Naked Cruelty

CHAPTER II

The Glass Teddy Bear gift shop actually showed to best advantage after the Busquash Mall had closed its ornate doors and before the timer turned the shop’s interior lights out. No customers disturbed the glitter from arrays of exquisite wine or water glasses, the sparkle from cut crystal vases, the gleam from transparent plates, cups, saucers, ornaments and paperweights. It was a cavern filled with pools and points of light arising out of mysterious shadows, an effect enhanced because every background thing was painted black, or covered in black.

All else paled in contrast to the glass teddy bear himself. He sat in the window on a black velvet box, all alone, glowing like a phosphorescent sea creature. His plump body, legs, arms and head were colorless, made of glass so flawless it held not a single air bubble. His legs stretched out in front of his body, the pads on the bottom of his feet a clear yet satiny ice-blue, each surrounded by stitches in glass thread of a darker blue. One arm was slightly forward of the body; the other was extended in mute appeal. Each had an ice-blue, satiny paw pad. The little round ears were lined with the same glass as his pads, and his face, mouth fixed in a joyous smile, bore two huge, starry eyes of a deeper blue. Though of itself the bulk of his glass had no color, this genuine work of art picked up the blue of paw pads, ears and eyes, and shimmered as if an invisible palest blue flame rendered him incandescent.

Most amazing of all was his gigantic size: about the same as a hefty three-to-four-year-old child.

Though to some extent the shop was still illuminated from the Mall, the lights inside the shop had been out for five hours when the unfaltering forest of pinpoints and pools shivered, some snuffed out, some diminished, others unaffected. The door from the service corridor into the shop’s back room had opened, and remained open as a dark form passed back and forth through it, lugging plastic trash bags. This done, the door closed and a battery-powered lamp came on. From its position atop a filing cabinet, its rays lit up the curtain of glass beads, a frozen waterfall, that barred entrance to the shop itself. The dark form gathered the curtain up and tied all its fabulous ropes against the jamb. A trash bag disappeared into the shop, and came the noises of cans colliding, bottles clinking, boxes and cartons thudding, wet squelches from cascading organic matter. The bag emptied, the form went back to fetch another bag, empty it in a different place. Ten bags in all-more than enough.

The smell of decay was rising as the dark form moved then to the front of the shop, where the glass teddy bear sat on his black velvet box and the night lights from outside made him glow with a dimmer fire. Whoosh! A cloud of dust and debris flew from the smaller bag that the dark form held out and flapped; the glass teddy bear’s luminescence was extinguished under a pall of sticky, grimy vacuum cleaner residue.

There were several more whooshes in other parts of the shop, then the dark form released the bead curtain, which fell into place with a series of chimes that plastic beads could never produce. A knife came out to slash the strands holding the beads; it hovered, undecided, then the dark form snapped the knife closed, and the bead curtain was safe.

The Vandal moved into the back room, collected his flashlight from the filing cabinet, and let himself out. A good exercise… That idiot Charlie the Mall owners employed as their sole night watchman was on his coffee break, regular as the clock he consulted. How come such fools had the money and power to erect something as fine as this shopping mall, then didn’t see the virtue of good night security? They asked for everything they got. And, come to think of it, he could do with a second visit tonight.

From the Glass Teddy Bear he went down to the Third Holloman Bank, whose premises, inside a very up-market mall, boasted little in the way of precautions like time-locked vaults-no need, in a venue where the clients were after cash or validation of checks. He disarmed the device in the service hall, let himself in, and went straight for the cage wherein Percy Lambert kept his cash ready for the morning. Who would ever have thought that these keys would prove so handy? People were so careless! The fifth key fitted the lock, the door opened; the Vandal strolled in and helped himself to $50,000 sitting on the table in preparation for apportioning to the tellers’ drawers in the morning.

By four a.m. it was all over; the Vandal drove off just as Charlie was starting his rounds. He wouldn’t even notice, thought the Vandal, taking a bet with himself. It would take Miss Amanda Warburton and Mr. Percy Lambert to raise the alarm when they came in at eight.

Amanda Warburton smelled the damage before she set eyes on it, so stunned that she dropped the leashes in her left hand and ran into the shop feeling as if someone had cut off air to her lungs. Gasping, choking, she took in the enormity of this crime, and found herself unable to scream. Instead, she used the phone in her back room to call the Mall manager, Hank Murray. Because she was fifteen minutes earlier than Percy Lambert on this first day of October, Hank came racing with his bottle of emergency brandy and some paper cups oblivious to how bad his morning was going to get, intent only on Amanda.

“Oh, Miss Warburton, this is terrible!” he cried after one horrified glance into the shop. “Here, sip this, it will make you feel better. It’s only brandy-the best thing for shocks.”

He was a presentable man in his early forties whom Amanda had liked on her few meetings with him, so she sipped obediently and did indeed feel some strength flow into her.

“What did he do to the glass teddy bear?” she asked, tears coursing down her face. “Tell me the worst, please!”

Having assured himself that she wasn’t going to pass out, he toured the glass shop, more astonished now than horrified-what was this guy about, for God’s sake?

“Everything’s covered in filth, Miss Warburton,” he said, returning, “but it looks as if nothing’s been damaged-not even a chip. The glass teddy bear is fine underneath his dirt.”

“Then why-? What-?”

“I don’t know, except that it’s vandalism,” Hank Murray said in a soothing voice. “Because your stock is glass, it won’t suffer once it’s been properly cleaned. I know a firm will guarantee to clean up your shop as if none of this ever happened, honest. All we have to do is catch the Vandal, who couldn’t have done this if we had better night security.” He squared his shoulders. “However, that’s my business, not yours. Do I have your permission to get things rolling, Miss Warburton?”

“Yes, of course, Mr. Murray.”

“Call me Hank. Are you insured for this kind of thing?”

“Yes.”

“Then it really isn’t a problem. Have you got a card for your insurance agent? I’ll have to see him too, and he’ll have to see this.” He gave a rueful laugh. “I guess I sound cold-blooded, but I have to get things started for you, especially if Mall rumor says aright.”

“What does it say?”

“That you’re alone in the world.”

“Except for a pair of very unsatisfactory nephews, rumor is true,” she said.

“Are the nephews hereabouts? May I call them?”

“No, they’re in San Diego. I’d rather you called Marcia Boyce-she’s my friend and lives next door to me.”

His hazel eyes showed concern for her, his attractive face very serious. “I’m afraid I have to call the police. Too much malice for simple vandalism, and I don’t understand why, if the culprits are simple vandals, they didn’t break anything.”

“Nor do I, frankly. Yes, I have to notify the police.”

Her phone rang; Hank answered it, growing stiffer by the second. When he put the receiver down he stared at Amanda in a new horror.

“You wouldn’t read about it, the Third Holloman Bank has been robbed. Looks like the Vandal was more than a vandal. Will you be all right until I can get Miss-Mrs.-Boyce here?”

“Yes, Hank, I’m over the worst. You go. I’ll call Marcia-she’s Miss Boyce-myself. I’m okay, truly.”

Only when Hank was gone did Winston make his presence felt with a long, highly displeased meow.

Amanda gasped. “Winston! And Frankie! Where are you?”

A growl in what sounded like a very big cat’s throat took Amanda’s eyes to a filing cabinet tucked in a corner; it didn’t meet the wall, which was on an angle, and two pairs of eyes stared at her reproachfully. But they wouldn’t come when she called-they were as upset as she was, obviously-so she had to go to them and remove their body harnesses; they walked on leashes with her to and from the car every day she opened her shop.

Winston, which had paws the size of a lion’s, it seemed to people meeting it, promptly took its twenty pounds to the top of the filing cabinet and hunched there, a magnificent marmalade in color, with unusual green eyes. The dog, which most people judged a pit bull and steered a wide berth around, was black-and-white, its ugly white head adorned with a black ring around its right eye. In actual fact Frankie was a gentle soul utterly dominated by the cat, to which it was passionately attached. Both animals were males, and both castrated.

At the end of a ten-minute sulk, the cat gave the dog its permission to go to Amanda, who clutched at its muscular back as if to a lifeline. What had happened? Who hated her enough to do this? The stench turned her stomach, but she couldn’t leave until the police came, and even then, she needed Marcia to drive her home, not trusting her own ability.

Two patrol cops arrived first: Sergeant Ike Masotti and his long-time partner, Muley Evans. Though Amanda couldn’t know it, she had drawn the best team on patrol in the Holloman PD.

“Weird,” said Ike to Muley after a cruise through the shop, “really weird, Muley. It’s not kids.”

“Nope,” said Muley, who knew his place: agree with Ike.

“You got any enemies, Miss Warburton?” Ike asked.

“None that I know of, officer.”

“It might be the glass. Some guys are kinky enough to see a shop full of glass as their ma’s cabinet full of best glass and china, and maybe they hate their ma, but they’re too afraid of her to break anything-just dirty it,” said Ike.

“Right,” said Muley.

“Only thing is, how does it fit in with the bank burglary?” Ike asked Muley. “Fifty thousand smackeroonies! He just picked ’em up and left. Locked the place behind him. Reactivated the alarm. Want to know what I think, Muley?”

“Yep.”

“Two different crims. The guy that did this and the guy that did the bank are not the same guy.”

“Uhuh,” said Muley noncommittally.

“I like your animals, Miss Warburton,” said Ike, approaching Frankie fearlessly. “What a great dog!” He pulled its ears and it groaned in ecstasy. He examined its collar and disc. “Your name Frankie, huh? Who’s Mister Huffy over there?”

“Winston,” said Amanda, who liked Ike Masotti a lot.

At which moment Sergeant Morty Jones came through the back door, reeking so strongly of booze that the two patrolmen exchanged a significant glance.

“Taft High kids,” he said after inspecting the premises.

“You’re wrong, Morty,” Ike said. “A bunch of kids go to all this trouble? Never happen. They’d get their fun breaking glass, not covering stuff in filth. Did anyone else get vandalized?”

“Not according to Mr. Murray,” said Amanda.

“Then this is a personal vendetta, right, Muley?”

“Right.”

“In your ear it is, Ike,” said the detective, turning for the back door and freedom; the smell didn’t help his nausea.

“I’ll write my report as I see it, Morty.”

“You can write it as the devil sees it, Ike. Mine is going to say Taft High kids.” On that note, and with a curt nod to Amanda, witness to the entire conversation, Morty Jones left.

“The detective goes, we gotta go, Miss Warburton. Sorry,” said Ike in genuine regret. “You gonna be okay here alone?”

“Yes, I’m fine.”

“That’s one real nice lady,” Ike said in the service corridor. “Why did we have to get Morty Jones? That was fresh booze on his breath, Muley, not last night’s. If the Commissioner gets a sniff, Morty’s out, and Ava wouldn’t like that. I heard she’s making sheep’s eyes at young Joey Donaldson in Communications.”

“I heard that too,” said Muley, and offered a comment of his own. “We ain’t snitches, Ike, but one day someone’s gonna tell the Commissioner Morty’s drinking on the job.”

“The worst of it is that I remember Morty before he went upstairs to Detectives and Larry Pisano. He was a good cop,” said Ike. “It’s Ava. How could she be stupid enough to tell Morty he didn’t father his kids? I mean, he loves them! Who fathered them isn’t the point. They’re Morty’s kids. I curse that woman, I curse her!”

“May she rot in hell,” said Muley.

Thus Carmine didn’t get a full report on the vandalism at the Glass Teddy Bear or the theft of $50,000 from the Third Holloman Bank. Despite the demands of the Dodo, both cases would have interested him.

Steaming, Helen MacIntosh went off to Hartford on that same Tuesday, October 1, in time to join Abe, Liam and Tony for breakfast in their motel; this was one case would not permit a commute, Abe announced, which didn’t please the owner of a Lamborghini. Perhaps, she thought, speeding up I-91, I shouldn’t have called Lieutenant Abe Goldberg ahead of time to ask for tips and a detailed description of what to expect, but how many women will there be? According to Goldberg, just me. He was curt and unforthcoming-I’d find out when I got to Hartford, why waste his time? He treated me like shit, the scrawny little guy-how did he ever make it into the cops at his size? Well, Lieutenant Abraham Goldberg, you are about to find out that no one from the wrong side of the tracks-or the right side!-treats a MacIntosh like shit. I will make your life such a misery that you’ll send me back to Holloman, where I can do the job I’m suited to do-catch the Dodo.

Marcia Boyce drove Amanda Warburton home, Frankie and Winston, on their leashes, sitting royally in the back seat of Marcia’s Cadillac. Luckily Marcia knew Amanda’s pets quite well enough to know that there would be no “accidents” en route.

Amanda and Marcia loved their condominiums, which were on the eighth floor just below the penthouse, and filled it entirely. They had bought off the plans, which had enabled them to custom-design their kitchens and bathrooms, an en suite bathroom for each bedroom, plus a guest toilet in the foyer. What luxury! What vindication!

As if all that were not enough, no sooner was the block of soaring glass up and its occupants moved in than the residents of Busquash, horrified at how it altered the antique patina of their world, fired the town Elders and put an iron-clad ordinance on the books that forbade the erection of anything over two storeys or modern in appearance. As the condos were dream apartments, they zoomed in value at once. What had cost a hundred thousand was now worth a million-and rising.

Marcia fixed a pot of English Breakfast tea and laced it liberally with cognac.

“Who would want to do such an awful thing?” Amanda asked, sipping with care: it was hot.

“Not high school kids,” said Marcia emphatically. “Drink up, honey. That detective must have been a dope.”

“You really don’t think it was high school kids?”

“Too malicious in a plotty, planny way, if you get my meaning. Hank Murray told me that nobody else’s shop was touched, and that baffled him. Everyone, even the dope of a detective, thinks the bank robber is a different person.” Marcia sipped her aromatic tea with enjoyment. “Face it, honey, Hank and I both think this was personal, aimed at the Glass Teddy Bear and you.”

Her bright eyes surveyed her friend affectionately-such a doll, Amanda! Pretty too, with her streaky blonde hair and her big blue eyes. Why had she never married? Her figure was good, and her legs tolerated the current above-the-knee hemlines better than most women her age. Marcia herself was a childless divorcee in comfortable circumstances, but, she admitted, her chances of a husband to keep her company in old age weren’t half as good as Amanda’s. Marcia was plain, dark, and distinctly overweight.

“A lot of my pleasure is gone,” Amanda said desolately.

“Huh?”

“The Glass Teddy Bear is all my dreams come true, but after this I feel-oh, I don’t know-kind of violated. I sank all my available money into the Busquash Mall business-the shop and the mail orders. After all, I did well in my shop downtown, even though I couldn’t display my better lines,” said Amanda. “I leased off the plans at Busquash, and I was right-I’ve done amazingly well. Now-this! Why my shop? Why me? Some of the Mall antique stores leave my prices for dead.”

Marcia listened, intrigued. Though they had been friends and neighbors since taking up residence in Busquash over two years ago, today was Amanda’s first confidence. So she’d had a shop downtown? Where? My own business has been downtown for ten years, but I never remember a glass shop… Yes! In the arcade that ran through to Macy’s. Waterford, Stuart, Bohemian, Swedish glass and crystal, wine glasses, tumblers and vases, and a good price for top quality things.

“Do you have family, Amanda?” she asked, emboldened.

For a moment Amanda’s face went expressionless, then she smiled and answered, her tongue loosened by the brandy. “Yes. Robert and Gordon, my late brother’s boys. They live in San Diego.” She frowned. “Not very satisfactory-they have such delusions of grandeur they remind me of patients in a book on psychiatry I read once.” She visibly shuddered. “And the-the affectations! I dislike them.”

“Oh, poor Amanda!” Marcia cried, moved. “It must be lonely for you.” She looked brisk, smiled brilliantly. “Cheer up, my dear. On Friday you and Frankie and Winston are going to return to the Glass Teddy Bear to find it exactly as it was-a crystal cave of beauty and delight.”

At the mention of their names the dog and cat stirred from their vigilant doze, but when the conversation didn’t continue about them, they snoozed again. It had been an upsetting day, and the only cure was sleep.

Amanda Warburton smiled, an enormous effort. “I hope you’re right,” she said doubtfully. “The smell! The filth!”

Time to introduce another subject. “Hank Murray is smitten with you,” Marcia said.

But that didn’t have the desired effect. Instead of going coy or bridling with pleasure, Amanda looked grim. “I hope not,” she said after a pause. “He hardly knows me. You’re mistaking kindness for interest, Marcia-at least, I hope so. I’m not searching for a boyfriend, let alone a husband.”

“Then you damned well should be!” Marcia said, astonished. “I wasn’t implying love or marriage, Amanda. I just meant that Hank’s a nice guy who’d like to know you better. Wouldn’t it be fun to have dinner with a good-looking man at Sea Foam instead of with me at the Lobster Pot?”

“No, it wouldn’t be fun!” Amanda snapped.

“But-”

“Leave it, Marcia! Just leave it!”

Marcia left it.

Expression flinty, Carmine stared at an unrepentant Helen MacIntosh as she sat on the opposite side of the kitchen table he preferred to a desk, with its drawers, knee-holes, modesty panels and nice wood tops. Who could ruin Formica, already?

Her pose was slightly insolent, slewed sideways on the old kitchen chair, legs crossed nonchalantly, one foot flopping up and down in its Ferragamo flattie, both legs on full display because she was in the shortest miniskirt Carmine had ever seen. A mane of hair flowed loose down her back, she was wearing enough make-up to put Delia in the shade, and her décolletage was-low. All told, his years of police training told him, she was flaunting about $3,000 in clothes, for nothing had been bought off the rack.

“What made you decide to join Lieutenant Goldberg in Hartford wearing exactly the kind of apparel I told you was inappropriate?” he asked, a hard edge to his voice.

“With about seventy cops in my immediate vicinity, sir, I figured I wouldn’t need sensible shoes to chase any fugitives, or worry about what the public thought of my miniskirts,” she said lightly, foot still jiggling.

“You were more than Lieutenant Goldberg’s assistant, Miss MacIntosh. You were in Hartford representing the Holloman Police Department, on duty as a trainee detective, the first in a brand new program every police department in the state is watching. I did not send you to Hartford to model for Mary Quant, as you well know. Instead of looking professional and as unobtrusive as possible, you tricked yourself out as if your function in the Holloman PD is to tease cock, if not service it.” Carmine’s voice didn’t change. “Who were you impressing? Or rather, to whom were you determined to give a wrong impression?”

Her cheeks were red, her mouth tight. “They stared at me like a dummy in a shop window. I knew they would no matter what I wore, so I decided to give them a thrill.”

“And when are you going to learn that being a cop isn’t about yourself, Miss MacIntosh? Did you stop to think what his peers and superiors would think of Lieutenant Goldberg, towing a sex kitten as his personal assistant? Under ordinary circumstances, Miss MacIntosh, there’s only one reason a forty-year-old man tows a sex kitten as an assistant. If you’d been in Detectives longer, I would have let Lieutenant Goldberg figuratively strip you in front of seventy men, but you and he aren’t acquainted yet. After this, you never will be. I hear tell that he simply looked you up and down, and told you to go home to Holloman. With, after you left, an apology on your behalf.” The amber eyes blazed. “What a fool you are, Miss MacIntosh! I handed you an ideal opportunity to get to know the best detective in the division, and you screwed it up because of your own ambition. No wonder the NYPD did nothing with you. How long did it take them to realize that mentally you’re on a par with any spoiled fourth grader? You’re puerile! Asinine!”

Her hands were trembling, she had swung to sit upright on the chair, and the beautiful face was rigid-with rage or with mortification was impossible to tell.

“Am I to take it that you didn’t understand the valid and necessary reasons for wearing sensible clothing on duty? That you have some scrambled feminist idea that I’ve put you down to feed my own masculine ego?”

“No, Captain, I got the message the first time,” she said, eyes sparkling with unshed tears. “It’s for my own safety and protection, I understand that.”

“You will apologize to Lieutenant Goldberg. In writing, and in person.”

“I’ll be back there properly clothed in an hour.”

“No, you won’t. Lieutenant Goldberg doesn’t trust you. You get your wish, Miss MacIntosh, and stay in Holloman. But not with the Dodo. Nick Jefferson will go to Hartford.”

Her skin lost color, she gasped. “Sir, please!”

“No. The subject is closed, and we won’t discuss it again.”

“As you wish.” Her shoulders straightened.

“However, I have a question to ask that I didn’t when I interviewed you. What drives you to a police career?”

She had risen to her feet. “I avoided that at interview, sir, I know. I’m attracted to the armed services, but the very idea of trying West Point or Annapolis-brr!” She shuddered. “They really are institutions for men, and I’m not a committed enough feminist to buck those two fortresses. Besides, I have a funny feeling that being a cop is a more interesting life. I like working for solutions, I guess.”

“I see.” He stood, a powerful man whose muscular bulk diminished his nearly six feet of height. The face turned to look at his wayward trainee was both broad and angular, its nose imperious and its mouth’s natural sensuousness disciplined into firmness. His eyes, as gold as brown, were widely opened and well apart, and had a fearless quality.

Why did I try that stupid stunt? Helen asked herself as she left Captain Delmonico’s office. For the same reason, she decided as she climbed the stairs, that a little kid pokes a sleeping tiger with a stick.

“Very true,” said Delia, in a frightful combination of acid-yellow and mustard-yellow with bright blue bows. “But in future, dear, do remember that poking a sleeping tiger is bound to see you squashed flat under one paw.”

“Can’t I help you with the Dodo?” Helen begged.

“No, dear, I have no desire to be pulp under the tiger’s paw. You’re with Paul Bachman in forensics for many days to come.” Delia sighed wistfully. “I scraped into Detectives through the back door-a head for plans, lists, paperwork by the ton-and it didn’t hurt to be the niece of the Commissioner, whose secretary I was. Before that, I had ten years with the NYPD in documentary fraud and anything else involving paper. But look at you! It really is a splendid program they’ve worked out for you. Everything we had to pick up on the job, so to speak, you’re being properly taught. So don’t you let my Uncle John down! If you do, you’ll feel the size of my paw.”

“The cleaners did a wonderful job,” said Hank Murray as he emerged from the service elevator with Amanda Warburton on Friday, October 4. “You’ll be able to open for the weekend.” He produced his own keys and opened her back door, one of many on a broad service hall.

As they walked inside he sniffed, smiled. “Smell, Miss Warburton. Sweet yet a tad herby-I hope that you don’t mind my picking the fragrance on your behalf. You’d never know that there was ever rotting garbage in here, would you?”

“No,” said Amanda, sagging in relief.

“Come on, take a look at the shop,” Hank encouraged as he steered her toward the shimmering curtain of glass beads. Then he stopped, so suddenly that Amanda cannoned into him.

“Dear God!”

She couldn’t help herself. Amanda shoved the Mall manager aside and ran into the shop.

Almost every item had been moved to form a gigantic mound where her sole counter had been; it had been pushed, complete with cash register, against the only free wall, where her array of Lalique and Murano picture frames had hung. They too were in the huge heap displaying a corner here, an edge there. But the “yard” for drinking a yard of beer was still in place on the same wall high above, and below it, the entirely ornamental “half yard” of thick, heavy crystal was intact.

Tears pouring down her face, Amanda rushed to the front window to check on the glass teddy bear himself. Yes, yes, he was there, unshifted, unmarked, sitting on his black velvet box and apparently ignored by the Vandal.

What kind spirit had prompted her to leave her animals at home this morning? Fishing up her sleeve to find a handkerchief, Amanda Warburton knew in her heart of hearts that she had expected more trouble today; the dust and dirt of the previous assault had seemed-yes, definitely-unfinished. Today was a logical sequel to the first attack.

Having notified the police, checked that no other stores had been vandalized, and learned that the three banks the Busquash Mall harbored were all okay, Hank was now kneeling alongside the pile of glass, not touching anything, but eyes busy.

“Weird!” he exclaimed. “Miss Warburton-Amanda!-it is weird. As far as I can tell, nothing’s been broken-or cracked-or chipped. Look for yourself. If I get the same cleaners back to pick up everything wearing gloves, you shouldn’t lose much if anything. No, no, don’t cry, please.” He hugged her, trying to convey comfort and sympathy. Miss Warburton was a lamb, she didn’t deserve this malice, this-this cruelty.

By the time Ike Masotti and Muley Evans arrived, Amanda was in the back room, with Hank Murray persuading her to have a little of his emergency brandy.

“I have to notify Detectives,” Ike said on taking a look at the mound of glass. “May I use your phone, Miss Warburton? The air waves are full of flapping ears shouldn’t be listening.”

“Please do.”

“There’s definitely something weird going on,” Ike said to the phone. “You’d better come take a look-see, Morty. This is definitely not high school kids.”

They waited over an hour.

He couldn’t help himself; he’d had to call in to the Shamrock Bar for a quick snort en route to the Busquash Mall and that persnickety bastard, Ike Masotti.

Nothing was improving, for all that Delia Carstairs kept telling him things had. She’d found him a great housekeeper, but he didn’t want a housekeeper, and nor did the kids-his kids. They all wanted Ava back. Bobby and Gidget, the lights of his life, not his? It was typical Ava, that’s all, to throw that one in. Only why had he decked her? So many years of knowing she played around-what was so different about that Saturday night? Except that he snapped at the taunt about the kids.

Now the kids cried all the time, he cried whenever he could sneak to the cells… He cried into his Jameson’s too, and had to clean up in the Shamrock bathroom before he could nerve himself to do whatever Ike Masotti said at the Busquash Mall. His head was spinning, he had to stop and park for a few minutes to get some sanity back… Oh, Ava, Ava! Bobby and Gidget are mine!

When he shuffled into the Glass Teddy Bear the two patrolmen exchanged glances-the smell of liquor was overpowering, worse than it had been last Tuesday.

Morty gave the mountain of glass a cursory inspection and returned to the back room. “High school kids,” he said, shrugging. And, to the cops, “You’re wasting my time, guys.”

“Less time to elbow-bend, you mean, Morty?” asked Muley when Ike wouldn’t. No one made undeserved cracks at Ike.

“It’s high school kids,” Morty maintained.

“It is not high school kids!” Ike yelled, exasperated. “This is nasty, Sergeant Jones. It feels wrong. No way that high school kids would pile up all that glass without breaking some, and none’s broken-not even chipped. This stinks of vendetta.”

“I don’t care what it stinks of, Ike. No real damage has been done, there’s not enough here to put anyone up on charges.” Morty licked suddenly dry lips. “I gotta go.”

Blinking, Amanda sat listening as if in a drugged haze; she was conscious that Hank’s hand on her shoulder had tightened its grip, and understood that the detective’s indifference had angered him. As Sergeant Morty Jones disappeared, she reached up to pat the hand. Thwarted, Ike and Muley followed Morty out, gazing at her in mute apology.

“Would you mind calling the cleaning firm for me, Hank?” she asked. “I’ll have to stay to supervise them-they won’t remember whereabouts things belong, now I tore the plan up.” She gave a small squeak of distress. “To think I had to draw a plan even once! But to think I’d need it twice!”

“First, your insurance agent,” Hank said firmly. “That lazy so-and-so of a detective didn’t take any photographs, and someone should. If anything is damaged, you’ll need proof.” He pressed Amanda’s fingers gently. “From now on the Mall is going to be protected by a professional security company, something I’ve been saying to deaf ears since the Mall opened. But no, the owners didn’t want to spend the money. Now, they have no choice. A bank robbery and a vendetta against a tenant with fragile stock. I mean, what if the Vandal had decided to target Quattrocento, down on the first floor? You can clean the filth off glass, but not off a fourteenth century credenza.”

“Who would do this?” Amanda asked for the tenth time, unable to get past her own violation.

“I have no idea.” Hank paused, then said, very delicately, “It’s going to be a very long day for you, and you shouldn’t be alone this evening, Amanda. May I take you to dinner?”

“Thank you, I’d like that,” said Amanda, sounding surprised.

The dinner with Hank Murray at the Lobster Pot went so well that the next evening, Saturday, he took her to Sea Foam.

Though she admitted that Hank was an ideal escort for a forty-year-old spinster, she wasn’t about to let him put his shoes under her bed. An occasional man had enjoyed that privilege, but only one had mattered, and he was long dead. If her heartache was permanent, that was her business. Financially she was comfortable; she didn’t need a meal ticket. Though, she couldn’t say why, she had a feeling that Hank wasn’t nearly as well off as the manager of a famous shopping mall ought to be. He paid the Sea Foam prices without a blink, yet when he fished for his wallet at the Lobster Pot, Amanda fancied that he was relieved she had indicated she preferred classy diners to up-market traps for gastronomes.

She had acquired Frankie and Winston, now three years old, as a deliberate ploy; with two cute animals in her window, her shop was visited by everyone who came to the Busquash Mall. No one else was allowed to have a pet; that Amanda was, was due to a clever sales pitch she had made to the Mall owners, a bunch of tightwads, combined with impeccably trained animals. At home the dog and cat were great company, though now that Hank had appeared, Amanda realized that no animal was a full-time substitute for a man. Hadn’t Marcia said so? Yes, and had her head bitten off for her pains. Still, Hank might have worked out differently had he been a different kind of man-pushed for an intimate relationship, for instance. But he hadn’t, and wasn’t. Hank seemed willing to keep on an outer orbit, never close enough to get burned.

On Sunday night she worked late, though she hadn’t told Hank. They hadn’t made any plans for the evening because he was involved in the outfitting of a new shop only three doors down from hers. It had been a dismal, unsuccessful outlet for vacuum cleaners-not the kind of thing people shopping at the Busquash Mall were after. Now it was going to be full of American Indian goods-blankets, ceramics, paintings, silver-and-turquoise jewelry. Hank had high hopes for it, and Amanda understood why. Buying Indian wares east of the Rockies wasn’t easy.

At eleven o’clock she locked up. On her way to the service elevators she poked her head in the back door of the Indian shop to give Hank a surprise greeting, but the place was a zoo of workmen, materials, tools and noise.

Only when she reached her neat little black Mercedes did she realize that her car keys were on the edge of her desk in the back room of her shop-oh, darn! How had she come to do that? A rhetorical question: the reason was a brown-wrapped box about the size of a Benedictine box that she’d had to squeeze into her bag, only to find it sitting smack on top of her car keys. She’d taken the box out, retrieved the keys, put the box back-and forgotten to pick up the keys. Darn, darn, darn!

The security firm was coming on board tomorrow night, but there was so much light and racket from the Indian shop that her journey back to her own shop was shorn of most of its fears. What fears were left? Crates, tools, cables and items of shop furniture all over the service corridor.

She flicked on the switch that sat alone and illuminated the area just inside her back door; the car keys were there, right where she’d left them.

Came the unmistakable sound of breaking glass from her shop. Outraged, Amanda never stopped to think. Dropping her big navy leather bag on the floor, she ran for the bead curtain, screaming shrilly to summon help from the Indian shop. A black-clad form wearing a ski mask stood on the far side of her counter, surrounded by the shards of what had been-she knew it well-an Orrefors one-off bowl. Above his head he held a Kosta Boda one-off vase formed like a surrealistic cat.

What foiled her was the counter. As she ran to one side to get around it he threw the vase not on the floor but at her, turning her scream into a howl of pain as the heavy object struck her on the hip. Down she went, while the black figure raced for the big sliding door at the front of the shop. Men were spilling into her back room as the Vandal tore off down the Mall proper, and was lost in the shadows.

Hank! Where was Hank?

“Here, Amanda,” came his voice. “What are you doing here?”

“Working late,” she panted, and moaned. “Oh, he hurt me! Where were you?”

“Getting another plan from my office.”

By this time the lights were on and Amanda realized that her glass stood in more danger from her would-be rescuers than from the Vandal.

“Please!” she cried, struggling until Hank lifted her to her feet. “Mr. Murray will deal with this now. Thank you, thank you for coming.” I sound like a happy hostess after a dinner, she thought, and cried out in pain. Someone thrust her chair under her, and she sank into it, sitting side on, as the workmen gradually left.

“Luiz, there’s your plan,” Hank said, indicating a rolled up blueprint on the floor. Then, to Amanda: “Will you be okay while I use your phone to call the cops?”

“Wheel me with you,” she said.

For some reason that amused him; he laughed. “Oh, Amanda! What did he do?”

“Broke my Björn Wiinblad bowl-a one-off,” she said, her hand grasping his belt as he wheeled her at her side rather than from behind. “He threw the Kosta Boda pussycat at me, so I suppose that’s broken too. Oh Hank, this is awful!”

“He might have killed you,” Hank said grimly, making her as comfortable as he could. “Ambulance first, then cops.”

“Make sure the ambulance uses the service corridor!” she cried in alarm. “I won’t have a gurney in my shop.” A small pause, then: “And I won’t have Sergeant Jones.”

Hank picked up the phone. “Nor will I,” he said.

The call was patched through to Carmine at home. Though as a captain he was on permanent call, he and his two lieutenants took turns on matters that came in after hours, and tonight chanced to be Carmine’s turn, a double whammy: he was taking Abe’s calls as well until he returned from Hartford.

“Captain Delmonico.”

“Oh, thank God, someone senior! Captain, I absolutely refuse to let Miss Warburton have any further dealings with that drunken moron, Sergeant Jones!” said an irate voice. “I understand that a detective will have to come to the Busquash Mall-just don’t send him. The previous attacks were vandalism and so is this one, but tonight Miss Warburton was injured. I want the bastard caught, and all Sergeant Jones can catch is a cold.”

Carmine finally managed to get a word in. “Your name, sir?”

“Henry-Hank-Murray, manager of the Busquash Mall, and a personal friend of Miss Warburton’s. It’s her shop, the Glass Teddy Bear, that’s been vandalized. And the first time the Vandal struck, we had $50,000 taken from the Third Holloman Bank as well. Sergeant Jones is supposed to be dealing with that too, but he’s done nothing.”

Carmine decided to go himself; if the theft of $50,000 from a bank was being neglected, his division was in big trouble-why didn’t Corey mention it? I’ve seen not a word on paper! What is going on with Morty Jones? “Drunken moron” sounds as if he’s drinking on duty. By rights I should send Corey, but I have a feeling matters have already gone too far for that. Nor can I be sure that Corey would give me a truthful account of Morty’s situation. The only one who tells me anything is Delia.

“Must you go out?” Desdemona asked in the hall. “If Julian wakes and realizes you’re not here, he’ll get up.”

“At a quarter of midnight? He won’t wake, lovely lady.”

“He might.”

“Think best, not worst.” He kissed her. “If he does wake, tell him I’ll be back in five minutes with a switch.”

“Carmine!”

“It won’t happen, Desdemona. Go to bed yourself.”

I can’t wait for Prunella Balducci to arrive, Carmine thought as he backed the Fairlane on to East Circle. Why didn’t I sense that my wife was as green as grass when we had Julian? She was stuffed full of theories, and that’s what they were-theories. Julian needs far more exercise than he gets, but Mommy is stuck with a second baby. Now she’s lumbered with an under-exercised, strong-willed child who pushes her around because she’s permanently tired. Nag! I never understood that toddlers could nag until I met my own son. Julian the defense attorney.

By the time he reached the Busquash Mall, Carmine had girded his loins to hear the worst about Morty Jones, and could only be thankful that Mr. Henry-Hank-Murray hadn’t called Silvestri. Not that he, Carmine, was prepared to shield Morty from official retribution; more that he wasn’t as yet convinced that Morty was beyond redemption. “Drunken moron”-an interesting reading of Morty’s character. If he was drinking on the job, it was more recently than when Carmine had seen him ten days ago. That had revolved around Ava’s swearing that the kids weren’t Morty’s. He loved those kids, loved them far more than selfish, nympho Ava did. Why did she screw cops, and no one but cops? But if the poor guy’s inebriated condition was obvious to civilians, it must be obvious to Corey. Who wasn’t lifting a finger.

Amanda Warburton was shaken and in pain, but quite capable of speaking for herself. “I lost my head when I heard the glass breaking,” she said. “He’d busted my Björn Wiinblad bowl into pieces, and he had my Kosta Boda cat over his head, ready to do the same. Then he saw me, and threw it at me.”

Carmine stamped the floor with his foot: it was covered with a deep-pile black commercial quality carpet. “I’m surprised the object broke,” he said.

“It’s concrete underneath, and while a short drop wouldn’t harm it, it would have sufficient momentum if he pitched it from above his head, which is where he was holding the cat.”

“You know your glass, Miss Warburton.”

“Yes, it’s been my life. But he knows it too, don’t you think? No short drops.”

Hank Murray butted in. “That idiot Sergeant Jones kept insisting the culprits were from Taft High,” he said angrily. “None of us agreed with him, even the two patrolmen-now they were great guys. Better detectives too. When he wouldn’t change his mind after the second attack, Miss Warburton and I lost all confidence in him. He stank of booze! So this time I wasn’t going to let Mr. Jones near the place.”

“I’m taking the case myself, Mr. Murray,” Carmine said, his voice calm. “Any reason Sergeant Jones was so set on Taft kids?”

“Vandalism in the neighborhood, apparently, but Taft’s neighborhood isn’t anywhere near Busquash apart from its easterly situation,” said Hank.

“What about in this mall? Apart from the Glass Teddy Bear’s vandalism and the robbery at the Third Holloman Bank, have you suffered any kind of crime wave, as the papers put it? Pick-pockets, bag snatchers, gang hazes?”

“You’d know if we had, Captain.”

Or should, thought Carmine grimly. “No, sir, I guess I need to phrase that better. I meant activities that weren’t reported to the police. I presume, for instance, that you have a security company patrolling?”

“No,” said Hank, scowling. “Finally, after nearly three years and half a hundred requests to the owners, Shortland Security will start patrolling tomorrow, Monday, October 7. It took three vandalisms and a bank robbery to succeed, but at last I have.”

“I see. Why the surprise that the Vandal broke your bowl?”

“Because on his two earlier visits,” said Hank Murray before Amanda could answer, “the Vandal never so much as chipped one thing. That was the weirdest part.”

Two ambulance medics walked through the back door, and all hope of further conversation with Amanda Warburton ceased.

“I’ll send two forensics technicians over first thing in the morning,” Carmine said as she was wheeled out, “but if by some miracle you’re discharged from the hospital tonight, don’t come in tomorrow. No one is to touch a thing, understood? Mr. Murray, I’ll see you at ten tomorrow morning about the bank robbery.”

Carmine thought Hank heard, but it was debatable; he was busy assuring Amanda that he’d go to her apartment to feed her animals, and taking custody of her keys. Besotted.

Before he left at a little after one a.m., Carmine picked up Amanda’s phone and dialed the number in his notebook. A sleepy voice answered. “Miss MacIntosh? Be at Paul Bachman’s lab before eight tomorrow morning. At eight on the dot you will accompany him to the Busquash Mall and a shop called the Glass Teddy Bear, which has been a prey to vandals or a vandal. Paul will take care of the physical evidence, whereas you will take care of the detective’s duties. I expect you to make full enquiries at the neighboring shops, and also ascertain, if you can, the number of vandals involved. Pay particular attention to a shop three doors up that’s being fitted out to sell American Indian goods-there may be witnesses. Take a close look at the Glass Teddy Bear’s goods-how up-market are its lines, for instance? You can report to me later on Monday.”

She couldn’t not ask it: “Is this connected with the Dodo?”

“Absolutely not.”

There! You might have wangled yourself back to Holloman, Miss MacIntosh, but no way are you working the Dodo. In fact, I couldn’t use you on the Dodo if you were a model trainee rather than a pain in the ass. The Dodo case is going nowhere.

Carmine’s first task on Monday morning was to visit the County Services property registry, which necessitated a plod up and down several flights of stairs and the negotiation of several halls that made him feel as if he passed from one country to another, instead of from one municipal function to another.

Without evidence he couldn’t look at Kurt von Fahlendorf’s bank accounts, but there was one way he could check whether the Carew gossip was right about the German’s wealth. How valuable was his property, and did he own it outright? Half expecting the deeds of 6 Curzon Close to be buried under X or Y Holdings, he found them openly listed: K. von Fahlendorf owned 6 Curzon Close free and clear. At one acre, it was a significant Carew property, especially given its extreme age. That antiquity made it costly to maintain, as every rotted board in its siding had to be replaced with a board of the same age and kind, and every roof shingle had to be hand split. A tiny cul-de-sac, Curzon Close, just six houses on it, and two were owned by Gentleman Walkers: Mason Novak owned 4 Curzon Close outright. Dapper Dave Feinman lived first house around the corner on Spruce Street. Coincidence?

“Ebenezer Curzon had owned and farmed fifty acres of Carew,” said the chief conveyancer to Carmine, delighted to have a captive audience. “It was sold off gradually, of course, all but the farmstead itself. That passed out of Curzon ownership in 1930, when the Depression was at its worst. It’s had a number of owners since, and I’m sorry to see it in foreign hands.” Her spatulate fingers tapped the floor plans of 5 Curzon Close. “Now this one, I’m pleased to say, has recently gone to what sound like real Yankees. Robert and Gordon Warburton.”

Poised to plead an emergency-the chief conveyancer would talk all day-Carmine propped.

“Warburton? Robert and Gordon?”

“Yes. They bought 5 Curzon Close eight months ago.”

“Do they live in it, or was it an investment?”

“That, Captain, I do not know.” She leaned across the counter conspiratorially. “However, I can tell you that there was an awful fuss when they started to paint it.”

Hooked, he leaned forward too; their foreheads nearly touched, like caryatids doing without a lintel. “Fuss, Aggie? Cough it up, or it’s back to dancing in the Rockettes for you.”

She giggled. “Would you believe, Carmine, that they began to paint it in black and white, board by board,” she tittered. “I had to drive out and see it. Like a zebra! Naturally the Council wouldn’t permit it-we were inundated with protests. I mean, right next door to Busquash, where you can’t even have a colored Christmas light showing outside? Carew is a part of Holloman City, so the ordinances can’t go that far, but they can be interpreted as forbidding black-and-white-striped houses. The Warburtons were livid and tried to launch a lawsuit, but not even Isaac Lowenstein would buck the town ordinances. Well, can you see Judge Thwaites hearing it? In California, the Warburtons said, anything goes. In which case, was the consensus of opinion, go back to California.”

“Well, dog my cats!” said Carmine feebly. “I guess staid old New England would be a shock after California, huh, Aggie? What was I doing, that I didn’t hear of it?”

“The race riots after Martin Luther King Junior?”

“Yeah, right.” He gave the chief conveyancer his most charming smile, and vanished as quickly as a pricked bubble.

He just had time on his way to Busquash Mall. Fortunate.

When the Fairlane pulled up outside 5 Curzon Close, Carmine tried to envision the lovely white clapboard house painted in black-and-white stripes. Why on earth would anyone want to do that? It stood in about half an acre of land, and bore evidence that at least one tenant of it was prepared to put in the hard work English-style flowerbeds demanded; they had been mulched for winter, and about next May would be a picture. No, real gardens didn’t fit with zebra striped houses. The only touch of color the house now sported was a red-lacquered front door. Not paint, lacquer. Carmine ended in concluding that Robert and Gordon Warburton had been pulling a few tetchy New England legs. Jokesters and pranksters, not Philistines.

Out of the Fairlane, up the flagged path toward the red door; before he was halfway there the red door had opened to disgorge two men who shut it firmly behind them. Perhaps five paces apart, Carmine stopped and they stopped, each side examining the other.

What Carmine saw were two absolutely identical men about thirty years of age. They had the kind of streaky brown hair that suggests tow-headed toddlers; it was well barbered, thick, and wavy. The face they shared had regular features and an enquiring expression, with greenish, grape-like eyes contributing most of the enquiry. As they stood side by side on the path, Carmine could not put one a fraction taller, heavier or wider than the other, and their physiques were exactly alike: narrow shoulders, slim waists, no hips, though the feet were splayed like a ballet dancer’s. They wore the same knitted shirts, casual trousers and loafer shoes, except that one twin was clad in black, and the other in white. Had they not worn different colors, it would have been impossible to tell them apart, and that was very strange in mature men: identicalness diminished with the years.

He pulled out his gold badge and introduced himself.

“I’m Robert Warburton,” said the black clad twin. “You’ll always know us apart by the colors we wear. Robbie dark, Gordie light. We thought it had better be black and white today in case you’ve come about our black and white house that was.”

“So you already know I’m a policeman?”

“You have been pointed out to us, Captain.”

There was the faintest suggestion of femininity about them; Carmine found himself wondering if, had he not been known to be a cop, the slight suggestion might have been a downright scream.

“Are you related to Miss Amanda Warburton?” he asked bluntly.

They gave a stagey jump, perfectly synchronized. “Yes, we are,” said dark Robert, apparently the spokesman.

“She never mentioned you last night, though I would have thought she’d stand in need of relatives.”

“You saw her last night? Not a date, obviously. Actually she wouldn’t have mentioned us.” He giggled. “She doesn’t know we’re living in Carew.”

“Any reason why, sir?”

Robert and Gordie shrugged in unison. “Not really, just the way families are, Captain. Amanda’s our father’s generation-our only aunt-even if there aren’t many years between us. A pity, I feel. The three of us are the last of the Warburtons. One reason why we decided to have a house near Amanda.”

“And then not tell her.”

Both pairs of skinned gooseberry eyes opened wide, but neither twin answered.

“I’d appreciate your letting Miss Warburton know,” Carmine said. “Your aunt is the victim of a weird kind of persecution, gentlemen. Her glass shop has been vandalized three times in a week, and Miss Warburton was injured last night during the third attack. A motive is hard to find, hence my visit to you.”

“Ooo-aa!” Gordie squealed.

“You mean we’re suspects?” Robbie asked sharply.

“Yes. Have you been in Holloman all week?”

“Well, yes,” dark Robert admitted.

“Are you gainfully employed, sirs?”

Both faces lit up identically. “Are we gainfully employed? Are the Marx Brothers a success? Are Olivia de Havilland and Joan Fontaine sisters? We are movie stars!” Gordie announced.

“Glad to hear you can speak too, sir. May we go inside?”

“A Californian’s home is his castle,” said Robert. “No, Captain, we stay out here.”

“What’s inside? Dead bodies? Stuffed dodos?”

They understood the reference to dodos, but ignored it. “Whatever it might be is our business until you produce a legal warrant,” Robert said, chin out. Gordie’s chin was out too. “I note that New Englanders are not a trusting bunch, so why did you think Californians would be?”

“It’s Miss Warburton concerns me,” Carmine said, rather enjoying this interlude. “I hope you’re planning to tell her you’re here, like today or tomorrow?”

“Don’t you want to hear about our career as movie stars?” Gordie asked, sounding injured.

“I don’t go to the movies,” Carmine said solemnly. “There are three repertory companies in Holloman, and American Shakespeare is just down the road at Stratford.”

“Yecch!” gagged Gordie. “Stage is phoney.”

“Film is phoney,” said Carmine.

“Twins! Identical twins!” cried pale Gordie.

“Huh?”

“And there you have it, Captain,” said dark Robert. “We are identical twins who can act. We fence. We’re expert riders. We can sing and dance. After we did Waltz of the Vampire Twins last spring, the offers have been rolling in. Right age, right sex, right look-we’ll never be Cary Grant, but we’ve found a way to live pretty well.”

“And that’s just the tip of our iceberg!” shrilled Gordie.

“Shut up, Gordie!” Robert snapped.

“How can movie stars live in Connecticut?”

“Paul Newman and Kirk Douglas do,” said Gordie.

“We have two more houses, Captain,” said Robert; it was clear that he was used to cleaning up after Gordie’s indiscreet remarks. “One is in San Diego that we rent out, and one in the Hollywood Hills is our residence while we’re on the West Coast. Work in California, rest in Connecticut.”

“Does either of you keep a diary?” Carmine asked.

“It’s a joint effort,” they chorused.

“Now why doesn’t that lay me flat on the ground in surprise? Bring yourselves and the joint effort diary to the County Services building, Police Department, tomorrow morning at nine. And make sure your diary goes back to the beginning of March.”

“Why? What have we done?” Robbie asked.

“Just helping with enquiries, sir. There’s a rapist loose in Carew.” He nodded to them and retreated down the path, the Warburton twins staring after him in horror.

Hank Murray was waiting in his VIP’s office, rather than the one where he kept plans, records, mountainous files and his secretary.

“A man your size could hardly move down there,” he said, seating Carmine in a green leather chair. “This one is for my clients and members of the Board. Cappuccino? Long black with cream? Ursula’s waiting for the order.”

“Cappuccino,” said Carmine.

“Danish?”

“Would not go amiss, Mr. Murray.”

Within five minutes Hank’s secretary appeared with a loaded tray, including his favorite, apple Danish.

“Fill me in on the bank robbery,” said Carmine.

“A definite inside job, Captain. Whoever stole the money had a set of keys. They came in the back door off the service corridor, and had keys to the strong room.”

“Do you have keys to the strong room, Mr. Murray?”

Hank gasped. “Lord, no! I have keys to the service door, of course, but to nothing else in any Busquash Mall bank branch.”

“Did Sergeant Jones ask you?”

“Uh-no. I wasn’t with him when he went to the bank.”

I hope it’s when, Carmine thought as he found the emergency stairs and went down a floor. Avoiding elevators was one of the ways he dealt with Desdemona’s cooking.

Having declined Hank’s company, he walked around to the Mall proper and entered the bank through its front door.

A nice little branch, floored and walled in a streaky marble of pink, white, green and grey. The tellers were behind a fine counter of the same marble, and probably each was equipped with an alarm button beside the right knee placed so it wouldn’t be knocked accidentally but was easy to reach. There were five teller slots, but only two working; several-customers?-clients?-patrons?-were inside, but no line had formed.

His gold badge admitted him through an electric gate in the counter, and he was conducted to a large desk in the far left corner where Mr. Percy Lambert, the manager, sat looking gloomy.

“Captain, I’m so glad to see you,” said Lambert, a tall, thin man with scant hair and the facial lines of one who suffered chronic indigestion.

Carmine sat in the client’s chair and looked competent. “I gather the money that was taken was your cash reserve for the next day?” he asked. “Answer me as if I know nothing, it’s my usual technique. Sometimes repetition jogs the memory,” he explained smoothly.

“Yes, it was the next day’s cash reserve. Under ordinary circumstances it’s sufficient to get us through, but if we have a heavy run on cash, I call head office in Cromwell Street and get more,” said Mr. Lambert.

“Does that happen often?”

“No, as I usually cater for known periods of high demand, like holiday weekends. Weekends I have to keep additional funds in house, as all our other branches are closed. The Busquash Mall is special. The Fourth National has a branch here too, and we alternate weekends. Holiday weekends, we’re both open.”

“I see. Was there anything special about the money, sir? Was it sequentially numbered? New or used?”

“Used bills, non-sequential.” The long face grew longer. “Ideal for a robber. It wasn’t marked in any way.”

“Show me where and how.”

The back right-hand corner of the big premises had been cut off from the general area by an extremely pretty cage of gold bars adorned with curlicues and simple lacework. The area inside it was ten by ten feet, its rear wall taken up by a series of safes with heavy, branched handles and numbered dials. A console sat against the front row of bars, and the entrance door was to the only free side, the left.

“We changed the lock immediately,” Lambert said as he turned a key several times back and forth, “but it’s being converted to a proper combination lock whose numbers will be changed daily.”

“You’re insured, of course.”

“Oh, yes.”

They walked in, a squeeze for Carmine, who vowed to check his weight at the police gym that very day.

“We have no safety deposit boxes or facilities for really big sums of money,” Lambert said. “I guess if I expected any kind of robbery, it was a holdup.”

“And none ever happened?”

“No, none, even aborted.”

“Has Detective Sergeant Jones been back to see you?”

“No,” Lambert said, sounding unconcerned. “I told him at the time that I didn’t think he’d solve it. I’ve racked my brains, Captain, and can’t ever remember the keys to the strong room out of my hands, let alone gone missing.”

“Do you carry them on your person?”

“No, I can’t. They’re heavy-the tellers’ drawers are on the same ring, and several keys to those safes back there.”

“So they’re in your desk? Known to be?”

“Not quite. They’re in that safe in my far corner-under the imitation fern. And I’m the only one with its combination.”

“Then your security is good, Mr. Lambert. Just keep your eyes peeled for anyone who reveals knowledge about the bank’s locks, and particularly your safe combination.” His voice remained dry. “Were you satisfied with Sergeant Jones’s conduct, sir?”

“Have you any reason to think I might not be, Captain?”

“No, it’s a routine question. But I would like a frank answer,” Carmine said.

“Well, he was pleasant enough, and he knew how bank robberies usually go down. If I have any complaint, it was the smell of liquor on his breath. But he apologized for that, said his wife had just left him and he’d gone on a bender.”

“Thank you for your understanding, Mr. Lambert. I’ll keep in touch,” said Carmine, and departed.

So Hank Murray was ruled out, and who else was left? No one. Murray had seemed a shoo-in for a while, listening to him on the subject of parsimonious mall owners and their reluctance to hire proper security; had it stopped with Amanda Warburton, Hank was a good bet, as the vandalisms had brought him into closer contact with a very attractive lady he clearly doted on. It would have enabled him to kill two birds with the same stone: get to know Amanda better, and bring Shortland Security on board. But to Carmine, the same man committed both crimes. In fact, the Vandal, whoever he was, had probably never intended more than that first, most bizarre invasion of the glass shop-garbage, yet! The two that followed were less imaginative, even if it had taken him some hours to pile up all the glass on the second invasion. The Warburton twins, perhaps? No. They were poseurs, and the idea of vandalism would most likely horrify them. Who, who, who?

A glance at his watch said that perhaps his forensics team were still at the Glass Teddy Bear; since he was on the premises, he may as well see what, if anything, had been discovered.

“The cleaning firm put paid to any chance I had of collecting evidence right up to this moment,” Paul said, packing up his gear in the back room. “It reeks of commercial fluids under an air freshener, and the carpet was shampooed within an inch of its life. The Vandal must have ruined the place. So to get it back to normal took real work. I asked Mr. Murray if it was Whistle-Clean, and it was.”

Since this firm contracted for the worst messes human beings could make, Carmine simply grimaced. “Never mind, Paul. The poor lady needed to be cheered up. How did Miss MacIntosh the sex kitten do?”

Paul’s fresh, round face lit up in amusement. “I wish I’d seen her! She turned up in a gaberdine pantsuit that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a nun. She did very well, Carmine. Went the rounds with her notebook and pencil, charmed the men and made the women like her. I guess the rocket you tied to her tail did the trick.”

In she came, notebook, closed, in her right hand; when she saw Carmine she gulped, almost saluted, then contented herself by standing to attention.

“At ease,” Carmine said solemnly. “What did you find out, Miss MacIntosh?”

“Nothing worth a thousand words of notes, sir, but there is one very interesting thing I’d like to show you,” she said, and moved toward the shop.

Carmine followed, waving goodbye at Paul.

Down to the front window, where the glass teddy bear sat in all his glory; Helen pointed at his face. “Did you ever see such eyes?” she asked. “Stars in them. And such a gorgeously rich blue, like the Pacific at its deepest.”

He inspected the glass teddy bear’s blue orbs intently. “Uh-they’re lovely,” he said lamely. “Is that it?”

“Yes, sir, that’s it.” Her face became serious, awed. “Sir, this glass animal is a wonder of the world. If you look closely at the little round tail-teddy bears don’t usually have tails-you’ll see the artist’s signature-Lorenzo della Fiori. He was the acknowledged master, the best in anyone’s memory. Based in Venice, but on Burano, not on Murano. Ten years ago he was murdered-thirty-four years old! God knows what treasures the world lost when he died untimely.”

Carmine was staring at her, stupefied. “How do you know this, Miss MacIntosh?”

Her lashes lowered, she assumed the demure look he supposed was a part of her customary repertoire when talking to men. “Art history and art appreciation at Miss Procter’s School for Girls, Captain. They may not have taught us much science, but they stuffed us full of art, literature and music. Miss Procter’s theory of education is that a Miss Procter’s girl will marry so well that one day she’ll be a patron of art, literature and/or music. After all, there’s only so much of a schoolgirl’s day that can be devoted to etiquette and the Blue Book.”

His lips twitched, but he maintained his calm. “You’re saying this thing is worth a fortune?”

“Several fortunes, actually. Look at its eyes again. Each is as big as an over-sized marble, and its color is a rich, slightly opaque, cornflower blue. You can’t call the glass cloudy, because that implies wispiness, whereas this is uniform. It really is an eerie opalescence, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” he said, fascinated. Where was she going?

“What really makes each eye so mesmerising is the six-pointed star in its depths. I mean, the star isn’t anywhere near the surface, yet if you could turn the big marble over, it would give you the same impression. The star kind of floats in space. Fabulous!” she cried.

“It must have been very hard to get the stars in its eyes.”

“That’s just it-he didn’t!” Helen said excitedly. “No human hand made those eyes, Captain. They’re star sapphires.”

“Jesus!” He stepped back involuntarily. “What are we looking at in pedestrian terms like dollars?”

“First, sir, you have to understand that this matched pair of gems is unique,” said that remarkable young woman. “Star sapphires are a dismal blue-grey color that detracts hugely from their value. The perfect color for a sapphire is cornflower blue, and star sapphires don’t come in cornflower blue. They just don’t. Except for this teddy bear’s eyes. Their value is inestimable, but if I had to put a price on a wonder of the world complete with two huge, matched, cornflower-blue star sapphires for eyes, I would go into the double millions. High double millions. Put it on display for two years, and you’d earn your money back. This is a true museum piece, but the only way you or anyone else would find out what it’s worth is to send it for auction.”

He grinned. “Does Miss Procter’s teach gemology too?”

“Captain, really! Did the Russians get into space first? Gemology is number one on the Miss Procter’s syllabus-name me a debutante who doesn’t have a jeweler’s eyepiece in her evening bag to check out any offered diamonds.”

“Quite,” said Carmine, keeping his mouth straight. “So a museum piece sits unprotected in a window with a vandal on the loose. Except that the Vandal has a carefully laid plan. And were it not for Miss Procter’s syllabus, we wouldn’t know that the teddy bear is anything other than very lovely and moderately expensive. The Vandal must have had a shock when Hank Murray succeeded in hiring Shortland Security. They’re the best, so getting the glass teddy bear out is now almost impossible.”

“Do you think he’s what the vandalisms have been about?”

“It begins to look that way.”

“According to Mr. Murray, Miss Warburton will be back in the shop tomorrow. Her injuries were slight.”

“What did she lose in breakage?”

“Just a one-off Orrefors bowl made by someone called Björn Wiinblad. Her books give its retail price as a thousand dollars.”

“The other piece wasn’t harmed?”

“No, sir, it survived. It’s cute, if wacky. Art glass is highly individualistic-there is no other substance can be worked in so many different ways than glass,” Helen said.

“This is shaping up as a peculiar case,” Carmine said. “I want you to cultivate a friendship with Miss Warburton if you can, and work other aspects of the case as well. I want a full report on Robert and Gordon Warburton, ex San Diego. That means all the way back to times before their birth. And investigate Amanda Warburton’s life too. How did she come to get possession of the glass teddy bear?”

Helen looked at Captain Delmonico’s obdurate face and made an intelligent decision: not to hope for the Dodo.

“Yes, sir,” she said, looking willing. “I can do that.”

On his way into the County Services parking lot, Carmine got lucky; Morty Jones was arriving too, and because a captain rated a better spot, he was able to trap Morty as he walked past the Fairlane everybody knew was Carmine Delmonico’s unmarked-a crotchet that the Commissioner condoned. Morty made the mistake of assuming the Fairlane’s driver was gone; when Carmine opened his door and leaned out, Morty gasped.

“Get in,” said Carmine curtly.

There was no escape; Morty slid on to the passenger’s seat.

“You can smoke, Morty,” Carmine said as he slewed sideways to examine the sergeant, eyes busy. Yes, no doubt he was drinking. Not so much the stink as the trembling hands, the rheumy eyes.

He’d been such a promising cop, Morty Jones, twenty years ago; Danny Marciano, not a dinosaur then, had put in as much work on Morty as he did later on Nick Jefferson, bullied him into taking a degree from West Holloman State College at nights, and put him in patrol with Virgil Simms, another great guy.

All the girls were after him. He was going to have a big career in law enforcement, and he was easy on the eyes: tall, a graceful mover, handsome in a dark and broody way he used to joke branded his ancestors as Welsh. He passed his sergeant’s exams with distinction, and, armed with his degree and a new wife, applied to join Detectives. The move had upset Captain Danny Marciano as much as his choice of a bride, but nothing could budge Morty: Ava said a detective was better. He was wild about her, would do anything to please the woman all his friends knew was a tramp-only how to tell Morty? It couldn’t be done.

By the time he made it to Detectives he was the father of a son, Bobby, an event that predisposed him to like his whole world, including Larry Pisano, the lieutenant to whose team he was posted. Not a good boss for Morty Jones. Elderly and embittered, especially after he was passed over in favor of Carmine Delmonico as head of the division, Pisano lived for only two things: his looming retirement, and creating as much trouble as he could for Carmine. Among other ploys, he set out to ruin Morty Jones’s roseate life by informing him of Ava’s extramarital activities. Morty hadn’t believed him, but the seed of doubt was sown; the cheerful, enthusiastic cop gradually lost his good humor and-worst of all, in Carmine’s view-his interest in his work, which he continued to perform, but sloppily.

“I know what your troubles are, Morty,” Carmine said in a warm voice, “but the drinking has to stop.”

“I drink on my own time, Carmine.”

“Horse shit you do. Right at this moment your boozing is so consistent that they’re thinking of giving you your own stool in the Shamrock Bar. The Shamrock Bar, for God’s sake! A cop bar! You’re like a man in a car with no brakes at the top of the roller coaster’s worst hill-you won’t pull up when you get to the bottom, you’ll wind up mangled in a heap of broken parts-the parts that make up your life, Morty! I know about the bust-up with Ava, and it’s bad, but think of your kids. You owe them a duty. What happens when the Commissioner finds out, huh? You’re out on your ear, no pension, no references to help you get another job. You’re on contract, have you forgotten?”

“I’m not drinking on the job,” Morty maintained.

“Have you talked to Corey?”

“No, he’s got his own problems.”

“Then talk to me! I want to see you the kind of guy-and cop!-you used to be. Try to see your life on the job as the one place where you can forget your personal problems, bury yourself in the work. It’s a good technique, Morty, and it’s not beyond you. But while the alcohol is swilling around in your brain, you can’t think straight. That’s why it’s number one priority-stop drinking entirely, please! I could go to John Silvestri now, and you’d be gone in less than an hour. I choose not to, because I don’t believe you’re too far in to climb out. Delia found you a great housekeeper to give you a decent home life while you fight this battle, so fight it. Fight it!”

But Morty’s response was a sudden bout of despairing tears; Carmine watched and listened in his own kind of despair.

The story came out again; the accusation that his kids didn’t belong to him, Morty’s striking her, how awful it was to exist without Ava. His kids cried, he cried…

“If I can’t get through to you, Morty, you’ll have to see Dr. Corning,” Carmine said eventually. “You need help.”

“The department shrink? I won’t go!” Morty said.

“You will go, because I’m seeing Corey and making sure of it,” Carmine said. “Doc Corning’s a good guy.”

In answer, Morty opened the car door and bolted.

Which left Carmine to see Corey.

Who was in his office, apparently having some kind of argument with Buzz Genovese.

“Later,” said Corey, glancing at Carmine’s face.

Buzz gave Carmine a smile, and vanished. Carmine sat down; not the right moment to tower across a desk at a seated man.

“What do you want?” Corey demanded, sounding truculent.

“Dig out HPD Form 1313,” Carmine said.

“What?”

“You heard me, Cor.”

“Why, for God’s sake?”

“ ‘Who’ would be a better question, but you know who. Morty Jones. It’s time you and I referred him to Dr. Corning.”

It had always been the team joke that the Jew Abe Goldberg looked like a WASP, and the WASP Corey Marshall looked like a Jew. The older they became, the truer the statement became. Corey had lost weight-Maureen was on a fad diet-and his long, Semitic face had fallen in a little more, giving the scimitar of a nose additional prominence and the permanent black beard shadow on Corey’s jaws the appearance of charcoal stage make-up. His dark eyes blazed into anger.

“That’s crap, Carmine! There’s nothing wrong with Morty.”

“Oh, come on, Cor, where are your eyes? Where’s your sense of smell? Morty Jones is drinking on the job, and he’s gotten himself into a terrible mess,” Carmine said, keeping his voice level, dispassionate. “If I can see it, you must see it-he’s your team member.”

“Yes, and my business!” Corey snapped. “I don’t need the captain sticking his oar in. As soon as Ava comes home, Morty will go back to normal-without the need for a psychiatrist.”

“My sense is that Ava’s not coming home. She’s going to file for divorce, and we have to act before that happens. Dig out the form, Corey. That’s an order.”

“Only if I agree with you, and I don’t. In my opinion, to send Morty to a psychiatrist would be the end of him.”

Carmine’s hands clutched at the air. “Oh, Jesus, where do you guys get your mistrust of psychiatrists from? Dr. Corning has saved at least half a dozen cops from losing their jobs-and worse, their lives. The murder rate is rising nationwide, which makes cop suicides look less, but that’s a false statistic, and you know it. It’s my considered opinion that Morty is very depressed. He may need medication-but not Jameson’s whiskey.”

“I’ll undertake to deal with the booze myself, Carmine,” Corey said, adamant, “but I will not sign your form.”

Carmine got up and left. True, to mention suicide was to give Morty’s situation undue significance, but it was imperative that the drinking stop, and he didn’t think Corey was capable of that kind of therapy. Why did they hate psychiatrists?

Delia trotted in late that afternoon. “I’ve finished the interviews,” she said, “save for the twins tomorrow morning. Do I get to do them?”

“You can sit in, but I’m having the pleasure,” Carmine said.

“And I’m off to see what noisome things I can find under the California stones,” said Helen lightly, waved at Delia, and left managing to look as if she were intrigued by her task.

“Anything interesting?” Carmine asked Delia.

“Only what Miss Marcia Boyce does for a crust,” Delia said, perching on the chair Helen had vacated.

“Expatiate.”

“Miss Boyce runs a secretarial agency on Cromwell Street. Her girls are skilled in abstruse forms of executive assistance like typing specifications for space rockets, Nobel standard papers in physics and organic chemistry, medical dissertations, mathematical hypotheses-you name it, Carmine, and Marcia Boyce has a secretary who can do it. It costs heaps to hire a Boyce secretary, but those who do can be certain they’ll have no errors in transcribed dictation or deciphered scribbles. Most hirings are to Chubb or U-Conn, but there are lots of out-of-state universities hire too. Educational institutions rarely hang on to a Boyce girl for more than six months-a federal grant runs out and Miss Boyce has her girl back. However, professors who have already won a Nobel Prize hang on to their Boyce girls for years. Miss Boyce doesn’t care which way it goes-she takes a healthy cut as personal profit.”

Delia paused to sip her mug of cop coffee, grimacing. “Of course if Richard Nixon becomes president in November, there won’t be nearly as much research money available. Republican presidents are notoriously anti-research unless it’s armaments related. Pure research will die one of its little deaths because the dodos in Washington don’t understand that applied research sits on a solid foundation of pure research, so… According to Miss Boyce, at the moment everyone is using up LBJ’s lavish research money rather like condemned men eating a last meal.”

“The topic’s fascinating, Deels, but not relevant.”

“Oops, sorry!” The eyes twinkled within their stiff mascara hedges. “Miss Boyce is genuinely worried about Miss Warburton, but she can’t offer anything concrete. Even when the Busquash residents made such a kerfuffle over their skyscraper and sacked the town Elders, Miss Boyce says there was no sort of emphasis on Miss Warburton as a tenant. The word Miss Boyce is fond of is ‘evil’-she says Miss Warburton is being persecuted-her word again-by an evil presence, someone out to torment Amanda in a sadistic way. Marcia doesn’t believe the Vandal is interested in the glass. She thinks his obsession is Miss Warburton herself.”

“How does Hank Murray figure in her ideas?”

“No, it’s not Hank is the Vandal, at least according to Miss Boyce.” Delia gave up on the coffee with a sigh. “The trouble is, Carmine, there seems to be no motive apart from a psychopathia.”

“And there, Miss Carstairs, you and Miss Boyce are wrong.” Carmine filled her in about the glass teddy bear and his eyes.

“Ooh!” Delia exclaimed. “And Helen found all this out?”

“Thanks to Miss Procter’s School for Girls-or so she’d have you think. There’s an element of leg-puller in Miss MacIntosh, but I confess I like her the better for it. We can safely put the bear’s value in the high double millions.”

“Does Miss Warburton know?”

“It would seem not. I’ve shifted Helen to the case to see what she can learn. Obviously our trainee is going to do much better on cases that have an up-market nature.”

“Stands to reason,” Delia said. “I miss Nick!”

“So do I, though I wish he’d make more of an effort to like Helen. Still, Abe says he’s doing fantastically well in Hartford, and he’s a minority representative for us.”

“How can a little boy from the stews of Argyle Avenue come to like M.M.’s daughter?” Delia asked. “Especially given her personality? In time she’ll lose some of the hauteur, the unconscious exclusivity, but it must be very hard for Nick in particular to stomach. He’s had to work so hard to get what he sees as falling into her undeserving lap.”

“I know, Delia, I know.”

The Brothers Warburton announced their advent before they actually appeared; the County Services parking attendant buzzed to say that this pair of spooky twins refused to leave their car on the street; until their Bentley was safely garaged, they were not getting out of it. The attendant was told to let them park, and shortly thereafter the Warburton twins materialized in Carmine’s office looking insufferably smug.

They were exquisitely dressed for a chilly fall day. Both wore what were probably Hong Kong copies of Savile Row suits: Robert’s was a navy three-piece pinstripe with a striped Turnbull & Asser shirt and a Stanford tie; Gordon’s was a pearl-grey silk with a white silk shirt and a self-embroidered white silk ascot. They wafted a hugely expensive cologne, and bore shaves so close the skin gleamed like satin. Even their eyebrows were thinned and brushed, Carmine suspected. A pair of sartorial dazzlers.

“What color’s your Bentley?” he asked, curious.

“Pewter,” said Robert, “with white leather interior.”

Having introduced Delia, Carmine escorted the twins to the largest of the interrogation rooms, sat himself and his papers down opposite the Warburtons, and put on a pair of reading half glasses that gave him a professorial air. Their diary was full-page size, one day to a page, and its cover was a hairy faux zebra skin; the year, 1968, was emblazoned in gold numbers an inch high.

I am fed up with all this light and dark nonsense already, thought Carmine, conscious of a burning desire to cause mayhem. Fire a twelve-pounder shot at this catamaran, hole both hulls!

“I should inform you,” he said, “that I have a very old and dear friend in L.A.-Myron Mendel Mandelbaum.”

The effect of this projectile was extraordinary. Both the brothers assumed an identical look of mingled awe, astonishment, delight and-speculation? The skinned-green-grape eyes had somehow acquired the kind of stars Carmine had last seen in the eyes of a glass teddy bear. Now I know, he thought, what the phrase “stars in their eyes” truly means.

“Mr. Mandelbaum assures me that you are indeed-er-‘hot property’ in Hollywood. Apparently it’s far cheaper to pay real actors a high salary than incur the costs of blue screen doubling the same actor through many scenes. Also, two real actors give additional flexibility, Mr. Mandelbaum says. I’ve also talked to your agent, who assures me that you’ve arrived at a point where you can choose your film roles. TV commercials as well.”

They proved what superb actors they were by managing to look simultaneously proud yet humble, worthy yet unworthy.

“How divine to be vindicated by luminaries like the great and powerful Myron Mendel Mandelbaum,” said Robert, winking at tears. “A Zeus, he dwells atop Mulholland Drive, unattainable, a thousand titans as his lackeys, his world spread out before him in a myriad million lights!”

“Obliterated by smog, more like,” said Carmine. “Okay, let’s can the crap. March 3 this year-where were you?”

Gordon flipped the pages, Robert read the entries.

“In Holloman,” said Robert.

“Both of you?”

They looked identically appalled. “We are never apart!”

“May l3?”

“Holloman. In between, we were in L.A. filming our greatest screen triumph, Waltz of the Vampire Twins.”

“But B-grade. June 25?”

“Holloman.”

“July 12?”

“In the air from L.A.”

“August 3?”

“On vacation in Yosemite National Park.”

“Can you produce proof? Receipts, for instance?”

“Of course.”

“August 31?”

“Alaska, filming a TV commercial for an after-shave.”

“Why Alaska?”

“Coo-oo-ool,” Robert drawled.

“September 24?”

“Holloman.”

“Have you left Holloman during September?”

“Not after we returned from Alaska on Labor Day. We decided to stay in Connecticut for the fall colors.”

“In Connecticut, try October for those.”

“We are now aware of that, thank you.”

“Why Yosemite? You don’t look outdoorsy, sirs.”

“You can’t tell a book by its cover,” Gordie piped up.

Robert glared at him.

“Do you like books?” Delia asked.

“Easy come, easy go,” said Robert.

“Novels?”

“If there’s a film of the book in the offing,” Robert said.

“If you saw a wall of shelves containing a thousand books of all sorts, sirs,” Delia persisted, “what would you look for?”

“A thousand books? That’s a library. There’d be indicators. I’d go straight to movies.”

“That rapist in Carew is heavily into books,” Carmine said.

The inevitable As One reaction: horror mingled with terror.

“Captain, you cannot possibly think of us as rapists!” cried Robert, gasping in perfect unison with his twin.

“Seriously, sirs, no, I don’t. What I do want to know is how much of the simultaneous everythings is real. You may be as homozygous as homozygous gets, but you’re not inside the exact-same skin.” Carmine’s voice became menacing. “There must be all kinds of differences between you, but you’ve turned eliminating them into an art form. You’re actors by trade, and actors by nature. I’ll grant you some invisible connections, even a minor ability to read each other’s minds, but you are not the same person. How about dropping the identical role for a moment and letting me see the quintessential Robert versus the quintessential Gordon? I can tell you this much-Robert is the one thinks before he speaks, and Gordon is the one speaks before he thinks.”

They smirked-identically.

“Captain Delmonico! Is that a valid observation?” Robert asked. “Perhaps the speak-think is a function of our clothing? Perhaps the one in pale clothing, no matter whether it be Robbie or Gordie, is the twin speaks before he thinks? Colors have such strong vibes, you must know that! Who knows what the City of Holloman did when it forbade us to balance the exterior of our house between the forces of Dark and Light?”

“Oh, piss off! Get out of here!” Carmine said, tried beyond endurance. “You may not be the Dodo, but you’re sure cuckoo.”

Amanda returned to the Glass Teddy Bear limping a little from a sore hip, but basically unharmed. She had insisted on driving herself in and had Frankie and Winston with her; Hank was waiting at her named parking place to help her out, make a fuss of the animals, and bring her upstairs.

“Luckily I have another Björn Wiinblad original in stock-not a bowl, but a vase,” she said, pointing to a stack of big cardboard cartons against the back wall of her office. “If you can get it for me and unpack it, I’d be grateful.”

So by the time Hank left Amanda had settled down, the new original was in place, she had adjusted the Kosta Boda pussycat to her satisfaction, and the dog and cat were ensconced in the window. Hank had put the partition up that prevented any customer reaching in to pat them and disappeared through the front door with a wave. He was bringing Chinese over for dinner in her apartment, and she didn’t expect to see him until it was time to go. Why couldn’t she learn to love him? Marcia was right, he was ideal for a lonely woman. Yet she couldn’t seem to love him as more than a friend, and wished there was some way she could at least demonstrate that much to him.

The morning passed fairly quietly; she sold several lots of wine glasses to customers with very different ideas-one was after the impossibly thin blown crystal of utter plainness, the other after Waterford hobnail, and a third after Murano edged in gold. Wonderful, how tastes varied.

When her stomach rumbled she realized that she hadn’t brought any lunch with her-well, she hadn’t had the energy yet to shop. Never mind, it wouldn’t hurt her figure to skip lunch.

At which moment the door gave its glassy tune; she looked up in time to see a tall, very beautiful young woman clad in a business pantsuit of burgundy gaberdine erupt into the shop with both hands full.

“Is there a space on the counter?” she demanded, steering a skillful path around pedestals and tables.

“Yes,” said Amanda, startled.

“Good,” said the young woman, whose striking mass of apricot hair seemed likely to snap her slender neck off, it looked so heavy. Down went brown paper bags and a thermos. “I suppose there’s a place in the Mall where I could have gotten us lunch, but not knowing, I brought everything in from Malvolio’s, including coffee. Have you any plates, or do I have to pirate some glass ones, wash them, and use them?”

By this Amanda didn’t know whether to laugh or back away in horror, but the pets decided for her by effortlessly leaping the partition and crowding around the visitor begging for attention.

“I’m Helen MacIntosh from Holloman Detectives, and I’m here to grill you. I hope you like hot roast beef sandwiches.”

“Indeed I do, and I’m hungry, and I forgot to pack lunch.” Amanda got up from her chair. “I’ll get plates, mugs, and whatever you recommend in cutlery.”

The lunch was delicious, Helen MacIntosh such good company that Amanda hated the thought that, as soon as she had answered some questions, this feminine sun would vanish to shine elsewhere.

But it was a very leisurely interrogation that lasted for several hours and through a dozen customers, during which intervals Helen pretended to be a staff member.

“I have a message from Captain Delmonico,” Helen said after the lunch things were cleared away and the shop deserted.

“He’s very different from Sergeant Jones,” Amanda said.

“Try comparing Veuve Clicquot to rubbing alcohol. Anyway, he said to tell you that your nephews, Robert and Gordon, have been living in Carew for over eight months.”

She was shocked: “I don’t believe it!”

“True.”

“Why haven’t they told me? Visited me?”

“The Captain thinks it’s the way they’re made-pranksters. Every day you live in ignorance of their proximity, they have a giggle at your expense. It’s no more malignant than that, he says. They’re not the Vandal-the wrong kind of prank.”

“Have you their number?”

“Sure. I’ll give it to you before I leave.” Helen gazed around. “This is the most gorgeous shop, I love it. It’s solved all my Christmas shopping problems. That glorious massive urn over there with the peacock feathers actually incorporated in the glass-it’s so hard to get glass to assume those iridescent, metallic colors. My father will adore it, he’s got a vacant pedestal in his office.”

Amanda went pink. “Um-it’s very expensive, Helen-a one-off Antonio Glauber,” she said in a small voice; here was a blossoming friendship going west before it really got started.

“What’s expensive?” Helen asked.

“Fifteen thousand dollars.”

“Oh, is that all? I thought you were going to say a hundred thousand. Put a red sticker on it.”

Amanda’s eyes had gone as round as the glass teddy bear’s. “I-are you-can you honestly afford it, Helen?”

“The income from my trust fund is a million dollars a year,” she said, as if it meant little. “I don’t spend wildly, but it’s so hard finding things for parents who can also afford to buy whatever they fancy, price no consideration. And that urn is really a beautiful piece-Dad will love it.”

“It’s for sale, of course, but I never expected to see it go,” Amanda said huskily. “One gets so attached to the original pieces. Still, I’ve done so well since being in Busquash Mall that I’ll have to take a buying trip next summer.”

“I can understand why there’s a NOT FOR SALE notice beside the glass teddy bear. It’s a museum piece.”

“Yes. I’d never sell him.”

“No one could afford it. What have you got it insured for?”

“A quarter-million.”

Helen’s vivid blue eyes glazed. “Uh-that’s crazy! You must know what it’s really worth.”

“He’s worth whatever value I care to put on him, Helen. If I insured him for more than that, he’d have to go into a vault and never be seen. That’s not why Lorenzo made him. Lorenzo made him for me, my own one-off, never for sale.”

There was iron in the voice; Helen desisted, choosing to sit on the floor and play with the dog and cat. She had begun her work, but it was far from over. Here was her best source about the twins. Twice a week, lunch. That should do it. And what a change, to find she really liked the person under the detective’s microscope.

“Do you believe all that?” Amanda asked Hank over Chinese in her apartment that night. “Eight months, and never a word! I phoned Robert up and gave him such a chewing out! Oh, they’ll never change! Narcissistic, self-centered-the tragedy, Hank, is that they’re so clever. I mean really, really clever. Robert plays with words the way a cat does with a ball of twine, and Gordon is a brilliant artist. They’re both artistic, they should do something with their talents, but do they? Never! All they do is hang around movie studios grabbing work here and work there, silly projects-Oh, I am mad!” Amanda’s voice changed, dropped to a growl. “They murdered their parents.”

The noodles fell off Hank’s chopsticks; he put them down and stared at her, astonished. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me! They pushed their father down the stairs when they were eight, and put arsenic in their mother’s food as soon as they didn’t need her anymore.”

“Wow!” Hank fished for more noodles; he was hungry. “I take it they escaped retribution?”

“Yes.” She sighed. “What do I do with my estate?”

His laugh sounded zany. “My mind’s spinning in circles, Amanda. You mean your will?”

“Yes. The only blood kin I have are a pair of crazy twins. But if I disinherit them, who is there? The ASPCA? The Humane Society? A farm for broken down donkeys?”

“Or an indigent mall manager,” he said with a grin.

She gasped, clapped her hands together. “Yes, that’s it! I’ve had a funny feeling-are you really indigent, Hank? Trust me! I’d like an honest answer.”

He looked hunted, swallowed convulsively. “For what it’s worth, I’d trust you with my life, Amanda. My ex-wife is permanently institutionalized, and I’m permanently broke keeping her there. The fees are astronomical. Funny, your health insurance will pay for anything except a mind, just as if something that can’t be seen can’t be broken.”

“Oh, Hank! That’s terrible! What happened?”

“The divorce was through-acrimonious on her side, not on mine. Her moods-well, they frightened me. Then she came back on some pretext-a forgotten picture, I think it was.”

“You don’t remember?”

His hunted look grew worse. “According to the psychiatrists, human beings have a tendency to forget just what they ought to remember. Anyway, it was a pretext. She went for me with a knife, and I defended myself. We were both wounded, and there was nothing in it between our stories. That the cops tended to take my word over hers wasn’t popular with her friends-she had some very important ones. In the end it never came to trial because her mental condition deteriorated terribly. But I got the hint. Unless I paid to keep her in a private asylum, there might be a trial-mine. I knew it was the easy way out. I’m pretty sure I would be acquitted at trial, but I can’t be a hundred percent sure. There’s no statute of limitations on murder, and she’s way past seeming dangerous. Any jury looking at her now would see a shriveled up scrap of scarcely human flesh. So I keep on paying.”

“Hank, Hank!” She rocked back and forth. “I knew there was a big trouble there, I knew it! Go to trial, Hank, please. You would have to be acquitted. Besides, there was no murder, just an attempted murder.”

His shoulders hunched. “I can’t bear to open that can of worms, Amanda, I just can’t!”

He’s a lovely man, she was thinking, watching him, but he’s timid, and I suppose that side of him will show at a trial. If indeed there is a case to answer-he won’t even find that out. Her friends are having a kind of revenge in keeping him poor…

“I wish there was something I could do,” she said, sighing.

“There isn’t. One day Lisa will die, and my troubles will be over. She’s developing kidney failure.”

“Would you consider a loan?” she asked. “I could afford to help you keep her institutionalized.”

His hand went out, clasped hers, and his gentle brown eyes sparkled with tears. “Oh, Amanda, thanks, but no thanks. I’m not much of a man, but I won’t let you do that.”

“I have a good cash income and over two million dollars in assets,” she said warmly. “I’m not in love with you, but you’re my very dear friend. Leave it for the moment if you prefer, but let me ask again six months from now. And if she does go into kidney failure, you’ll have huge medical bills as well. Please don’t hesitate to ask, okay?”

There had been a subtle alteration: Hank Murray looked more cheerful, stronger. He squeezed her hand. “Okay,” he said, lips turned up in a smile. Then he lifted her hand and kissed it.