Imperfect Strangers

CHAPTER 41

Alain Duvivier sat at his desk, just outside the captain's office, and allowed himself to be watched. This was part of his punishment for screwing up on the Kinsolving murder investigation, to sit and be looked at by the captain through the glass partition of his office. He felt like an ill-behaved child who had been moved to the front row of the classroom, so the teacher could keep an eye on him.

He was working two murders on the East Side-a shopkeeper robbed and shot to death, and a bar owner who'd suffered the same fate. He thought the same perpetrator was responsible for both, and since his bailiwick was the East Side and the robber/murderer was probably from somewhere else, he was depending on favors from detectives in other precincts. His best chance was some word from another detective's snitch from Harlem or the Bronx, somebody flashing too much money, somebody who carried a.44 Magnum pistol, which was what the perpetrator had used. There was no useful physical evidence and no witnesses, either.

A patrolman from the front desk downstairs walked over with a red, white, and blue envelope. "FedEx for you, Al," the man said, tossing the envelope on his desk.

Duvivier wasn't expecting such a delivery; he picked it up and looked at the sender's address. A Thomas Williams, with an address in Los Angeles. Peculiar. He ripped open the envelope and shook out its contents. A smaller envelope fell out, then a small sheet of paper. He picked up the paper.

"He paid me to do it," the message said. It seemed to have been typed with an electric typewriter. And if it was anonymous, the return name and address would be fiction.

Duvivier dropped the sheet of paper onto his desk, aware that fingerprints might get to be a factor in this delivery. He picked up the smaller envelope by its edges, used a letter opener to cut the flap, and shook out the contents. Two keys fell onto the blotter.

"What the hell?" he asked himself aloud. He sat and looked at the keys for a minute or so, trying to remember if keys came into some case he'd worked. He couldn't remember any such case. He took a small fingerprint kit from his bottom drawer and dusted the letter, front and back. The only fingerprints that showed up corresponded to where he had held the paper. He dusted the keys, too, on both sides, but no prints appeared. He wiped off the black powder from the three items, then returned the kit to its drawer.

"Something, Al?" Leary asked from the next desk.

"I don't know," Duvivier replied. "Take a look at this." He handed over the letter and the keys. "It was sent from Los Angeles…" He consulted the Federal Express form. "Yesterday. Has any case we've worked lately had anything to do with Los Angeles?"

Leary thought for a moment. "There was a tourist murdered last month at that hotel on Madison; he was from L.A., but it wasn't our case. Is the envelope addressed to you specifically?"

Duvivier looked at the envelope. "Yes. And there were no prints on either the letter or the keys."

Leary held up the two keys. "Both copies; one looks like a Yale, the other, I'm not sure. Outside and inside doors of an apartment house, maybe? Like a brownstone?"

"That's certainly common enough," Duvivier said. "Could be. But what case?"

Duvivier took the keys back, took a magnifying glass from his desk and examined them both. "Third Avenue," it says. "Stamped right here." He pointed with a pencil.

"That the locksmith?"

Duvivier had a look in the yellow pages. "Third Avenue Locks and Safes," he said. "The number looks like in the eighties. Want to take a drive?"

"What else have we got to do?" Leary said, taking his coat from the back of the chair and slipping it on.

On the drive over to Third Avenue, Duvivier tried to stop thinking about the keys, to just let his mind wander. He sometimes made a mental connection this way, but it wasn't working today.

"Here's the shop," Leary said.

They double-parked, put down the visor with the department identification, to keep from getting ticketed, and went into the shop.

A man got up from a workbench and walked to the counter. "Help you?"

Leary showed him his badge, and Duvivier put the keys onto the countertop. "You make these?" Leary asked.

The man picked up both keys and held them up to the light.

"One of 'em's a Yale, isn't it?" Leary asked.

"They both are, and I made 'em," the man replied.

"Got any idea who for? You have any records?"

"I have excellent records," the man said. "Whenever I do the locks for a house or a building, I keep good records. But these are off-the-street stuff. You know, some lady comes in, wants an extra set for the maid? That kind of stuff I don't keep records on; I'd get writer's cramp."

"Got any idea what the keys might be for? I mean, like the outside and inside doors for a brownstone?"

"That kind of thing, I guess," the man said. "Typical door lock keys, as opposed to car keys or padlock keys. That's about all I can tell you."

"Thanks," Duvivier said, and the two detectives left the shop. Back in the car, Duvivier rested his head against the seat back, then sat up straight. "Head over to Fifth Avenue," he said.

"Huh?"

"Fifth Avenue."

"You had a thought?"

"I've had a thought."

Leary parked the car, and the two men got out. "I follow your thinking," he said.

"It's a long shot, but worth a try," Duvivier replied. They crossed the street, and Duvivier led the way down the steps. He tried the first key; it went into the lock, but wouldn't turn. He extracted it and tried the other key. It worked. He opened the door. "Come on," he said.

They walked half a dozen steps to the storeroom. Duvivier inserted the key into the lock and turned it. "Yes!" he said.

"They're Kinsolving's then," Leary said.

"Yes, and he gave them to someone who's now in Los Angeles. Come on, let's get out of here."

Back in the car, Duvivier asked, "Do we have a photograph of Alexander Kinsolving?"

"No reason why we should," Leary said, "and there wouldn't be anything on record, since he doesn't have a record."

"Where could we find a recent photograph, do you think?"

Leary thought about it. "Remember, Kinsolving took his wine business out of the Bailley company?"

"Yes."

"Maybe there was an announcement about it somewhere?"

Duvivier grinned. "The Wall Street Journal," he said. "Let's go to the public library at Fifth and Forty-second."

When Duvivier left the library he was still grinning, and he had an envelope under his arm.

Leary laughed aloud. "We're such terrific fucking detectives," he said. "They couldn't do no better on 'N.Y.P.D. Blue.'"

Duvivier took the photostat of the newspaper article from the envelope and placed it on the locksmith's counter. "Have you ever seen this man before?" he asked, then he held his breath.

The locksmith held the stat up to the light and thought about it for a minute. "Yeah," he said, "I think I have. Hang on just a minute, will you?"

Duvivier and Leary changed glances.

"It's not enough to hang him," Leary said.

"No," Duvivier replied, "but it might be enough to crack him, if he thinks we know where the keys came from."

The locksmith came back from his desk with a newspaper. "Yeah," he said, "I thought I'd seen him before." He tapped the front page of yesterday's New York Daily News.

Duvivier and Leary looked at the newspaper and saw Sandy Kinsolving at the airport, walking behind an Arab, then falling behind a luggage cart.

"Has this man ever been in your shop?" he asked the locksmith.

The locksmith shrugged. "Lots of people come in this shop," he said. "Who knows?"

Duvivier sighed.