LITMIR.BIZ

       Chapter 23

      I booked from the station to a small park six blocks away. There was an attached dog park, a half acre of fenced-in gravel where folks exercised their pets. I was amazed at the variety of canines: poodles, Great Danes, coonhounds, Jack Russells, beagles, and several trendy types I couldn’t name, shnitzidoodles or whatever.

      I sat on a bench and phoned Harry. He’d left several messages in the morning but I hadn’t wanted to call from the station, afraid of being overhead.

      Harry filled me in on his findings. He’d been busy.

      “… message on the Doc’s phone, Agent John Wyatt at the Bureau’s behavioral unit inquiring about files he sent. I called back and … What’s all that barking? Are you calling from the city pound?”

      “I’m near a dog park. It’s like a playground for dogs.”

      “I don’t want to know. Anyway, it appears that three months ago, the Doc turned a hard eye toward the DC sniper cases. You know the story.”

      “For sure, bro. Pathetic, discarded kid with no father figure, in steps a willing male adult, a father. Kid idolizes the father figure – a psychopath, unfortunately. Kid wants to show Daddy he’s a man too, and all hell breaks loose.”

      “You remember Muhammad’s plans for an endgame, Carson?”

      “Turning a group of lost boys into his own personal army of hate. Did Agent Wyatt say why Vangie wanted the information?”

      “Only that she wanted it fast, like overnight. And it fits into the time Prowse told Traynor about a confidentiality problem with a private patient. It’s also when the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign showed up. Her invisible patient.”

      “I don’t see it as part of anything up here, Harry. But I’ll mull it over.”

      Harry and I talked a few more minutes. He was delighted I’d doped out the Silviera and businessman angle. I returned to the precinct at five, found three more possible sightings: at an upscale Italian restaurant on Mulberry, lunch at a place on Mott, and a clerk at a high-end Park Avenue shoe shop who had sold a pair of black loafers to a thickly accented man who mentioned his birthplace as Lisbon.

      Showing photos to rental agents proved more problematic. Unlike restaurants and shops, agents moved around and did things like take vacations. But someone had helped my brother get his digs.

      When we found the agent, it would be over.

      Everyone on the case was charged. Double shifts were run as detectives hit establishments that might attract a wealthy man vacationing in Manhattan. Folger orchestrated the commotion, sending teams hither and yon, keeping files current. I figured her late father would have been proud to see the cop gene in action.

      I was coming from a bathroom break when I saw her alone in the Ridgecliff room, the first time in hours.

      I said, “Doing anything tonight, Weather Lady?”

      She shot a sideways glance at the detectives’ room, dicks on phones, circling desks, yelling at one another. She gave me a sad smile and a sigh.

      “I’m probably here half the night, dead on my feet when I get home. Think we can sneak in a meal and … whatever … tomorrow evening?”

      I licked my finger, held it in the air.

      “Conditions are perfect for warmth and conviviality.”

      We puckered our lips at one another and I headed out, switching to detective mode when I hit the street, hoping Jeremy was somewhere studying a plate of food, and not on the street, studying the faces of women.

      Eat up, brother, I thought. Your menu’s running out.

      I showed up fresh and ready in the morning, juiced by success. Waltz was on the phone, and I waited for the crew to assemble.

      Before falling asleep I’d tumbled my conclusions through my mind. A Portuguese businessman was a potent disguise in Manhattan. I admired my brother’s ingenuity for thinking it up, mine for figuring it out.

      Waltz hung up. I wandered over, cup of coffee in hand. Waltz looked up from reading the night’s reports. “Another possible sighting at a luggage shop on Lex, a place where a suitcase costs more than I make in a week. The clerk thinks he sold Ridgecliff a messenger bag. He thought the customer spoke Spanish, but that’s easily confused with …”

      We heard a grunt at the door and looked up to see Bullard’s mug. He looked angry, tie pulled aside, sleeves rolled up, jacket jammed beneath his arm.

      “Where the hell’s Folger?” he said.

      “Why?” Waltz asked.

      “She and me were supposed to meet with the dicks up at the 25th about that drive-by last January. The case is going to court.”

      “Folger never showed?” I said.

      “Why the hell would I be asking why she didn’t show if she did show? And why are you talking to me when I’m talking to Waltz?”

      “You call her cell?” Waltz asked.

      “About eighty fuckin’ times. I got nada, voicemail. There were half a dozen dicks and a captain waiting at the 25th. They were pissed. I told them Folger was probably having one of those women’s moments when nothing’s real clear. Think you might ask if she could pretty-please be there tomorrow at ten if she’s not too busy having her period?”

      Bullard thundered away.

      “The Lieutenant missing an appointment?” I asked Waltz. “That unusual?”

      “Not for Alice Folger,” Waltz said, frowning. “It’s unheard of.”

      I closed the door. “Folger and I were talking a couple nights ago, Shelly. There’d been scratching at her door and she thought she saw a face at the window. She’d also felt like she was being watched the past couple weeks, but never saw anyone watching.”

      “You and Folger were talking?”

      “She’s easier on me these days.”

      “Cluff’s in Tribeca showing Ridgecliff’s picture. I’ll get him to run over to Folger’s digs. Maybe she overslept.”

      Waltz punched the speaker volume on his phone so I could hear. Cluff answered.

      “Shelly Waltz here. You know where the Lieutenant lives?”

      “Sure,” Cluff said. “I was at her Christmas party. She lives five minutes away. Why?”

      “She missed a meeting this morning. How about you check it –”

      “On my way,” Cluff said. The phone clicked dead.

      I had the creepy-crawlies but didn’t know why. Waltz looked even less happy than usual. I tried small talk.

      “How are things with the Pelham project?”

      He raised three fingers. It took a second for the message to sink in.

      “Three dolls?” I asked.

      “Another arrived yesterday. No mouth, no prints, no nothing.”

      “How many are in a

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