Jigsaw

2

“What is it?” Detective Steve Carella asked.

“Piece of a snapshot,” Brown said.

They were in a corner of the squadroom, Brown sitting behind his desk, Carella perched on one end of it. Early morning June sunshine streamed into the office. A mild breeze filtered through the wire grilles covering the open windows. Carella, sitting on the edge of the desk, sniffed of the late spring air, and wished he were sleeping in the park someplace. A tall, wiry man with wide shoulders and narrow hips, he gave the impression of being an athlete in training, even though the last time he’d engaged in any sportlike activity was the snorkeling he’d done in Puerto Rico on his last vacation. Unless one wished to count the various footraces he had run with criminals of every stripe and persuasion. Carella did not like to count those. A man could get winded just counting those. He brushed a strand of longish brown hair off his forehead now, squinted his brown eyes at the photo scrap, and wondered if he needed glasses.

“What does it look like to you?” he asked.

“A dancing girl in a leotard,” Brown answered.

“Looks more like a bottle of Haig & Haig Pinch to me,” Carella said. “What do you suppose this furry stuff is?”

“What furry stuff?”

“This textured stuff, whatever-the-hell-it-is.”

“Mud, I would guess.”

“Or part of a wall. A stucco wall.” Carella shrugged, and dropped the scrap onto the desktop. “You really think this is why... what’s his name?”

“According to the identification in his wallet, his name was Eugene Edward Ehrbach.”

“Ehrbach. Anything on him?”

“I’m running a check with the IB right now. On both of them.”

“You think Ehrbach really broke into the apartment to get this?” Carella asked, and tapped the photograph segment with a pencil.

“Well, why else would it be in his hand, Steve? I can’t see him going up there with a piece of a snapshot in his hand, can you?”

“I guess not.”

“Anyway, I’ll tell you the truth, I don’t see as it makes a hell of a lot of difference. The ME said it’s open and shut, and I’m inclined to agree with him. Ehrbach broke into the apartment, Renninger suddenly came home and surprised him, and we get a neat double homicide.”

“And the photograph?”

“Well, let’s say Ehrbach was after it. So what? He could just as easily have been after Renninger’s wristwatch. Either way, they’re both dead. The snapshot doesn’t change the disposition of the case either way.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Soon as we get those autopsy reports, I’m going to type this up as closed. You see any other way?”

“No, it looks pretty clear.”

“ME promised them for this morning.” Brown looked at his watch. “Well, it’s still a little early.”

“I wonder what kind of customers we’re dealing with here,” Carella said.

“How do you mean?”

“Two nice ordinary citizens, one of them carrying a Luger, and the other one carrying a switch knife with an eight-inch blade.”

“Whatever Ehrbach was, he wasn’t a nice ordinary citizen. He opened that window like a pro.”

“And Renninger?”

“Landlady says he worked at a filling station.”

“I wish the IB would get off its dead ass,” Carella said.

“Why?”

“I’m curious.”

“Let’s say they have got records,” Brown said. “It still wouldn’t change anything, would it?”

“You sound anxious to close this out,” Carella said.

“I got a caseload up to my eyeballs, but that’s not why I want to close it. There’s just no reason to keep it open,” Brown said.

“Unless there was a third party in that apartment,” Carella said.

“There’s no indication of that, Steve.”

“Or unless...”

“Unless what?”

“I don’t know. But why would anyone risk a burglary rap just to get a piece of a snapshot?”

“Excuse me,” a voice called from across the squadroom. Both detectives turned simultaneously toward the slatted wooden railing at the far end of the office. A tall hatless man in a gray nailhead suit stood just outside the gate. He was perhaps thirtyfive years old, with a thatch of black hair and a thick black handlebar mustache that would have caused serious pangs of envy in someone like Monroe. His eyebrows were thick and black as well, raised now in polite inquiry over startlingly blue eyes that glinted in the squadroom sunshine. His speech stamped him immediately as a native of the city, with not a little trace of Calm’s Pointese in it. “The desk sergeant said I should come right up,” he said. “I’m looking for Detective Brown.”

“That’s me,” Brown said.

“Okay to come in?”

“Come ahead.”

The man searched briefly for the latch on the inside of the gate, found it, and strode into the office. He was a big man with big hands, the left one clutched around the handle of a dispatch case. He held the case very tightly. Brown had the feeling it should have been chained to his wrist. Smiling pleasantly, he extended his right hand and said, “Irving Krutch. Nice to meet you.” His teeth were dazzling, the smile framed by a pair of dimples, one on either side of his mouth. He had high cheekbones, and a straight unbroken nose, and he looked like the lead in an Italian Western. The only thing he needed to attain instant stardom on the silver screen, Brown thought, was a change of name. Irving Krutch did nothing for his image. Steve Stunning, Hal Handsome, Geoff Gorgeous, any of those might have suited him better.

“How do you do?” Brown said, and took his hand briefly. He did not bother introducing Carella; cops rarely observed such formalities during business hours.

“Okay to sit down?” Krutch said.

“Please,” Brown said, and indicated a chair to the right of his desk. Krutch sat. Carefully preserving the knife-crease in his trousers, he crossed his legs, and unleashed the dazzling smile again.

“So,” he said, “looks like you’ve got yourselves a little murder, huh?”

Neither of the cops answered him. They always had themselves a little murder, and they weren’t in the habit of discussing homicides, little or otherwise, with strange, handsome, mustached, well-dressed smiling civilians who barged into the squadroom.

“The two guys over on Culver Avenue,” Krutch said. “I read about them in the paper this morning.”

“What about them?” Brown asked.

“I guess I should tell you I’m an insurance investigator,” Krutch said. “Trans-American Insurance.”

“Mm-huh,” Brown said.

“Do you know the company?”

“The name sounds familiar.”

“I’ve been with them for twelve years now, started there when I got out of college.” He paused, then added, “Princeton.” He waited for some response, saw that mention of his illustrious alma mater was not generating too much excitement, and then said, “I’ve worked with this squad before. Detective named Meyer Meyer. He still with you?”

“He’s still with us,” Brown said.

Carella, who had been silent until now, said, “What were you working on?”

“The National Savings and Loan Association holdup,” Krutch said. “Six years ago.”

“In what capacity?”

“I told you. I’m an insurance investigator. They’re one of our clients.” He smiled again. “Took us for a bundle on that one.”

The men were silent again.

“So?” Brown said at last.

“So,” Krutch said, “I read about your two corpses in the paper this morning, and I thought I’d better get up here right away.”

“Why?”

“Lend you a hand,” Krutch said, smiling. “Or maybe vice versa.”

“You know something about those killings?” Brown asked.

“Yep.”

“What do you know?”

“The newspaper said you found a piece of a photograph in Ehrbach’s hand,” Krutch said. His blue eyes shifted dramatically toward the photo scrap lying on Brown’s desk. “Is that it?”

“What about it?” Brown said.

“I’ve got another piece. And if you shake down Ehrbach’s pad, I’m pretty sure you’ll find a third piece.”

“Do you want to tell it, or do we have to pull teeth?”

“I’m ready to tell it.”

“Then tell it.”

“Sure. Will you help me?”

“To do what?”

“First, to get the piece in Ehrbach’s place.”

“Why do you want it?”

“Three pieces are better than one, no?”

“Look, Mr. Krutch,” Brown said, “if you’ve got something to say, say it. Otherwise, it’s been nice meeting you, and I hope you sell a lot of insurance policies.”

“I don’t sell insurance, I investigate claims.”

“Fine. I wish you lots of luck. Yes or no? Shit or get off the pot.”

Krutch smiled at Carella, as though sharing with him his aversion to such crude language. Carella ignored the smile. He was agreeing with Brown. He hated coy disclosures. The 87th Squad ran a nice little store up here on the second floor of the building, and so far the only thing Krutch was spending in it was time. Their time.

Sensing the impatience of the two detectives, Krutch said, “Let me fill you in.”

“Please do,” Brown said.

“Fade in,” Krutch said. “Six... ”

“What?” Brown asked.

“That’s a movie expression. Fade in.”

“You involved with movies?” Brown asked, ready to confirm the suspicion he’d harbored from the moment Krutch walked in.

“No.”

“Then why the movie expression?”

“Everybody says ‘Fade in,’ ” Krutch explained.

“I don’t say ‘Fade in,’ ” Brown replied.

“Okay, so we won’t fade in,” Krutch said, and shrugged. “Six years ago, in this city, in broad daylight on a rainy afternoon in August, four men held up the Culver Avenue branch of NSLA and got away with seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars. That’s a lot of kale. The branch, incidentally, is located in this precinct.”

“Go on,” Carella said.

“You remember the case now?” Krutch asked. “Meyer and O’Brien were working on it.”

“I remember it,” Carella said. “Go ahead.”

“Do you remember it, Detective Brown?”

“Yes,” Brown said.

“I don’t think I got your name,” Krutch said, turning to Carella.

“Carella.”

“Nice to meet you. Are you Italian?”

“Yes.”

“The leader of the gang was Italian. Fellow named Carmine Bonamico, record as long as your arm. In fact, he’d just got out of Castleview after serving a five-and-dime there. First thing he did, while he was still on parole, was knock over the bank. You remember any of this?”

“I remember all of it,” Carella said.

“Are my facts correct so far?”

“They are.”

“My facts are always correct,” Krutch said, and smiled. Nobody smiled with him. “The wheelman was a young punk named Jerry Stein, a Jewish kid from Riverhead, his first job. The two guns were both ex-cons, Lou D’Amore from Majesta and Pete Ryan, also from Riverhead, a regular little United Nations they had on that job. They came in just before closing time, grabbed as much as they could from the vault, shot one of the tellers, and then drove off, presumably heading for Calm’s Point, which is where Bonamico lived with his wife. It was raining; did I mention it was raining?”

“You mentioned it.”

“They got onto the River Road, and had almost reached the Calm’s Point Bridge, when the car went into a skid, hit another car, and caused a traffic tie-up. Two patrolmen from the Three-Six pulled up in a squad car, and Bonamico and his pals opened fire. All four of them were killed inside of five minutes. The great mystery is why they began shooting at all. The car was clean. It was later searched from top to bottom, but the bank loot wasn’t in it. Not a dime of it.” Krutch paused. “Okay, dissolve...”

Brown looked at him.

“Trans-American gets called in, Irving Krutch investigating.” He grinned. “That’s me. Result? Two years of intensive search for that money, and no trace of it. We finally settled the claim in full, seven hundred and fifty G’s from our coffers to NSLA’s.” Krutch paused. “That’s bad. I don’t have to tell you how bad that is.”

“How bad is it?” Brown asked.

“Bad. Bad for Trans-American, and especially bad for Irving Krutch who couldn’t find the money. Irving Krutch was up for a promotion at the time. Instead, Irving Krutch is now handling minor claims, at the same salary he was getting six years ago. Krutch is an ambitious fellow. He doesn’t like dead-end jobs.”

“Why doesn’t Krutch change his job?” Carella suggested.

“Because the field’s a narrow one, and losing seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars is the kind of word that gets around very fast. Besides, Krutch has an inordinate amount of pride in his work.”

“Do you always talk about yourself in the third person?” Carella asked. “Like your own biographer?”

“It helps me to be objective. It’s hard to be objective about losing seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars for the company, especially when the case has been officially closed by your squad.”

“Who told you that?” Carella said.

“You got the thieves, didn’t you?”

“The case is still in our Open File.”

“How come?”

“Let’s say we also have an inordinate amount of pride in our work,” Carella said. “The money wasn’t in the car. Okay, the River Road is some three miles from the bank. Which means that somewhere along the escape route, the money could have changed hands. If that happened, then the rest of the gang is still at large, just itching to spend all that cash. We’d like to get them.”

“Forget it.”

“What do you mean?”

“The money wasn’t turned over to anybody. If you’re keeping the case open in hope of finding the rest of the gang, forget it. There were only four of them, and they’re all dead.”

“Do you know that for a fact?’

“Yes. I got it from Bonamico’s sister-in-law.” Krutch paused. “You mind if I tell it in order?”

“Any order you like,” Brown said, “so long as you tell it.”

“Okay, dissolve. Krutch is still bugged by the loss of that money. It keeps him awake nights. His company has settled the claim, not to mention his future, but it still bugs him. Where can the money be? Who’s got it? Bonamico is no master criminal, mind you, but neither is he stupid enough to throw that kind of cash out the window of a getaway car. So where the hell is it? Krutch keeps wondering about it. Krutch keeps tossing and turning at night...”

“Krutch should be writing mystery stories,” Carella said.

“...obsessed with the thought of locating that cash and becoming a contender again.”

“A contender?”

“At Trans-American.”

“Oh, I thought maybe you also did a little boxing on the side,” Brown said.

“Matter of fact, I used to box in the Navy,” Krutch said. “Middleweight division.” He paused, eyed them both shrewdly, and said, “You guys don’t like me much, do you?”

“We’re civil servants,” Brown said, “soliciting information from a private citizen who may or may not possess knowledge of a crime. We are patiently waiting. If we have to wait much longer, we’ll be forced to rent you office space.”

“I like your sense of humor,” Krutch said, and smiled.

“My wife doesn’t,” Brown said. “We’re still waiting, Mr. Krutch. We are getting old and gray waiting.”

“Okay. Two months ago, I got lucky.”

“You mean you were still working on this thing?”

“Not officially. Only on my own time. Pride, remember? Ambition. Tenacity. Krutch the would-be contender. I opened the paper one morning two months ago and learned that a woman named Alice Bonamico had died of cancer at the Sacred Heart Hospital in Calm’s Point. No one would have noticed her passing, of course, if she hadn’t incidentally been the widow of one Carmine Bonamico who had knocked over a bank six years earlier and caused the loot to magically disappear. I knew the lady because I’d talked to her often when I was investigating the claim. She was a nice type, quiet, pretty in a dark Sicilian way, you’d never think she’d been married to a cheap hood. Anyway, the newspaper item said that she was survived by a sister named Lucia Feroglio. I made a mental note, and later discovered she was a spinster, also living in Calm’s Point.”

“How much later was this?”

“A week or so. As soon as Alice Bonamico’s will was filed in Surrogate’s Court. It was a very interesting will. Aside from leaving her entire estate to her sister Lucia, it also left her, and I quote, ‘Certain mementos, documents, photographs, and photographic segments considered to be of value by the deceased.’ I immediately got on my horse and went to visit Lucia Feroglio in Calm’s Point.”

“This was two months ago?”

“Right. The third day of April. A Friday. Lucia Feroglio is an old lady in her seventies, memory failing, barely speaking English, partially deaf. You ever try to talk to a deaf woman?”

Carella said nothing.

“Anyway, I talked to her. I convinced her that her brother-inlaw had taken out a very small policy on his wife’s life, naming Lucia Feroglio as beneficiary, and that a check for one thousand dollars would be issued to her as soon as the conditions of the policy were met. I invented the conditions, of course.”

“What were they?”

“That she satisfy my company that she was indeed in possession of the ‘Certain mementos, documents, photographs, and photographic segments considered to be of value by the deceased.’ Even deaf old ladies who hardly speak English can understand a thousand dollars. She patiently went through all the crap her sister had left her — family pictures, birth certificates, even the caul Alice had been born with, carefully wrapped in a square of pink satin; that’s supposed to be good luck, you know, if you’re born with a caul. And in the midst of all this crap was exactly what I hoped would be there.”

“Which was?”

“A list of names. Or at least a partial list of names. And a piece of a photograph.” Krutch paused. “Would you like to see them?”

“Yes,” Carella said.

Krutch opened his dispatch case. Resting on top of a sheaf of Trans-American claim forms was a legal-sized white envelope. Krutch opened the envelope and took out a scrap of paper. He put it on the desktop, and both detectives looked at it.

“Those names are in Carmine Bonamico’s handwriting,” Krutch said. “I’m quite familiar with it.”

“Seven of them,” Carella said.

“Or maybe more,” Krutch answered. “As you can see, the list is torn.”

“How’d it get torn?”

“I don’t know. That’s the way Lucia turned it over to me. It may have been accidentally damaged, or another piece of it may be in someone else’s hands. Considering what Bonamico did with the photograph, that’s a likely possibility.”

“Let’s see the picture,” Carella said.

Krutch dipped into the envelope again. He took out a piece of a glossy photograph and put it on the desktop, alongside the scrap they had found clutched in Ehrbach’s hand.

“How do we know these are pieces of the same photograph?” Carella asked.

“They’re both cut like a jigsaw puzzle,” Krutch said. “That can’t be accidental. Nor can it be accidental that you found your piece in the hand of one of the men listed here in Bonamico’s handwriting. Or that the other dead man is also on the list.” Krutch paused. “Ehrbach’s a better burglar than I am. I’ve been in and out of Renninger’s place a dozen times in the past two months, and I never found a thing.”

“You’re admitting to breaking and entry, Mr. Krutch?”

“Shall I send for my lawyer?” Krutch asked, and grinned.

“Did you shake down Ehrbach’s place as well?”

“I did. And found nothing. His piece is probably as carefully hidden as Renninger’s was.”

Carella looked at the list again. “Who’s Albert Weinberg?”

“One of Stein’s close buddies. Jerry Stein, the kid who drove the getaway car. Beginning to make sense?”

“Not much.”

“Weinberg’s a hood in his own right. So are the other two, in case you don’t already know.”

“Which other two?”

“Renninger and Ehrbach. Renninger was busted eight years ago for pushing junk. He was in Caramoor at the time of the holdup, got out of prison only two years ago. Ehrbach was busted twice for burglary, one more time and they’d have thrown away the key. Makes the risk he took seem even more meaningful, doesn’t it? He was taking the chance of a third fall, and for what? Unless that picture means something, he was a goddamn fool to break into Renninger’s place.”

“You’re better than the IB,” Brown said. “Assuming this is straight goods.”

“As I told you,” Krutch said, smiling, “my facts are always correct.”

“What about the other names on this list?”

“I’ve been through the telephone book a hundred times. You know how many Geraldines there are? Don’t ask. As for Dorothy, she could be Dorothy Anybody. And the R-o-b? That could be Robert, or Roberta, or Robin, or even Robespierre, who knows? It was easy to fill in the ‘Renninger’ because the name was almost complete. And I doped out the ‘Ehrbach’ because of the ‘Eugene E.’ They’re both listed in the Isola directory. Alice is Alice Bonamico, of course. But I have no idea who the others are, and no idea whether there are more than seven. I hope not. Seven pieces of a puzzle are more than enough.”

“And when you assemble this puzzle, Mr. Krutch, what then?”

“When I assemble this puzzle,” Krutch said, “I will have the exact location of the seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars stolen from NSLA six years ago.”

“How do you know that?”

“Lucia Feroglio told me. Oh, it took some time to get it out of her, believe me. As I told you, her memory is failing, and she’s partially deaf, and her English is of the Mama mia variety. But she finally remembered that her sister had told her the photograph showed where the treasure was. That was the exact word she used. Treasure.”

“She said that in English?” Carella asked. “She said ‘treasure’?”

“No. She said tesoro. In Italian.”

“Maybe she was only calling you ‘darling,’ “ Carella said.

“I doubt it.”

“You speak Italian, do you?”

“A girlfriend of mine told me what it meant. Tesoro. Treasure.”

“So now there are two pieces,” Brown said. “What do you want from us?”

“I want you to help me find the other five pieces. Or however many more there are.” Krutch smiled. “I’m getting too well known, you see. Toward the end there, both Renninger and Ehrbach knew I was on to them. I wouldn’t be surprised if Ehrbach got to Renninger merely by tailing me.”

“You make it sound very complicated, Mr. Krutch.”

“It is complicated. I’m sure that Weinberg knows I’ve been watching him, too. And frankly, I can’t risk getting busted on a burglary rap. Which might happen if I keep breaking into places.” He smiled again. The smile had lost none of its dazzle.

“So you want us to break into places for you, huh?”

“It’s been done before.”

“It’s against the law, even for cops.”

“Lots of things are against the law. There’s seven hundred and fifty G’s involved here. I’m sure the 87th wouldn’t mind locating it. Be quite a feather in your cap, after all these years.”

“Yes, it might be,” Carella said.

“So do it,” Krutch said simply.

“Do what?” Brown asked.

“First of all, go over Ehrbach’s place with a fine comb. You can do that legally. He’s the victim of a homicide, and you’re conducting an investigation.”

“Okay, let’s say we shake down Ehrbach’s place.”

“Yes, and you find the third piece of that picture.”

“Assuming we do, then what?”

“Then you go after Weinberg.”

“How? What’s our legal excuse there, Krutch?”

“You don’t have one. You couldn’t approach him as fuzz, anyway. He’s been in trouble before. He’s not likely to cooperate with The Law.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“Assault. He beat a woman half to death with his fists. He’s enormous, must weigh at least two hundred and fifty pounds. He could break either one of you in half with just a dirty look, believe me.” Krutch paused. “What do you say?”

“It might be worth our time,” Carella said.

“We’ll have to talk it over with the lieutenant.”

“Yeah, you talk it over with him. I think he might understand how nice it would be to recover that bank loot.” Krutch smiled again. “Meanwhile, I’ll leave the list and the picture with you.”

“Won’t you need them?”

“I’ve got copies,” Krutch said.

“How come somebody so smart needs our help?” Carella asked.

“That smart I ain’t,” Krutch said. He took a card from his wallet and placed it on the desk. “That’s my home number,” he said. “Don’t try to reach me at Trans-American. Let me know what you decide.”

“We will indeed,” Carella said.

“Thank you,” Krutch said. He offered his hand to Brown. “Detective Brown?” He retrieved his hand, shook hands next with Carella. “Detective Carella?” Then he smiled his dazzling smile and went out of the squadroom.

“What do you think?” Brown said.

“I don’t know. What do you think?” Carella said.

“I don’t know. Let’s see what the lieutenant thinks.”