Jigsaw

11

It was time to put on that old thinking cap.

It was time for a little plain and fancy deduction.

Nothing can confuse a person (cops included) more than a lot of names and a lot of pieces and a lot of corpses. Stop any decent law-abiding citizen on the street and ask him which he would prefer, a lot of names and pieces and corpses or a simple hatchet murder, and see what he says. Oh, you can safely bet six-to-five he’ll take that hatchet in the head any day of the week, Thursdays included, and Thursdays are no prizes, except when they fall on Thanksgiving.

Here’s the way they saw it.

Or (to break things down into list form, which the police were very fond of doing):

But there was more, oh there was yet more, a policeman’s lot is not a happy one. For example, was it not Irving Krutch, the provocateur, who had told the police that Alice Bonamico’s piece, together with a torn list of names, had been willed to her sister, Lucia Feroglio, from whose dainty Sicilian hands Krutch had acquired both items, having faithlessly promised that good lady a thousand dollars in return for them? And had he not also said that Lucia had told him the assembled photograph would reveal the location of “il tesoro,” and had not Lucia delicately denied ever having said this to him? Or, for that matter, ever having given him a list of names? Ah so. And if he had not received his information from Lucia, then from whom exactly had it come? The person in possession of the eighth piece? The person who had gone unlisted by Carmine Bonamico?

On the night of Weinberg’s murder, Brown had talked to three people: his wife Caroline, whom he could safely discount as a suspect; Weinberg, himself, who had been speedily dispatched to that great big photo lab in the sky; and Irving Krutch, to whom he had reported having struck pay dirt with Weinberg.

It seemed about time to talk to Irving Krutch again.

If Krutch was lying about having received the list of names from Lucia Feroglio, he could also be lying about having spent that night of the murder in his apartment with Suzanne Endicott. It was worth a try. When you’re running out of suspects, it’s even worth talking to the local Welsh terrier. Brown put on his sunglasses in preparation for the insurance investigator’s dazzling smile.

Krutch was not smiling.

“The old bag’s lying,” he said. “It’s as simple as that.”

“Or maybe you are,” Brown said.

“Why should I be? For Christ’s sake, I’m the one who came to you with all this stuff. I’m as anxious to locate that money as you are. It’s my career here that’s at stake, don’t you realize that?”

“Okay, I’ll ask you again,” Brown said patiently. “Why would a nice old deaf lady who hardly speaks English and who’s incidentally waiting for you to fork over a thousand bucks...”

“I’ll pay her, don’t you worry. Krutch doesn’t welsh.”

“Why would this nice old lady deny having told you anything about a treasure? Or about having given you a list of names?”

“How do I know? Go ask her. I’m telling you she gave me the list, a piece of the picture, and the information that tied them together.”

“She says she only gave you the picture.”

“She’s a liar. Sicilians are liars.”

“Okay, Krutch,” Brown said, and sighed. “One other thing I’d like to know.”

“What’s that?”

“I want to know where you were on Monday night when Geraldine Ferguson got killed.”

“What? Why the hell do you want to know that?”

“Because we’d already told you we struck out on Gerry’s safe. And maybe you decided to have a look around her apartment, the way you’ve had a look around a few other apartments.”

“No,” Krutch said, and shook his head. “You’ve got the wrong customer.”

“Okay, so tell me where you were.”

“I was in bed with Suzanne Endicott.”

“You’re always in bed with Suzanne Endicott, it seems.”

“Wouldn’t you be?” Krutch said, and flashed his brilliant grin.

“And, of course, she’ll corroborate that.”

“Go ask her. I’ve got nothing to hide,” Krutch said.

“Thanks, partner,” Brown said.

When he got back to the squadroom, Carella told him that there had been a call from Bramley Kahn, who had been arraigned, released on bail, and — while awaiting trial — was back selling art at the same old stand. Brown returned his call at once.

“I want to talk a deal,” Kahn said.

“I’ll be right over,” Brown answered.

When he got to the gallery, Kahn was waiting in his office, seated in the old-fashioned swivel chair behind his desk, facing the painting of the nude on the wall opposite. Brown took a seat in one of the leather-and-chrome chairs. Kahn took a long time getting started. Brown waited. At last, Kahn said, “Suppose...” and hesitated.

“Yes, suppose what?”

“Suppose I know where Gerry’s piece of the picture is?”

“Do you?”

“I’m saying suppose.”

“Okay, suppose you do?”

“Suppose I didn’t tell you everything I know about that picture?”

“Okay, go ahead, we’re still supposing.”

“Well, what would it be worth to you?”

“I can’t make any promises,” Brown said.

“I understand that. But you could talk to the district attorney, couldn’t you?”

“Oh, sure. He’s a very nice fellow, the DA, always eager for a little chat.”

“I’ve heard that the DA’s office is the bargain basement of the law,” Kahn said. “Well, I want a bargain.”

“Your lawyer pleaded ‘Not Guilty’ to Assault One, didn’t he?”

“That’s right.”

“Okay, let’s suppose you’re willing to cooperate, and let’s suppose I can catch the DA’s ear, and let’s suppose he allowed you to plead guilty to a lesser charge, how would that sound to you?”

“A lesser charge like what?”

“Like Assault Two.”

“What’s the penalty for that?”

“A maximum of five years in prison, or a thousand-dollar fine, or both.”

“That’s steep,” Kahn said.

“The penalty for Assault One is even steeper.”

“What is it?”

“A maximum of ten years.”

“Yes, but Anatole feels I can win my case.”

“Anatole’s dreaming. You confessed to the crime in the presence of your own lawyer, four detectives, and a police stenographer. You haven’t got a chance in hell of beating this rap, Kahn.”

“Still, he feels we can do it.”

“In which case, I would suggest that you change your lawyer.”

“How about Third Degree Assault? Is there such a thing?”

“Yes, there is, but forget it. The DA wouldn’t even listen to such a suggestion.”

“Why not?”

“He’s got a sure conviction here. He may not even want to reduce it to Second Degree. It all depends on how valuable your information is. And on whether or not he had a good breakfast on the morning I go to talk to him.”

“I think my information is very valuable,” Kahn said.

“Let me hear it, and I’ll tell you how valuable it is.”

“First, what’s the deal?”

“I told you, I can’t make any promises. If I think your information is really worth something, I’ll talk to the DA and see what he thinks. He may be willing to accept a plea of guilty to Assault Two.”

“That sounds very nebulous.”

“It’s all I’ve got to sell,” Brown said, and shrugged. “Yes or no?”

“Suppose I told you...” Kahn said, and hesitated.

“I’m listening.”

“Let’s start with the picture.”

“Okay, let’s start with the picture.”

“There are eight pieces, right?”

“Right.”

“But only seven names on the list.”

“Right.”

“Suppose I know where that eighth piece went?”

“Let’s stop supposing,” Brown said. “Do you know?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, where’d it go?”

“To Alice Bonamico.”

“We already know that, Kahn. Her husband gave her half of the list and one piece of the photograph. If that’s all you’re...”

“No, he gave her two pieces of the photograph.”

“Two,” Brown said.

“Two,” Kahn repeated.

“How do you know?”

“Gerry tried to bargain with her, remember? But Alice was dealing from a position of strength. Her husband had given his mistress only half of the list. But to Alice, his wife, he had given the other half of the list plus two pieces of the photo. That can make a woman feel very important.”

“Yes, that was very thoughtful of him,” Brown said. He was remembering that Irving Krutch claimed to have received half of the list and only one piece of the picture from Lucia Feroglio. If Alice Bonamico had indeed possessed two pieces of the picture, why had she willed only one of those pieces to her sister? And where was the missing piece now, the eighth piece? He decided to ask Kahn.

“Where is that eighth piece now?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Kahn said.

“Well, that’s certainly very valuable information,” Brown said.”When I talk to the DA, he might even be willing to reduce the charge to Spitting On The Sidewalk, which is only a misdemeanor.”

“But I do know where Gerry’s piece is,” Kahn said, unperturbed. “And believe me, it’s a key piece. I don’t think Bonamico realized how important a piece it was, or he wouldn’t have entrusted it to a dumb gunsel like D’Amore.”

“Okay,” Brown said, “where is Gerry’s piece?”

“Right behind you,” Kahn said.

Brown turned and stared at the wall.

“We’ve already looked in the safe,” he said.

“Not in the safe,” Kahn said.

“Then where?”

“Give me a hand, will you?” Kahn said, and walked to the painting of the nude. Together, they lifted the painting from the wall, and placed it face-down on the rug. The canvas was backed with what appeared to be brown wrapping paper. Kahn lifted one corner of the backing and plucked a shining black-and-white scrap from where it was wedged between the frame and the canvas.

“Voilà,” he said, and handed the scrap to Brown.

“Well,” Kahn said, “what do you think now?”

“I think you’re right,” Brown answered. “It is a key piece.”

It was a key piece because it gave perspective to the photograph. There was no sky, they now realized, because the picture had been taken from above, the photographer shooting down at what now revealed itself as a road running beside a footpath. The Donald Duck segment of the picture, now that the perspective was defined, showed three benches at the back of the fowl’s head, a broken patch in the cement forming the bird’s eye, a series of five fence posts running vertically past its bill. The bill jutted out into...

Not mud, not cement, not stucco, not fur, but water.

Cool, clear water.

Or, considering the fact that Carmine Bonamico and his inept band had tried to make their escape along the River Road, perhaps water that was not quite so clear, perhaps water that was slightly polluted, but water nonetheless, the water of the River Dix that ran along the southern bank of Isola. Carella and Brown had a hurried conversation in the squadroom, and decided between them that Donald Duck should be easy to spot from the air.

He was not all that easy to spot.

They boarded a police helicopter at the heliport downtown and flew above the River Road for close to three hours, up and down its winding length, swooping low wherever a side street entered the road. The upper left-hand corner of the picture indicated just such a side street entering somewhere, and they hoped now to find the elusive duck with its telltale eye just below one of those entrances. The footpath with its benches and its guardrail ran the length of the river. There were thirty-four side streets entering the road, spaced at ten-block intervals. Their only hope of finding the right side street was to find the broken patch of cement.

But the robbery had taken place six years ago.

And whereas the city was sometimes a trifle slow in repairing broken sections of footpaths, they had done a damn good job on Donald Duck’s eye.

Without the missing eighth piece, nobody knew where nothing was.