Koko (66 page)

Poole arranged to meet Tim at the airport at ten-thirty the next morning.

Then he called Conor, told him about seeing Koko, and advised him to stay at Ellen
Woyzak’s house until their party returned from Milwaukee. Before he hung up he gave
Conor the telephone number of the hotel where he had booked rooms for the next three
nights.

“The Pforzheimer?” Conor asked. “Sounds like a brand of beer.”

He called Westerholm, but Judy was still refusing to speak to him. Michael told Pat
Caldwell to switch on the elaborate yard lights he had installed the year after Robbie’s
death and to be sure to call the police if she saw anyone near the house or heard
any noises. He did not think that Koko would go after the women, but he wanted them
to be prepared. He also told Pat about a shotgun he had taken down into his basement
about the time he had stopped switching on the arc lights around his house every night,
and gave her the number of the Pforzheimer Hotel. Pat asked him if all this was related
to the man they had tried to find in Singapore, and Michael told her that it was not
as simple as that, but that she was more right than wrong. Yes, he was going to Milwaukee
to try to search for the man, and yes, he thought everything would be over soon.

When he hung up he walked to the window, looked again at the parade of people passing
between the ice cream stores and the restaurants, then left the window and packed
a couple of days’ clothing into a suitcase. Then he called his house again. Pat answered
immediately.

“Are you sitting next to the phone?”

“Well, you didn’t exactly reassure me the last time you called.”

“I probably over-reacted,” Poole said. “This guy isn’t going to come out to my house.
He has never attacked women alone. It’s people like Harry and me that he wants. Did
you turn on those yard lights?”

“It looks like we’re opening a gas station.”

“When I put them in, I wanted to make everything as bright as possible. No hiding
places.”

“I see what you mean. Haven’t the neighbors ever complained?”

“I kept them on for a few months a couple of years ago, and they never said anything
about it. I think the trees screen everything pretty well. How’s Judy?”

“She’s okay—I told her I was humoring you.”

Judy still would not speak to him, so he and Pat said goodbye.

Finally he telephoned Harry Beevers.

“I’m here,” Beevers answered.

“It’s Michael, Harry.”

“Oh. You. Something on your mind? You’re still going, aren’t you?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

“Okay. Just checking. You hear about Underhill? What he did to me? The man moved out.
It wasn’t enough for him that I gave him room and board and totally respected his
privacy—it wasn’t enough that while he was here that crazy junkie was able to write
whenever he wanted—I’m telling you, be careful around that guy. You can’t trust him.
What I think—”

“Hold on, Harry. I know about that, but—”

“You know about that, huh?” Beevers’ voice had gone small and cold.

“Yes, Harry.”

“You
should
know about it, Michael. Who opened his mouth to a little girl, and told her that
a certain person was in New York? I don’t think I did that, Michael. I’m pretty sure
Conor didn’t do it. Somebody compromised our mission, Michael, and I’m afraid it’s
you.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way about it.”

“I’m sorry you did what you did.” Beevers drew in another long breath. “I don’t suppose
you even remember all the things I’ve done for you and this mission. I’ve done nothing
but give, give, give all the way through this thing, Michael. I was court-martialed
for you, Michael, I sat in a Quonset hut and waited for a verdict, I hope you never
have to go through that—”

“I have something to tell you,” Poole broke in.

“I guess I better brace myself.”

Michael told him about the incident in the cemetery.

“You had an unconfirmed sighting? I suppose you’d better tell me everything.”

“I just did.”

“Okay, we’re into endgame. That’s all that means. He saw my stuff. Everything is working.
I hope you did not call Murphy with this information.”

“I didn’t,” Poole said, not telling Beevers that he intended to mail the card to the
policeman.

“I suppose I ought to be grateful for small favors,” Beevers
said. “Give me the name and number of your hotel. If he’s at the stage of following
us around and leaving notes, things are going to pop pretty soon. I might have to
get in touch with you.”

Poole read in the little apartment for an hour or two, but felt so unsettled that
he kept losing himself in the long sentences. At seven he realized that he had grown
very hungry, and went out to eat. On the street he saw his car parked before the ice
cream shop and remembered that Robbie’s
Babar
books were still in the trunk. He promised himself that he would remember to bring
them up into the apartment after he had eaten.

He ate dinner in a little Italian restaurant and again immersed himself in
The Ambassadors.
The next day, he told himself, he would fly off into Koko’s childhood. He felt poised
on the brink of some great change, but ready for it. The Health and Hospitals Corporation
of New York gave fifty-thousand-dollar grants to doctors to set up storefront offices
in places where people needed medical care, and after that loaned you money at the
prime rate which you did not have to start repaying for two years. Two, three, four
more days at the most, Poole thought; then he could finally get off the bridge and
go into the places where he was needed. His whole body warmed.

When Poole got back to Conor’s apartment he turned on all the lights and sat down
on a kitchen chair to read until he could go to bed. A feeling of unfinished business
nagged at him until he remembered the
Babar
books and nearly decided to put on his coat and fetch them from the car. He stood
up, walked past the telephone, and remembered something else.

He had never called the stewardess who had known Clement W. Irwin, Koko’s first American
victim. Poole was surprised that he had remembered the man’s name.

But what was the name of the stewardess? He tried to remember the name of their own
stewardess. Her name had been
something like his. Mikey. Marsha. Michaela, Minnie, Mona. No—it had reminded him
of an Alfred Hitchcock movie. Grace Kelly. A blonde … Tippi Hedren, the actress who
had been in
The Birds.
Then he remembered the name as easily as if the name tag was still in front of him:
Marnie. And Marnie’s friend had been named … Lisa. He groped for her last name. How
could he have been stupid enough not to write it down. What’s your friend’s last name,
he had asked her. “———–,” she had said. Something about Ireland. Lisa Dublin. Lisa
Galway. That was close. Lisa Ulster. Like in Hellman’s, Marnie had said. Lisa
Mayo.

Poole rushed to the phone and dialed information in New York City. She would not have
a listed number, of course, nothing was that easy, and he would have to work out a
way to get a stewardess’s telephone number from the airline that employed her. He
asked for the listing, and the line went silent with an electronic clunk. That’s it,
Poole thought, no listing, but a robot’s voice immediately came on the line, saying
“The number you have requested is”
and gave him seven digits, then repeated them.

Poole dialed, hoping it was the same Lisa Mayo. If it was, she was probably thirty
thousand feet in the air, on her way back to San Francisco.

The telephone rang four, five times, and was picked up a second before Poole hung
up.

A young woman said, “Yes.”

“My name is Dr. Michael Poole, and I am looking for the Lisa Mayo who is a friend
of Marnie’s.”

“Marnie
Richardson!
Where did you meet her?”

“In an airplane coming back from Bangkok.”

“Marnie’s pretty wild. Uh, I gave up doing a lot of stuff when I moved out of San
Francisco. It’s nice of you to call, but—”

“Excuse me,” Poole said. “I think you have the wrong idea. I’m calling about the man
who was killed at JFK about three weeks ago, and Miss Richardson said that you knew
him.”

“You’re calling about Mr. Irwin?”

“In part,” Poole said. “You did see him on the flight just before he was killed?”

“You bet I did. I saw him maybe a dozen times a year. He went back and forth to San
Francisco almost as often as I do.” She hesitated. “I was shocked when I read about
what happened to him, but I can’t say I was real sorry. He wasn’t a very nice man.
Oh, I shouldn’t have said that. Mr. Irwin wasn’t popular with any
of the crews, that’s all, he was a very demanding man. But what business is it of
yours, anyway? Did you know Mr. Irwin?”

“I am primarily interested in the man who sat beside Mr. Irwin on the flight to New
York. I wondered if you could remember anything about him.”

“Him? This is very mysterious. Besides, it’s getting late and I have an early call
tomorrow. Are you a cop?”

The implications of that “him?” put goose bumps on Poole’s arms. “No, I’m a doctor,
but I do have some connection with the police investigation of Mr. Irwin’s murder.”

“ ‘Some’ connection?”

“I’m sorry it’s so vague.”

“Well, if you think that guy who sat next to Mr. Irwin had anything to do with it,
you’re really barking up the wrong tree.”

“Why?”

“Because he couldn’t have had anything to do with it. He couldn’t. I see a lot of
people in the work I do, and that guy was one of the nicest, shyest … I felt sorry
for him, having to sit next to the Beast. That’s what we called Mr. Irwin. Well, come
to think of it, he even sort of charmed the Beast—he got Mr. Irwin to talk to him,
and he got him to make a bet on something or other.”

“Do you remember his name?”

“It was some kind of Spanish name—Gomez, maybe? Cortez?”

There you are
, Poole thought, and drew in a sharp breath.

“What?”

“Does Ortiz sound right? Roberto Ortiz?”

She laughed. “How did you know that? That’s right—and he said to call him Bobby. Bobby
seemed just right, you know, he was just like a Bobby.”

“Is there anything specific you can remember about him? Anything he said, or talked
about, or anything in particular?”

“It’s funny—when I look back on him, all I get is this blur with a smile in the middle
of it. The whole crew liked him, I remember. But as for anything he said … wait … wait.”

“Yes?” Poole asked.

“I can remember something funny he did. He kind of sang. I mean, he didn’t sing a
song, you know, a song with words, but he sang this kind of weird little
thing
.”

“What was it like?”

“Well, it was kinda strange. Like nonsense words—like a foreign language. But you
could tell it wasn’t any real language.
It was like … ‘pompo-po, pompo-po, polo, polo, pompo-po,’ something like that.”

The goosebumps were back on Poole’s arms. “Yes,” he said. “Thank you.”

“Is that all you wanted?”

“ ‘Pompo-po, pompo-po …’ or like ‘rip-a-rip-a-rip-a-lo’?”

“Pretty close,” the girl said.