Part 24 (2/2)

”What does the great detective, John Reardon, think was the motive for Dwight Van Allen to kill those deer?”

”I don't know,” Reardon said, ”but I'm going to find out.”

Piccolini jumped to his feet. ”No!” he shouted. ”The people downtown are sick and tired of you meddling with the Van Allens.”

”Dwight Van Allen is a prime suspect in this case,” Reardon said.

Piccolini strode angrily around his desk to face Reardon. ”Petrakis had a motive and he was seen near the scene of the crime at approximately the time of its commission,” he said. ”He had access to the murder weapon, and his fingerprints are all over it. That's real evidence, not some idiotic hallucination by some lonely old lady who's probably crazy as h.e.l.l anyway.”

Reardon turned to leave; he had heard enough.

”That's evidence,” Piccolini repeated. ”Build a case on that. Real evidence. Physical evidence.”

Reardon stopped in the doorway, his hand on the doork.n.o.b. ”Be careful, Mario,” he said.

”About what?”

”About this case. About who did it. About avoiding a frame-up.”

Piccolini's face quickly went through phases of anger, then shock, then sadness. ”Is that what you think I'm trying to do in this case, John? Do you think I'm trying to frame Petrakis?”

”Sometimes it just happens.”

”I wouldn't do that,” Piccolini said.

Reardon looked at Piccolini and saw that he really believed himself incapable of such a thing. It was as if he was a little like Benedict Arturo, unconscious of his urges and even of the acts that flowed from there. For a moment Reardon thought of going over the entire case with Piccolini, demonstrating how each of his decisions had moved the investigation toward Petrakis. But he did not. It would only be a series of futile allegations which Piccolini would deny. Piccolini would not even have to lie to deny them, at least not to himself. Reardon did not want to talk to Piccolini anymore or be in his office ever again. ”I think I'm going to retire after this one, Mario,” he said.

Piccolini stared rigidly at Reardon. He would not, Reardon knew, try to dissuade him from early retirement, not after this.

Reardon had a witness, but he did not have a motive. And there was only one place where he could find one. He left the precinct house immediately and headed toward the Van Allen residence on Fifth Avenue. His old colleague, Steadman, was again on duty at the door.

”Is Wallace Van Allen here?” Reardon asked.

”No,” Steadman said. ”He's in Was.h.i.+ngton.”

”How about Dwight?”

”He's gone to school in Ma.s.sachusetts.” Steadman looked at Reardon curiously. ”You look beat.”

”Is Melinda Van Allen in Ma.s.sachusetts too?” Reardon asked dryly.

”No, she's in the park. In the zoo I guess.”

”Thanks,” Reardon said. He turned to leave.

Steadman grabbed his arm. ”Is she expecting you?”

Reardon pulled his arm from Steadman's grasp. ”Do you have a buzzer system in the park?” he asked irritably, and immediately felt ashamed.

”No,” Steadman said, but he smiled, almost gently, as if something told him to be kind, and Reardon felt relieved.

”Melinda's in the zoo, you think?” he said.

”Yeah.”

”Well, I'll see if I can find her.”

Melinda Van Allen was not hard to find. She was sitting on the same bench where Reardon had talked to her before, just beyond the cage of the fallow deer. She had drawn the collar of her coat up around her neck to protect her from the light breezes that darted through the park.

She looked up from a book as Reardon approached. ”h.e.l.lo,” she said brightly.

”h.e.l.lo, Miss Van Allen,” Reardon said. ”I'd like to talk to you if it's okay.”

”Sure,” Melinda replied airily. ”It's John, isn't it?”

”Yes, that's right.”

”Detective John Reardon, New York City Police Department,” she said in a deep voice with mock seriousness.

”May I sit down?”

”The park is for the people,” Melinda said.

Sometimes, Reardon thought as he sat down, the park is for killing.

”Is this business or pleasure?” Melinda asked pleasantly. She put her book face down on the bench beside her and folded her arms in front of her, pressing her bare hands under them for warmth.

”Business,” Reardon said.

Melinda's face darkened.

”Who lives in your apartment?” Reardon asked.

”My father, my brother and myself,” Melinda said. Then she added: ”And a few servants.”

”Do all of you usually live together?”

”We have until now.”

”What do you mean?”

”Well, Dwight's gone off to school.”

”When did he leave?”

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