome of investigative professionalism. In a halting voice, Korky told us that he indeed had gone to the White Trash Grill to meet a friend. When asked what friend, he replied, ”Any friend.”

”You mean a pickup?” the sergeant put in rather bluntly.

Korky nodded.

”Did you meet anyone?” the lieutenant asked.

Korky nodded again.