On the Other Hand, Death

9

Bowman sat scowling at the ransom note for a long tense couple of minutes, as if the mere passage of time might cause the letters on the sheet of paper to rearrange themselves into THIS IS ALL A CRAZY MISTAKE, LIEUTENANT.

YOU CAN GO BACK TO THE GOLF COURSE NOW WHERE YOU BELONG. But it didn't. They didn't.

"This isn't the same handwriting as on the other note, is it?"

"No," I said. "It's different, messier. And the syntax and punctuation are even worse."

"Who here has handled this piece of paper?" he snapped. Four of us raised our hands. "I'll need prints from all four of you. You haven't made matters any easier for me, that's for damn certain. I suppose yours are already on record, Strachey, you being a famous certified pain in the ass and all."

"For sure, Ned."

Glowering, he went to the phone, called his bureau, and asked that two of his assistants be sent out to the Fisher farm.

"Now tell me again," he said, seating himself wearily, "what this Greco fellow was up to yesterday and last night. Take your time, and don't leave anything out. Where, when, who, and what for."

Very slowly, through clenched teeth, McWhirter said, "We have already explained that."

"Ah, so you have, so you have, Mr. McWhirter. And how would you like to run it by me once yet again? Just for old times' sake."

McWhirter was over the tabletop and at Bowman's throat before Timmy could finish shouting,

"Holy mother!" Dot jumped up and yelled, "Now you two stop that right this instant!" as Timmy and I grabbed McWhirter from behind, pried his hands loose from the alarmingly empurpled Ned 44

Bowman's neck, and dragged McWhirter thrashing and kicking out the back door.

"Down there!" I sputtered. "Fast!"

Edith was draped in a lawn chair under a pear tree squinting at the commotion, a frail hand raised to her throat, as we heaved McWhirter into the pond.

"I can't swim!" he gasped, flinging his arms and legs wetly about in a series of random and unproductive patterns.

"Oh, shit," Timmy said.

I said, "I don't think Price Chopper watches are waterproof. Anyhow, it's you who's into swimmers."

He was out of his clothes in a trice, or possibly thrice, and then, plunging, signed the vivid air with his bony ass.

McWhirter was dragged ashore coughing and gagging. He lay for a time on his stomach breathing hard. Then he pounded the earth very forcefully with his fist twice. He began to weep quietly.

I said, "I'm sorry, Fenton. Really. We didn't know you couldn't swim. It's just that strangling a police officer in Albany would cause eyebrows to be raised throughout the department. Among Ned Bowman's fellow officers the world would seem suddenly topsy-turvy, and in their confusion they would come and poke your right clavicle down into the region of your liver. We did you a favor, believe me. And now we're going to get Peter back for you."

McWhirter looked up at me balefully, and I could see his mind working. It was apparent that Ned Bowman's neck had not known the last of Fenton McWhirter's grasp. For the moment, though, McWhirter's rage had been sufficiently dampened. Timmy stayed with him while I made my way back into the house through the lacerating heat. The thermometer by Dot's back door read 99 degrees.

"When this business is finished," Bowman said, "Mr. Fenton McWhirter is going to pay a heavy, heavy price for this, Strachey. As will you yourself. I hold you responsible for what happened to me just now."

Dot was pressing a towel full of ice cubes against Bowman's neck. He looked wan but sounded livid.

I said, "That's an interesting piece of logic."

"For the moment, however, I am simply going to demand that you explain to me what the hell this mare's nest is all about. Is this alleged 'kidnapping' real, or is this some sicko stunt you and your fruit friends cooked up for me to waste my time on? Out with it!"

"Ned, one of the few things I've always admired about you is your Elizabethan felicity of expression. 'Out with it!' That's good. No vulgar street talk from your end of the detective division, and no glib and oily city hall locutions. A plain and forthright 'Out with it!' I like that."

He stood up abruptly and strode toward the door, the ice cubes clattering to Dot's polished oak floor.

"Better not do that, Ned," I said. "This whole ugly business is for real, I'm afraid. The feds will no doubt insist on poking their noses in sooner or later, and my guess is you'll want to have a head start and not end up getting outclassed by a bunch of guys wearing hats. Or were all those fedoras left on Hoover's grave when he died? Or in it?"

He returned to his seat, giving an ice cube a good kick en route. He showed me a raging look that said, "You later." He barked, "Explain!"

I told him everything I knew, honestly and accurately-a novelty Bowman undoubtedly failed 45 for the moment to appreciate-including the events as I had witnessed them or heard about them for the previous twenty-four hours. I described my relationship with Crane Trefusis, and Trefusis's to Dot Fisher, and how Trefusis stood to gain from Dot's sudden need to come up with one hundred thousand dollars in cash. Bowman allowed as how he had figured out that much for himself. I told him about my evening with McWhirter and Greco, about Greco's unhappy encounter with Tad Purcell, and my own underly fruitful visit with Purcell earlier that morning.

Out of deference to Bowman's fragile sensibilities on sexual matters, I did leave out the parts about Gordon and his diseased grandmother.

I described the Deems and Wilsons and their interest in Dot's being forced to sell her property. I said it was possible, of course, that the kidnapping had no connection whatever with the Millpond situation, but that Greco himself had no known enemies in Albany-with the unlikely exception of the feckless Tad Purcell, who in any case was otherwise occupied Saturday night- and that anybody who disliked McWhirter enough to kidnap his lover must also have known him well enough to realize that his bank balance couldn't have been much above twelve dollars.

The Millpond-Dot Fisher state of affairs seemed to me to be the most promising avenue to explore, I said, and suggested that the Thursday night graffiti artist-Joey Deem? Bill Wilson? ought to be quickly run down and looked at too, and either investigated further or eliminated as a suspect in the kidnapping. I did not voice my earlier suspicion about the night squad detectives, who struck me as much too crude a lot to pull off anything so sophisticated as a kidnapping.

Dot Fisher had sat quietly listening to all of this as Bowman grimaced and shifted about and made notes. When I'd finished, Dot calmly announced, "I'm going to sell the house."

I said, "No. No need."

Bowman watched us.

"Why, of course I will. What kind of person would I be if I didn't?" Her hands were trembling and she jammed them in the pockets of her shift. "From what you say, it's plain as day that I got Peter and Fenton into this dreadful mess, so I'll just have to get them out of it." She blinked repeatedly as she spoke, and her eyes were wet.

Bowman said, "You've decided to pay the ransom?"

"Why, my heavens, it never occurred to me not to! Peter's life is in danger. Just think how frightened he must be. It gives me the shivers. And I know he would do the same for me without giving it a thought."

"I'm sure he would, Dot. But really, it's not necessary."

"You shush! I phoned my attorney, Dave Myers, as soon as the ransom note arrived. I didn't explain the reason for my change of heart and he tried to talk me out of it, dear David, but I was adamant. He said he was going to wait until two o'clock before he called Crane Trefusis to accept Millpond's offer, and that I should think it over seriously in the meantime. I haven't had to think it over. What's to think about beyond getting Peter safely back here with us again?"

Bowman said, "It's five to two."

"Call Myers," I said. "Or I'll call him and tell him to forget it. I've got the money, the hundred. Or soon will have."

Bowman's eyebrows went up. "You? Where'd you ever get a hundred grand, Strachey? You dealing coke?"

Talk big money these days and nobody ever thinks of U.S. Steel or General Motors anymore. A new America: computer chips, video games, and cocaine.

Dot said, "Oh, Don, that's extremely thoughtful of you, but I could never-"

"Not my money," I said. "Someone's lending it to us just in case it's needed. The kidnappers are not at all coming across as slick pros, and I'm reasonably certain that even if we have to hand over the hundred at all, we'll have it back in our grasp within minutes, or at most hours. It's just a precaution. A tool. Bait. The cash will be delivered here at three o'clock. Then we'll be ready for whatever comes next."

Dot opened her mouth to speak, then didn't.

Bowman, suppressing a grin, said, "I agree entirely, Mrs. Fisher. Mr. Strachey has thought the situation through very nicely. A tidy job of work he's done, I'd say. Oh, yes. Yes, if I were you, Mrs. Fisher, I would definitely take this man's money."

Dot hesitated again, then glanced at the kitchen clock. She rose quickly, came around, bent down and kissed me on the cheek, and moved for the phone.

I said to Bowman, "I'm counting on the Albany Police Department's full assistance in this delicate matter, Ned. I'm sure that under these rather special circumstances you won't let me down. Right?"

His eyes glazed over serenely and he looked deeply unconcerned. He shrugged. He attempted a yawn, but it caught on his uvula and he gave a little cough.

Trying hard to ignore the small mammals bouncing about in the pit of my stomach, I said, "I figure, Ned, that we have to buy time. When the kidnappers contact Dot, she stalls them. Agree?"

Agree.

"I figure too that the amateurs we appear to be dealing with here might well be panicked by undue publicity, and that the whole business should be kept quiet for at least the next twenty-four hours. Agree?"

"Agree."

"Swell. Now, just so we both know where we stand with each other, Ned, you tell me what we disagree on- beyond the obvious and enduring. Do us both a favor, lay it out now, and avoid a lot of hostile confusion later on."

"Oh, not much, I guess. I was just wondering whether or not you and your fag pals are perpetrating some kind of outrageous con job in order to make the Albany Police Department look bad. Tell me, Strachey. Is that a possibility? Is it now? The thought keeps nagging at me."

Maybe it was the heat, or my exhaustion, or both, but Bowman was starting to get to me. I said,

"Gee, Ned. You mean some diabolical scheme to reveal to the voters that the criminal justice system in Albany County is essentially confused, inept, misguided, cynical, frightened, defensive, and riddled with ignorant hacks and cronies whose only interest beyond pushing faggots and black people around is in getting re-elected, reappointed, tenured, and properly positioned for a fair share of the grifts, graft, perks, and payoffs? Is that what you suspect, Ned? Nah. We wouldn't do that."

He glared. "I have my doubts."

"The machine's secret is safe with us, Ned. We'll never tell."

He was leaning close to me and about to let loose with some tiresome empty threat when the door opened and they all charged in at once: Timmy, McWhirter, Edith, two burly types in jackets who appeared to be the junior police detectives Bowman had phoned for earlier, and, in the midst of them, her great hips thundering out a five-plus on the nearest Richter scale, Kay Wilson. Kay held out a small package, which Dot Fisher, who had just completed the phone call to her lawyer, accepted.

"Why, thank you, Kay. Thank you so much."

"Somebody left this in our mailbox, Dot honey, but it's addressed to you, and I figured I better drag my old bones down here right away, 'cause you can see right there it says, 'Deliver immediately-life or death.'"

"Oh. Oh, my."

We all gawked at the small package. It was wrapped in a cut-up brown paper bag, and measured about eight inches by four inches by one inch.

Bowman gently pried up the lid and flipped it onto its back.

She did so. The handwriting was the same as that on the ransom note but again not the same as on Friday's threatening letter. "Immediately" was spelled "immeatetly."

Bowman asked for and was provided a pair of vegetable tongs and a paring knife. Without touching the package with his fingers, he slit through the cellophane tape holding the paper on and slid the wrapping aside. The cardboard box was fire truck red, the type a Christmas gift might arrive in, a wallet or fancy handkerchief. A sheet of notebook paper, folded in quarters, was taped to the top of the box.

Bowman asked Kay Wilson, Edith, Timmy, and me to step outside. They shuffled out. I stayed.

Bowman went huff-huff, but he otherwise ignored my insubordination for the moment and went on with his duties.

The paper, unfolded, revealed these words: "Put $100,000 dollars in Mrs. Fishers mailbox tonight at 3 a.m. in the morning, or we will send Petes hart. If you follow the car Pete will die."

We stared at the box.

McWhirter, trembling, said, "Open it."

Bowman gently pried up the lid and flipped it onto its back.

McWhirter clutched the tabletop and groaned. Dot whispered, "My lord!" Bowman shook his head in disgust.

The object that lay damply, crazily, grayly atop a bed of soft white tissue paper was unmistakably a human finger. end user