Part 5 (1/2)
The sign under the Western Avenue overpa.s.s still said: POLICE DEPARTMENT.
6TH AREA.
HEADQUARTERS.
19TH DISTRICT.
HEADQUARTERS.
nearly a year after Area Six had been renamed Area Three. Probably appropriate. People still thought of it as Area Six, still answered the phone ”Area Six Detectives” when they were tired or distracted.
It was nearly light when Thinnes pulled the plainclothes Caprice along the curb east of the dark brick headquarters building, but the overhead sodium lights still gave an orange cast to the drive and sidewalk. Bare trees and litter and the November chill added to the feeling of depression Thinnes was working on. He shut off the engine. Neither he nor Oster spoke as they got out of the car. They entered by the north doors-the only ones open before six A.M.
A tired-looking woman was talking to the uniforms working in the square ring of the District Nineteen desk, and a tac officer in soft clothes leaned on the polished stone counter, listening to the beef. He gave the two detectives an index finger salute as they headed for the stairs, and both Thinnes and Oster nodded an acknowledgment. The sergeant on duty held a note out for Thinnes but kept his eyes on the woman. Thinnes took it without breaking stride or interrupting her.
Upstairs, he and Oster hung their coats on the pegs along the wall inside the squad room entrance. Before Thinnes could even put his paperwork down, he was set upon by Rossi.
”Thinnes, that lush you sent in sobered up and is yelling for his lawyer.”
”Okay.”
”...And Patrol wants the uniforms you've got baby-sitting him back on the street. Now.”
”My career's in the toilet!” The speaker, Lewis Andrews, was white, five eight, maybe 170 pounds, medium build, hazel eyes, and mousy brown hair. His tuxedo was rumpled and stained, and he smelled like he'd barfed on himself.
”Why is that, Mr. Andrews?” Thinnes asked softly.
Andrews looked as if he thought Thinnes was nuts. When Thinnes didn't say anything more, Andrews looked at Oster, who was no more helpful, then around the stark, white interview room. Finally, he stared at the two-way mirror behind Thinnes. He seemed to find his image disturbing, because he dropped his eyes to his hands, folded on his lap, and added, ”The entire idea for the blessed show was a disaster.”
”Could you be more specific?”
”My G.o.d! You saw that stuff. And then the son of a b.i.t.c.h gets himself murdered. Right in the museum! I'll never work again!”
”Just how did Mr. Bisti manage to convince you to let him have a show there without showing you the stuff he was going to exhibit first?”
”He showed me the brochure Anita Margolis made up for his exhibition at her gallery. He led me to believe he'd be displaying the same sort of things. G.o.d! And he showed me one work in progress-Triptych-that wasn't too offensive.”
Thinnes glanced at Oster, who was taking notes, then nodded for Andrews to go on.
”We were getting pressured by some militant Native American group to show Native American art. I thought what they had in mind was that stuff you see in airports out west-that certainly would have been preferable to the-”
He didn't seem able to find an adequate put-down for Bisti's work. Thinnes raised his eyebrows.
Andrews continued. ”One of the board members proposed that we try to appease the Indians by inviting one of their number to have a showing. And Bisti was recommended by someone.”
”Who?”
Andrews raised his hands as if to make a who-knows? gesture, then seemed to forget what he was doing with them. ”I don't remember. I don't recall if anyone even told me who it was.”
”The same person suggested an Indian and recommended Bisti?”
”I can't remember.”
”Can't or won't?”
For a second, Andrews looked startled or scared, then angry. ”I don't remember.”
”This is a murder investigation, Mr. Andrews.”
”I am only too aware of that. Believe me, though I'd have liked to have killed him myself, I didn't. I don't know who did. I a.s.sure you, if I did know, I would tell you. I would do anything in my power to end this nightmare as quickly as possible.”
Thinnes pulled the price list Caleb had given him from his pocket and pushed it across the table. ”What can you tell us about this?”
”Oh Lord! It gets worse and worse.”
Thinnes waited.
”You don't see something like that at the Art Inst.i.tute, by G.o.d!”
Oster finally put his two cents in. ”You don't see murder at the Art Inst.i.tute either.”
When Thinnes and Oster returned to the squad room, Ferris and Swann were sitting around, schmoozing. Both of them were a.s.signed to second watch but because they worked for Lieutenant Evanger, they weren't slaves to the clock. Thinnes had worked Evanger's watch until he was shot. Coming back from sick leave, he'd been a.s.signed to first watch because Rossi was short-handed. Oster had drawn Rossi's watch because he lacked the seniority to opt out.
”How'd it go?” Swann asked. He was a middle-aged black man with an easygoing disposition and an uncanny resemblance to the late, beloved mayor.
Ferris, who was white, cynical, and also middle-aged, jumped in before Thinnes or Oster could speak. ”I heard it was a real cl.u.s.terf.u.c.k.”
He was gloating, Thinnes decided, subtly rubbing it in that he'd escaped the draft. It was the sort of case he'd only work willingly as a princ.i.p.al, and then only if the killer was obvious.
”You doing anything right now, Ferris?” he asked.
”Why? You want me to take over for you?”
”No, I thought maybe we could send you out for doughnuts.”
”She-it,” Ferris said. He hurried away before Thinnes could say he wasn't kidding.
”I'll go,” Swann offered.
Oster hooked a thumb in Ferris's direction. ”You ever realize how much work that chump gets out of, just by being an a.s.shole?”
”Management's worry,” Thinnes said. ”Not my job description.”
Fifteen.
Caleb was awakened by four small, cold feet kneading his side beneath the covers as Sigmund Freud began to purr. In the summer the cat slept on top of the duvet or, if it was really hot, on the parquet floor. But in the cold months, he burrowed beneath the sheets and slept curled against Caleb's hip or thigh, or in the curve behind his knees.