Poisonous Kiss (21 page)

     "Tell me son, if you understand everyone so well, maybe you can explain to me why Victor what's-his-name broke up that fight at the club? All right, the management gave you an escort out of there because they don't want a raid. But why does this sharpdressing dandy hit his friend instead of you?

     "Maybe he didn't want trouble," I tried.

     "Why not?" Ericsson wasn't blinking, looking into his yellowish eyes, you could easily forget his weak body, his shrinking face. I hesitated. I hadn't thought about this either.

     Somehow all the answers I wanted to give seemed fake. Why was Victor so worried about his friend getting in a fight with me? I didn't show them my shield. I didn't tell them I was a cop. If they had beaten me up, they could have easily said that I picked a fight with them. I was stumped.

     "Because they're up to something," he said triumphantly, like the woman on the TV quiz show correctly naming the capital city of Burundi. "That's when these guys get careful. They don't exceed the speed limit; they aren't loud; they won't even litter on the sidewalk. Keep watching them—you'll see you'll find something."

     I nodded and stood up. Somehow it seemed right what Ericsson was saying, but it was difficult to admit it. I opened my notebook and read:

     "Q-virus is not contagious, but it has a similar effect. Those who have the disease look for each other's company, and the more they hang out together, the stronger the symptoms will be. A group organized this way can soon become a danger to the public."

     "What?" Ericsson snorted.

     I gave him a playful smile.

     "Q-virus. A brand new theory. The virus of aggression. It can be found in practically everybody captain, even in you."

     "I've got enough diseases to worry about. You just keep watching this Victor Delacroix, and you'll see that he's planning something. And catch Frost, with that virus or without!"

     I nodded, and left the room silently. I remembered the gossip I'd heard: that Ericsson has cancer. Maybe it wasn't such a great idea from me to joke around with him about the Q-virus.

It's not difficult to follow someone, it's just a question of time, experience and people. Arany, has experience. He has time, now that he's made up his mind to do this. And he probably could have asked Ericsson to give him some people. But he doesn't feel like it. He's just acting on a hunch, and he doesn't want to have to justify the whole thing with official reports and requests. So the evening after his talk with the captain he parks his car near Victor Delacroix's house, turns the engine off, leans the seat back, and takes the sandwich he prepared at home out of his bag.

     He chews the sandwich slowly, sips at his soda, and watches passers-by. He decides to wait for another quarter of an hour, and then move down a block. He doesn't want to attract the neighbor's attention. No one trusts anyone anymore.

     He doesn't even have to wait five minutes before Victor Delacroix turns up. The man is full of swagger. He rushes out from his lobby and stops for a second, as if he was expecting his limousine to roll up in front of the building with a uniformed chauffeur. It's a pretty nice neighborhood, a world away from Frost's hiding place, where Arany and Carl tracked him down. Delacroix wears faded jeans and a loose sweatshirt. His fair hair is unruly, but just mussed enough to look casual and windblown. Even when he's dressing down this guy looks like someone you'd see in a magazine advertisement.

     No limousine comes, or maybe Delacroix is waiting for something else. For a millionaire woman or a miracle. Or it could be he was just looking around to see if anyone's following him.

     Arany follows him. Delacroix drives fast, with confidence. He's not the kind of driver who looks into the rear-view mirror very often. Arany had hoped it would be like this. Delacroix is selfish, only interested in himself, and how he could work his way ahead faster in traffic.

     Arany doesn't want to race with him, he slows down. Quarry like this should be followed by three cars, walky-talkies, the works. Or at least by a good motorcycle driver. Arany loses sight of him, and for a while he thinks about giving up, then he sees Delacroix's car again. It's an old BMW, covered with shiny chrome, as prominent as its owner. He rolls ahead slowly, a couple cars in front of Arany. Arany knows the symptoms. His man wants to park. Delacroix bounces his head to the rhythm of the music coming from the radio. All right, pal. Park if you can find a spot. Delacroix makes a right, and Arany continues straight ahead, then stops next to the no-parking sign on the other side of the street. He puts the "officer-on-duty" sign on his dashboard, hoping it will be more of a help then a hindrance. If he had time to think about it, he probably would have left the sign hidden. He walks back quickly along the street where Delacroix was driving so slowly, and then he stops to look at some shop windows waiting for the familiar figure to show up on the sidewalk. Where is he going? Lots of decent buildings, some elegant boutiques, a bank …oh no! Arany thinks of Ericsson, of the good old days when the captain was chasing gangsters in his uniform, when a bank robbery was a bank robbery.

     To rob this bank? It seems impossible. There are two doors of bulletproof glass with electric locks, watched over by a well-dressed security guard. The guard can push the button at any time to lock either door. And he only opens the inner door when the outer one is closed.

     Arany waits for at least ten minutes. He crosses over to the other side of the street and leans against the wall, thinking. Could Delacroix have realized that he was following him? Anything was possible, but he still didn't like this idea. He absentmindedly read the gilded sign next to the door. The office of the Maritime Navigation Company is upstairs. The old-fashioned ornamental letters conjure up images of tall sailing ships. It seems unlikely that Victor Delacroix is coming here. Arany smiles at the thought, and walks back to his car.

     All he gets for parking there is a scratch on his paint job.

     The next morning he's back with a bike. He stops the borrowed Kawasaki 500 in front of Delacroix's house. He takes off his helmet, leans against the seat and looks around. He soon realizes that, even if it be easier to follow Delacroix on a motorbike, waiting for him this way is definitely more conspicuous. It had been completely different to munch his sandwich sitting in the car. Standing on the sidewalk, he really sticks out. People look him up and down as if they've never seen anyone eat a sandwich. Arany can't take it for more than ten minutes, then he moves on. He's fortunate enough to find a little coffee shop nearby. He can sit at the counter, and even though he can't really see Delacroix's house, he can keep an eye on his car. It isn't great, but it's better than feeling so exposed. A grumpy old man puts some watery coffee down in front of him. Following the basic rules of his profession, Arany pays the check immediately, so he can leave at any time.

     Hours go by. Arany starts to regret that he had this crazy idea to follow Delacroix. He regrets his pride, which prevented him from asking Ericsson for help. He regrets becoming a cop. He'd been offered a fantastic job at a shoe company once. Who knows how high he would have climbed by now.

     It's always like this, this was what he always hated the most, waiting. Finally, someone shows up next to Delacroix's car. A slim, tall fellow with the light steps of a dancer.

     The motorcycle weaves through the city. The scenery passing by includes frightened people stepping out of his way, a pick-up truck coming dangerously close. Arany pulls the bike away with a movement of his hips. He gives it more gas.

     Delacroix isn't as cocky as the day before. He drives slower, like a good citizen. It isn't hard to follow him on yesterday's route. Arany feels tempted to go ahead of him and just wait at the bank. Why is he so sure that the bank is where they're heading? The bank is impossible to rob.

     Delacroix slows down at the same place, but not as much as yesterday, just for a second. Arany can't decide whether he should be relieved or disappointed. The BMW takes a left, the Kawasaki follows it, tilting deeply to one side. Then the engine roars and the bike straightens up. Another left turn, they must be parallel with the bank, a couple blocks away. Quiet little streets. Arany has to slow down. There are less than five cars between them to provide cover.

     Delacroix takes a right this time. Arany, far behind, curses, and with a swift turn of his wrist he speeds up. Better to lose sight of him than get caught, that's the golden rule. To hell with the golden rule! He didn't want to lose sight of Delacroix. This man was up to something. Crazy old Ericsson was right all along.

     The bike picks up speed, goes too fast. Arany's stomach feels light, his heart hammers. He doesn't look at the speedometer. It must have been above sixty mph. Not fast on a highway, but in this little street, it's crazy. A voice inside of him is nearly screaming, telling him to brake, to slow down. But he only lets off the gas at the last second, suddenly braking with both hands and feet.

     Near the curb, Delacroix is parking his car. The old BMW is already parallel with the sidewalk and in between two other cars. Delacroix rolls the car ahead a couple inches, straightens out, glances distractedly at the crazy guy on the motorbike who goes speeding past him. Then he gets out and slams the car door.

     Further down the street, Arany stops the bike, jumps off, and glances toward Delacroix. His man is walking away with long, springy steps.

     If you want to follow someone on foot, you should have a partner. Another golden rule. It was a day for breaking the rules. One partner should be following him on foot, and the other should be cruising the neighborhood with a car so he can follow the guy if he jumps into a cab or another car. If you're alone, you should at least follow the man with a motorcycle or a moped.

     But Arany felt sure of where they were heading. He left the bike and walked behind Delacroix. A left turn. The street looked so different a couple minutes ago. From up close, you could almost see its pores, the cracks in the asphalt, the lids of the sewage canals, a bored cat sunbathing in a doorway. Signs by the doors. Made of copper, wood, gilded inscriptions. A number of exotic sounding companies and lawyers' offices that no one would ever hear of. Delacroix wasn't looking back, he wasn't looking at the signs, he put his hands into his pockets, his shoulders moving from time to time, he must have been singing to himself.

     A right turn. Arany stops at the corner, carefully sticking his head out, but his precaution is superfluous, Delacroix is heading in the direction Arany had predicted, to where he unconsciously slowed his car down before. Towards the bank! What the hell is he planning?

     They're on Main Street, approaching the bank. There are more people around now. Office clerks are rushing somewhere, well-dressed young girls giggle as they pass down the street. Arany catches up. They are already across the street from the bank, Arany glances over, the bank still seems like a fortress. The security doors, the guard. From the other side of the street Arany can't see cameras, but he's sure there is one, directed at the entrance from above. The whole bank will be observed by electronic eyes. There will be no need for hysterical witnesses to describe what the robbers look like. The system might send the pictures directly to the police. To rob this place? …no way!

     An idea starts to prey on Arany's mind. If they take hostages, the fortress will protect them—with its bulletproof glass and the unbreakable doors. They could relax, keep an eye on the entrance with the help of the cameras, to see whether the police were trying to do something. They could even check on the hostages that way.

     But Arany doesn't have time to think it over. While he's watching the bank, Delacroix disappears. Arany stops suddenly, someone bumps into him from behind. He mumbles an excuse me. Arany is almost sure that Delacroix isn't on the wide sidewalk, concealed by the swirling suits and shirts in front of him. He jumps off the curb, ignores the horns blaring at him. Victor Delacroix is gone. Disappeared. Swallowed by the earth. Or by the door! Arany waits a couple seconds before opening the door. He looks at the ornamental letters on the sign of the Maritime Navigation Company, breaths in deeply, and pushes the heavy, old-fashioned, hardwood door in.

     Silence. Semi-darkness. Strange colorful slanted rays of light come through the lead-glass window up at the landing. A couple specks of dust dance in the air. A strange bitter smell, or odor like detergent, detergent from the old times. Old-fashioned elegance, plastic did not take over here. Nameplates made of copper, the black button on the handrails by the stairs looks like ebony. A dark carpet leads toward the stairs, swallowing the sound of his steps. On the left is a fine little door with bars, next to it the only modern indulgence, the buttons on the control panel of the elevator. The buttons aren't lit, Delacroix must have walked wherever he was.

     Arany's muscles tense instinctively, he lowers his center of gravity, breathes into his stomach. He loosens his muscles, waiting for the attack with his eyes, ears and other senses ready. But the building is peaceful, the dark wooden doors seemed to look at him reproachfully.

     There is noise from above. Arany moves like lightning. He only catches a glimpse, but from underneath the stairs he can see the light pants and the soft moccasins disappear on the third floor. He doesn't get into the old elevator. He flies up the stairs instead. Another staircase. They're haunting him, he can't get away from them. By the light on the landing, there are potted plants in what looked like Greek vases. The carpet is fixed to the stairs with copper rods.