Break and Enter (42 page)

But the sound, puncturing his thin membrane of certainty, was of a woman getting the screwing of her life, emitting an unending throbbing of moans, cries, testimonials to technique and rhythm, and exhortations to the gods.
Oh jesusjesusjesus. Oh-ho-oh, that, yes, oh jesus.
She was superb and she drove Peter crazy, and his mind, inflamed with a distracted lust, flipped in hallucinogenic clarity from Cassandra (his crotch still smelled of her) to Janice (
must not think about John Apple)
and then to Johnetta. The sounds insinuated into his mind, wrapping around him, touching a polished fingernail to his ear. It was too late for this kind of crap—he was almost sick with exhaustion.

“Where’s that shoe?” a man’s voice muttered.

“Here. This is a well-made shoe, a
nice
shoe. How come you buy good shoes like this and you don’t give me nothing extra?”

“Always the same,” the man exhaled. “I’m going.”

“It’s a reasonable question.”

“Fuck off, woman.”

“I just did.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Ah-ha, you loved it,” she protested playfully.

“Do you always believe everything you imagine?”

A bitter silence.

“Throw that away. I hate wearing those things. I don’t have to wear them with my wife.”

“She so good, how come you here with me?”

“Don’t ask me that,” the man croaked. “I can’t take it.” They laughed together.

GOOD MORNING,
City of Brotherly Love—good morning to the insurance men and lawyers and bankers and senior vice presidents and office managers and systems engineers and receptionists and marketing specialists and communications coordinators and all the soldiers of America’s new economy marching into the towers and offices, showered, shaved, perfumed, brushed, combed, dry-cleaned and pressed, fed and ready, with newsstand radios spouting the latest scandals, the garbagemen finishing up their morning runs, and last, and in most respects least, the homeless, shaken awake from subways and shelters, making their way into the snowy sunlight, carrying filthy bundles of clothes, shoes, papers, items of curiosity and survival.

Peter watched from a coffee-shop window, chewing at a doughnut, reading the story by Karen Donnell that carefully raised the possibility that the police might have arrived late to the murder scene. She’d quoted “unnamed officials.” The Mayor would want to know who that was. He and Hoskins would see their control of the situation unraveling hourly. Perhaps, Peter worried, he had been seen talking to Miss Donnell the day before, even though they spoke for no more than a minute. Someone
down the hall could have seen and stopped and made note of it. His chest ached. The regularity of the day was sliding by him. He craved it now, just to have a normal day facing him, the usual problems, the usual phone calls and paperwork. It seemed like days since he’d been in the office. Perhaps he could call Janice or his parents. If only he had gotten more than a few hours’ sleep, this nervousness would be gone. Police cars cruised by the window every minute or two. Peter imagined they were looking for him. Had those men really been waiting outside his house? He’d left the gun in his car.

The rest of the newspaper was full of tragedies, to be forgotten tomorrow. A big plane had crashed. The Middle East was on fire. Congress monkeying with budget problems. The Japanese had bought some more real estate in New York. But he couldn’t concentrate, for the day pushed at him—it was almost nine
A.M.
, and the sun cut the cold air and lay broad stripes of light across the ledges of the office buildings, brightening the already-dirty snow. He bought a paisley tie from one of the Korean sidewalk vendors. With his suit and the new tie, he was fine—he’d shave in the office men’s room with the electric razor he usually used before an afternoon session in court. No one would suspect he’d been anywhere but home that night.

He was to meet Vinnie in five minutes. There was, of course, no money, but he wanted to see if the man would show. He slipped into one of Cassandra’s money-machine booths near the Bellevue, as it was now called, just as a waxed, black Cadillac eased in next to a fire hydrant and stopped. The sun dashed itself against the glass, and so, even though he was a few yards away, no one would see him. Vinnie sat in the back of the big car, spooning something into his mouth. He had, as he said, gained weight; his head appeared to lack a chin, and through a transition of shapeless flesh became his chest. He ate methodically, swiveling his head from time to time toward the facade of the old hotel to see if Peter had arrived. Minutes passed. The plastic spoon went out the window. Vinnie spoke to his driver, drumming the fat fingers of his right hand on the outside of the car. A paper ice cream container shot out the open car window. Vinnie looked straight at Peter. Had he been seen? The window glass rose in a smooth electric glide, and rising with it was the curved reflection of the city. The car pulled out,
headed down Broad Street. Peter watched, knowing Vinnie would eventually find him.

MRS. BANKS HAD TOLD PETER
that she and her husband had come to Philadelphia from Tupelo, Mississippi, so many years ago. Cheryl Yeager already knew, from her early attempt to find Mrs. Banks, which church she attended in Philadelphia, and in her quiet, methodical way began to talk to church secretaries both in the city and in Tupelo to find out where Mrs. Banks might be. Cheryl was unfailingly polite, and her voice, soft and calming and black, masked the fact that a very anxious man awaited and paced in his office, eager for her to succeed. Peter occasionally checked on her, saw her scribbling new phone numbers down on her pad of paper, hearing her say, “Yes, that’s very helpful, and I do appreciate your willingness to help….”

He looked at his watch, feeling that he was running blindly in a race, with the distance and his opponents unknown to him. Vinnie was sure to get in contact with him sooner or later. He shut his door and drank more coffee, yet remained exhausted. He thought about Janice and how she loved snowy mornings like this. If the police were looking for him by looking for his car, they might find the gun. Vinnie certainly could find his car, having found Janice’s in a short time, and Peter’s was parked in Center City, the worst place to hide a car. He called the hospital but was told by a nurse that his mother was asleep. Thoughts crowded him, pushing, worrying him. What had happened with Janice the previous Saturday night would only send her deeper into John Apple’s arms. It was human nature. Stein would be calling before too long, wanting to know what was happening. So would Karen Donnell, who surely had sensed his vulnerability.

Then Cheryl knocked and came in.

“I found her in Mississippi,” she said, “but she said she won’t talk to you.”

“You have her on the line?” Peter asked.

“Yes.”

“Tell her that I know who killed her granddaughter, in case she’s interested.”

Cheryl stared at him.

“Tell her that, and tell no one else.”

A minute later, his phone rang.

“Can you hear me, Mrs. Banks?”

“Yes, I can.”

“Good morning.”

“They just trying to scare me, that’s all.”

“Did they hurt Tyler?”

“No, he’s okay. He’s down here with me, singing at the church.”

“Is anybody else there, listening to you?”

“No. I’m in my sister-in-law Celie’s kitchen washing the breakfast dishes.”

“Now, listen to me carefully, Mrs. Banks. I’m going to ask you a couple of questions and I want straight answers. You’re safe and sound in Mississippi, but I’m dealing with the problems back here. I’m still trying to find out what happened to Johnetta. Don’t you care about that?”

“Of course I do.”

“Who were those two men that had Tyler in the window at the coffee shop?”

“Now, Mr. Scatterblood—”

“Scattergood, Mrs. Banks. Don’t play with me now.”

“They was two men who wanted me not to talk to you.” “Of course I know that.”

“So I can’t.”

“Did they know who you were with?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“They kept askin’ me who I was talkin’ to, but I never told them.”

“You do know them, right?”

There was a pause. “One of them was Charlie.”

“Who is the man with the scar on his chin?”

“That’s Charlie.”

“Who is he?”

“Well…” she stalled.

“Mrs. Banks, I believe this man Charlie killed your granddaughter.”

“Lord!”

“Tell me, Mrs. Banks. Tell me what Johnetta can’t say now.”

“Oh…”

“Mrs. Banks, listen to me, please. I’ve seen something you haven’t—I’ve seen what this man Charlie did to Johnetta. Do I have to tell you what he did?” He would let Mrs. Banks imagine the worst. “Tell me—”

“His name is Charlie Geller, and all I can say is that I think he used to work for the Mayor. Maybe he drove him around, I can’t rightly remember.”

“That’s it?”

“All I know is he works for the Mayor.”

“Is he down there with you?”

“No, he still in Philly.”

“Are you sure he doesn’t know you talked with me?”

“They know I talked to somebody. But he looking at it the other way around and he confident.”

“What do you mean?”

“The other man asked Charlie if the man in the restaurant, you, seen Charlie’s face, and Charlie say the glass too fogged up for anybody to see him. He say he couldn’t see you, so he pretty sure you couldn’t see him.”

Her tone carried fear in it. If the Mayor had people in this small town, then it would only be a short matter of time before they found out about the inquiries from the D.A.’s office.

“Who is the father of Tyler, Mrs. Banks?”

“I told you, I don’t know.”

“I thought you knew everything about that boy.”

“Everything else. Of course I do.”

“Everything? Absolutely? Do you remember the heart operation you said he had?”

“Yes, of course I do.”

“What’s his blood type?”

There was a pause of silence and the low wind of static blew over the line.

“It wasn’t the same as his mama,” Mrs. Banks said tentatively, warming to the question. “I remember that it was the kind that—he had some transfusions and we had to ask people in the church if they had—”

“A certain type, right?”

“Yes, how did I remember? I used to say, ‘The baby, we have to ask for blood, the baby …’ ” wondered Mrs. Banks. “Yes, AB sounds like ‘baby.’ Tyler has type AB blood.”

“You’re sure?”

“That what I used to say, ‘Type AB for the baby.’ ”

Peter fumbled with Johnetta Henry’s autopsy report and found the page he needed.

“Johnetta had type BB?”

“I can’t say that I know. I have to go now, they’re coming back.”

She hung up, and he held the receiver, thinking. He called Cheryl back into his office and asked her to find Charlie Geller immediately. He told her that he lived in Philadelphia and might work for the Mayor. Finding him would be much less difficult. Then he called Arizona, where the time was two hours earlier. His brother answered.

“Bobby, I’m terribly sorry to bother you. I need to ask your wife a question.”

Bobby’s wife came to the phone.

“Carol, please listen to me quickly. I’m sorry it’s so early. You’re the only obstetrician I can call this fast to get answers.”

“Well, we’re about to leave the house, Peter. What is it?”

“If a baby has type AB blood and his mother has BB, what kind does the father have?”

Carol laughed lightly, almost a groan.

“Well, it’s not quite that simple.”

“I know that blood types get complicated—”

“Okay, first, the ABO blood groups and the MN groups are different ways of typing blood,” Carol said. “Generally, a BB mother with an AB child means the father is AB or AA. But these are just crude blood types, Peter. You can string twenty letters together and describe a blood type.”

He knew that. Captain Docherty had said something very similar during the Robinson trial.

“But can the father be an O?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Sure?”

She yawned agreement.

“Are you absolutely positive?” he snapped anxiously.

“Peter, excuse me, I know what I’m talking about,” Carol answered. “Remember, it’s easier to
disprove
paternity than to prove it.” “You’re positive?”

“I better be. I have nurses type newborn blood every day.” “Thanks, Carol.” He said good-bye and hung up. He now knew—within a reasonable degree of scientific certainty, as Captain Docherty liked to say—that Wayman Carothers was not the father of Tyler Henry.

It was then that Melissa knocked on the door and came in and handed Peter a memo. It said:

He could only imagine that Hoskins had confronted Berger with evidence of his coke use, and told him he was fired. Peter looked about the room and at his desk, wondering if Hoskins had been poking around. Berger’s office was probably already cleaned out. What was most disturbing here was not that Berger was gone—that, clearly, had been an approaching event. What was disturbing was the way it was done, without his being given the chance to enter a recovery program, without even a grace period in which to find a new job. No, Hoskins had not cared for Berger the man, nor that he would lose an experienced attorney. He had sacrificed even the operational advantage of creating a caseload transition. Berger had been chopped out with precipitous haste, which suggested tremendous pressure on Hoskins. In respect to the Whitlock and Henry killings, it left Peter alone.

So, barely suppressing his paranoia, he attended to the paper on his
desk. The sun pushed a brilliant slant over the desk blotter and in this brightness he saw the lighter, soft skin on the fourth finger of his left hand, indented still, though the ring was gone. That same hand remembered holding Cassandra’s neck, her chin tipped up, mouth leering at him, eyes bright sick fires delighting in a grim contest. But it was difficult for a man, for any man, he knew, to simultaneously consider a near fate and a far one, so he forgot Janice and Cassandra and made the usual phone calls, lined up witnesses, ordered reports, sucked information toward him from all directions. Hoskins hadn’t shown up yet, and this worried him. He went out to the reception desk, where Melissa took the messages and screened the calls the homicide unit received.