Hardcase

CHAPTER 9

It was raining hard when Kurtz walked up to the sprawling brick home just a few blocks from Delaware Park. Malcolm and Cutter watched from Malcolm's yellow SLK, its top up, half a block back from where Kurtz had just parked his Buick. Malcolm had noticed how careful Kurtz had been, driving by once to case the place, checking several times that he had not been followed before parking. But Malcolm and Cutter had arrived first and had hunkered down when Kurtz drove past. The driving rain helped conceal them in the car, but Malcolm had turned the engine off anyway. He knew that nothing gave away the presence of a watcher faster than the exhaust from an idling engine.

Cutter made a soft noise from the passenger seat.

"In a minute, C, my man," said Malcolm. "In a minute."

Kurtz had not known many accountants over the years—he'd had a couple as divorce-case clients and had seen a few more adventurous types serving time in Attica for whatever white-collar crimes accountants commit—but Mrs. Richardson hardly seemed like an accountant's wife to him. She seemed more like one of the expensive call girls who plied their trade near the fancier Niagara Falls resort hotels. Kurtz had seen pictures of Buell Richardson and heard descriptions from Little Skag. The accountant had been short, bald, in his fifties, peering out at the world through thick glasses like a myopic, arrogant chipmunk. His wife was in her late twenties, very blond, very built, and—it seemed to Kurtz—very chipper for a probable widow.

"Please sit down, Mr. Kurtz. Just don't move that chair out of its place, please. The furniture placement is part of the general ambience."

"Sure," said Kurtz, having not the slightest clue as to what she was talking about. Buell Richardson had been rich enough to own a Frank Lloyd Wright home near Delaware Park. "Not the Frank Lloyd Wright house near Delaware Park," Arlene had said after making the interview appointment for him. "Not the Dewey D. Martin house. The other one."

"Right," Kurtz had said. Kurtz didn't know the Dewey D. Martin house from a housing project, but he had found the address easily enough. Thought the home was nice enough looking if you liked all that brick and the overhanging eaves, but the straight-backed chairs near the fireplace were a literal pain in the butt. He had no idea if Frank Lloyd Wright had designed the chairs and he certainly did not care, but he was certain that the chair had not been built with any regard for the human body. The chair back was as stiff and upright as an ironing board and the seat was too small for a midget's ass. If they had designed an electric chair this way, Kurtz thought, the condemned man would bitch about it in his last seconds before they threw the switch.

"It's nice of you to agree to talk to me, Mrs. Richardson."

"Anything to help in the investigation, Mr…"

"Kurtz."

"Yes. But you're not with the police, you say. A private investigator?"

"An investigator, yes, ma'am," said Kurtz. When he had been a real P.I., he had owned one good suit and two decent ties for such interviews, and now he felt foolish in his Eddie Bauer windbreaker and chinos. Arlene had given him one of Alan's old ties, but Kurtz was two inches taller and forty pounds heavier than his secretary's dead husband, so there would be no suit from that source. Kurtz looked forward to earning some money. After purchasing the two pistols, giving Arlene $300 toward equipment, and paying for his food and lodging, Kurtz was down to about $35.

"Who else is interested in finding Buell?" asked the accountant's wife.

"I'm not at liberty to reveal my client's identity, ma'am. But I can assure you that it's someone who wishes your husband well and wants to help find him."

Mrs. Richardson nodded. Her hair was tied up in an elaborate bun and Kurtz found himself noticing the artfully loose wisps of blond hair touching her perfect neck. "Is there anything that you might tell me about the circumstances of Mr. Richardson's disappearance?"

She shook her head slowly. "I've reported everything to the police, of course. But there's honestly nothing out of the ordinary that I can recall. It was just a month ago this Thursday. Buell left at his usual time that morning… eight-fifteen… and said that he was going straight to his office."

"His secretary told us that he didn't have any meetings scheduled for that day," said Kurtz. "Isn't that unusual for an accountant?"

"Not at all," said Mrs. Richardson. "Buell had a very few private clients and much of his business with them was conducted over the telephone."

"You know the names of those clients?"

Mrs. Richardson pursed her perfect pink lips. "I'm sure that's confidential, Mr…"

"Kurtz."

"… but I can assure you that all of his clients were important people… serious people… and all above reproach."

"Of course," said Kurtz. "And he was driving the Mercedes E300 on the day of his disappearance?"

Mrs. Richardson cocked her head. "Yes. Haven't you read the police report, Mr…"

"Kurtz. Yes, ma'am, I have. Just double-checking."

"Well, he was. Driving the smaller Mercedes, I mean. I had some shopping to do that day so I had the larger one. The police found the little one the next day. The little Mercedes, I mean."

Kurtz nodded. Little Skag had said that the accountant's E300 had been left in Lackawanna, where it had been stripped within hours. There had been hundreds of fingerprints on the shell of the vehicle, all those identified so far belonging to the gangbangers and civilians who had helped themselves to parts.

"Can you think of any reason for Mr. Richardson to want to drop out of sight?" said Kurtz.

The statuesque blonde snapped her head back as if Kurtz had slapped her. "Do you mean, for instance, another woman, Mr…"

"Kurtz," said Kurtz and waited.

"I resent that question and its implications."

I don't blame you, Kurtz wanted to say aloud. If your husband was stalking poon on the side, he was a moron. He waited.

"No, there was no reason for Buell to want to… how did you put it, Mr. Katz? To drop out of sight. He was happy. We were happy. We have a good life. Buell was considering retiring in a year or so, we have the place in Maui where we were going to spend time, and we recently bought a boat… a little sixty-foot catamaran…" Mrs. Richardson paused. "We planned to spend the next few years sailing around the world."

Kurtz nodded. A little sixty-foot catamaran. What the hell would a big boat be like? He tried to imagine a year on a sixty-foot yacht with this woman, tropical ports, long nights at sea. It wasn't too difficult. "Well, you've been very helpful, Mrs. Richardson," Kurtz said, rose, and headed for the door.

Mrs. Richardson hurried to keep up. "I don't see how my answering these few questions can help find my husband, Mr…"

Kurtz had given up on the name thing. He'd known Sterno sniffers with better short-term memories than this woman.

"Actually, you've been very helpful," he said again. And she had been. Kurtz's only real reason for interviewing her was to see if she might have been involved in the accountant's disappearance. She hadn't been. Mrs. Richardson was beautiful—striking, even—but she obviously wasn't the sharpest knife in the drawer. Her ignorance had not been feigned. Kurtz doubted if she was even aware that her husband was almost certainly decomposing in a shallow grave or being nibbled on by bottom feeders in Lake Erie as they spoke.

"Thanks again," he said and walked out to Arlene's Buick.

"Shit," said Malcolm. He and Cutter were just getting out of the SLK. Malcolm put his hand out as if to grab Cutter, but stopped with his fingers an inch short of the man's arm. He would never touch Cutter without permission, and Cutter would never give such permission. "Wait," said Malcolm, and both men slid back into the car.

Kurtz was coming out of the house. Now that Malcolm could see him more clearly, he realized that Kurtz still looked pretty much like his mug shot: a little older, a little leaner, a little meaner.

"I thought he be in there a while," Malcolm said. "What kind of fucking 'vestigator is he, five minutes with the widow?"

Cutter had taken his gravity knife out of his sweatshirt pocket and now seemed absorbed in the knobby contours of its handle.

"We wait a minute, maybe he'll go back in," said Malcolm.

Kurtz did not go back in. He got in the Buick and drove off.

"Shit," Malcolm said again. Then, "Okay, Miles the mouthpiece say pick up both packages. Which package you think we should pick up first, Cutter, my man?"

Cutter looked at the mansion. His hand twitched and both blades flicked out. The knife was made by a famous riflemaker, and it had two blades. Now Cutter folded one of the blades away and kept the other open and locked. It was a curved blade—razor sharp for four inches, and then sharp but fully hooked at the end. This was known as a gut hook.

Cutter's eyes gleamed.

"Yeah, you right as always," agreed Malcolm. "I know a way we can find Mr. Kurtz again later when we want him. Now we got business here."

The two men got out of the SLK. Malcolm beeped it locked, paused, and then beeped it open again.

"Almost forgot," he said. He pulled out the Polaroid camera and both men walked across the empty street in the rain.