um, Detective Sokolov asked me some questions,” Zissler added to his statement.
Lindsey stood up and looked out the window. There were still a few lights on, farther uptown, but it was the park that held his attention. “What questions?”
“Well, like, Did Mr. Berry have any enemies? Did he use drugs? Did he go to Atlantic City often? Bet with bookies? Was he in debt? Did he run around with women?”
“And what did you tell her?”
“I told her no.”
“But you told me you hardly knew Berry. How did you know he didn’t have gambling debts? Or a dozen girlfriends?”
“Well, that’s right, I guess I didn’t know him very well. But he didn’t seem to have any enemies. Or—or the rest of it. Gambling, I mean. Or drugs.”
“Women?”
“I never saw Mr. Berry with any women. I wouldn’t know anything about that.”
Lindsey knew that Berry was married and had a child. Berry had mentioned his wife once or twice, but Lindsey could not remember his saying anything about a child. Lindsey had learned about the child—a daughter—from Berry’s personnel file.
Cletus Berry was a sweet guy. Had been a sweet guy. Had been a top worker, Lindsey could testify to that. He had a pleasant personality, he made good dinner-table conversation and he had been an easy-going, unobtrusive room-mate. But he seldom spoke about his private life. Lindsey should have known that was a danger sign, but somehow he’d failed to pick up on it with Berry. Put the dunce cap on me, Lindsey thought. There’s more here than meets the eye.
“Did Sokolov say what the police were planning to do about the killings?”
“About Mr. Berry and that other fellow? Well, Detective Sokolov said they were going to investigate fully.”
Lindsey held his head in his hands. Then he lowered his hands and looked at his watch. He’d readjusted his watch as the jet approached JFK so the watch was running on Eastern Time even though Lindsey’s body still thought it was two hours earlier.
Zissler said, “I’d like to help out, Mr. Lindsey, but it’s awfully late. I have to drive back out to Queens. And my wife always worries when I’m late.”
Lindsey said, “Sure. I’ll call you at Manhattan East if I need you.”
As Zissler headed for the elevator, Lindsey could hear him humming. He thought, If only he’d hum something with a melody. But with a Moe Zissler, you took what you could get.
Now Lindsey scrunched down inside the futon.
This was the same Japanese bed that Cletus Berry had used. There were almost certainly a few of Berry’s hairs in the bed, and microscopic sheddings of dead skin.
Why had Berry kept this place? He was entitled to office space at Manhattan East, but as a SPUDS agent he was authorized to set up a separate facility if he chose. Lindsey had been offered the same choice, and had come close to moving out of the Northern California office where he’d worked before his move to Denver. It wasn’t strange that Berry had preferred the privacy and independence of a separate office.
But why a bed and a microwave oven? Why a TV? Why a closet full of clothing? Had Berry been leading a double life?
Lindsey had unpacked his flight bag and hung his suits in the closet along with Berry’s. If there were any clues in the office, Lindsey would have to find them. If the police hadn’t bothered to seal it off, there was no way they were going to send a forensics squad in to look for evidence.
What was Cletus Berry doing on Eleventh Avenue in the middle of the night, in the company of a petty mobster?
It didn’t make sense.
Lindsey closed his eyes and tried to get a feeling for the case. It was early on, he didn’t have much to work with, but sometimes you walked into a puzzle like this and you got a feeling for it.
Not this time.
* * * *
He had half a dream just as he was waking up. He was swimming in cold water. It was dirty and gray and he didn’t like it and it kept getting deeper the more he struggled. Then something was holding his arms and legs so he couldn’t swim and he started to get cold water in his nose and mouth.
Then he woke up fully and discovered that it wasn’t the water but the sunlight that was cold and gray. He climbed out of the futon and pulled on a sweater and a pair of pants. He padded across the carpeted floor and looked outside. The thoroughfares were filled with traffic. The accumulated sleet had already been shoved to the sides of the street, making shin-high gray-black berms along the curbs.
He looked at his watch. It was seven o’clock. He’d had less than three hours sleep. He cleaned up, using Cletus Berry’s little shower stall. Berry had left behind a plastic bottle of shampoo, and a razor on the sink. The only thing Lindsey had to provide for himself was a toothbrush.
He dressed in a gray woolen suit and overcoat and left the office. He rode down in the elevator and passed a couple of business-people in the lobby and nodded. They ignored him.
A different guard sat at the battered wooden desk in the front lobby. He looked up at Lindsey and frowned, clearly disturbed to see a stranger coming out of the elevator and leaving the building so early in the morning.
Lindsey told the guard his name, told him he worked for International Surety and would be using the rented office for an indefinite time.
The guard looked more puzzled than ever. Like Rigo Bermúdez, he wore a gray uniform with a Sam Browne belt. There was even a holster bucked to the belt; Lindsey wondered whether there was really a weapon in it, or if it was just for show. The guard was easily thirty years Bermúdez’ senior and his uniform sleeve showed blue sergeant’s chevrons. The plastic name tag attached to his uniform jacket said, Halter. He wore half-glasses on the end of his nose and he’d been reading the Daily News. He had reddish, mottled skin and a bushy white mustache and white hair that stuck out from under his uniform cap. He looked a lot like Wilfred Brimley.
The guard frowned. “Linsley, is it?”
“Lindsey.”
“I know. That’s what Mike Quill called the mayor. Linsley. Name was Lindsey. Did it just to irk him. Great man, he was.”
“Mayor Lindsey? I’ve heard of him. I don’t think we’re related.”
“Not Linsley. Mike Quill was the great man. Ran the transit union. Great man.” He laid down the newspaper and said, “International Surety, hey? Who’s that? Sounds like some kind of insurance outfit.”
Lindsey said, “It is. Cletus Berry worked for us.”
“Oh.” Daylight broke across the old man’s face. “Sure, Mr. Berry. Nice man. Pity, what happened. Pity.”
Lindsey said, “How did you find out about it? Has anybody been here investigating?”
The guard laid his Daily News flat on his desk, turned it so Lindsey could see the front
