Conspiracy Theory(132)

“There’s a little nugget in the back of my mind,” Jackman said. “It’s not just that you’re crazy. It’s that every time I have to work with you, everybody is crazy. I hope to hell that this guy has a motive that won’t sound idiotic to a jury.”

“He’s got the best motive in the world,” Gregor said. “Don’t worry about it. And there’s always the chance that somebody on Cavanaugh Street will recognize him. He was here, after all. I realized when I was talking to Kathi Mittendorf that he must have planted the bomb in Holy Trinity Church all by himself.”

“Why? I thought you said she was a complete true believer conspiracy nut.”

“She is. But even complete true believer conspiracy nuts have their codes of ethics, and in this case she’s got an interior image of herself, and of America on Alert, that tells her quite firmly that they are not the kind of people who bomb churches. I wonder how long it took him to discover what somebody who’d run into these people before would have known all along. They may be irrational, but they’re not illogical. They may be some of the most logical people on earth.”

“Right,” Jackman said. “Yes. You’ve said this before. Lots of times. Over the years. I’ve always thought it was proof positive you were nuts.”

“I’m not nuts. I’m not nearly logical enough to be nuts. Get those pictures and let’s go see Andrechev.”

Gregor popped his door open and climbed out of the car. He hated bucket seats. Jackman got out on the driver’s side and carefully locked up. Jackman was always careful about cars. The only reason he didn’t park them across two spaces was because he knew how angry it got people and how prone angry people were to scraping the sharp edges of their car keys across the paint of offending cars. Jackman put his notebook back in the inside pocket of his coat. He got the pictures out and held them in his hand.

“Okay,” he said. “Here they are. If he doesn’t identify any of them, we’re screwed.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Gregor said.

He was right too. They went down to the far end of the next block where Krystof Andrechev had his newsstand and, less than three minutes later, came out again, with a positive identification. Andrechev made the identification so quickly, he didn’t even have time for his usual struggle with the language. Jackman laid the pictures down across the counter, one right after the other. As soon as Kathi Mittendorf’s picture went down, Andrechev picked it up.

“That one,” he said.

To Gregor, all the pictures looked more or less alike, except the one of Susan, which was there only in case he was wrong about which of the two women Harridan used to throw his smoke screens. Jackman put the rest of the pictures down on the counter and insisted on Krystof looking at them all. Krystof looked, but he didn’t change his mind. He pointed again and again at Kathi Mittendorf, as if he’d memorized her face.

“It is not a thing you forget,” he said, “when a woman comes and puts a gun down in front of you and is not for robbing you.”

Jackman picked the pictures up again. Gregor thanked Krystof Andrechev. Jackman and Gregor went outside.

“Now what?” Jackman asked. “You want to go out to see Kathi Mittendorf again?”

“Yes,” Gregor told him. “Absolutely. But I want to make one more stop along the way.”

“As long as it isn’t a stop at the zoo,” Jackman said. “If it is, I’m going to be very tempted to have you locked up.”

Gregor said nothing to that, and got back into Jackman’s car. It felt good to be doing something, anything, that was not brooding on the evils of human nature.





3


Gregor Demarkian had no sense of direction, and he never drove, so explaining to John Jackman how to find Henry Barden’s town house could have been a challenge. It wasn’t because Jackman had been a beat cop in Philadelphia before he’d been a detective there—and in other places—and before he’d risen to the exalted heights of commissioner of police. It also wasn’t difficult to find because it was not an obscure address.

“Australian Aborigines have heard of Rittenhouse Square,” Jackman said, as he pulled the car into an open non-spot only feet from Henry Barden’s front door. Gregor guessed they were more in the hydrant’s territory than outside of it. “Who is this guy, anyway?”

“Somebody I used to know at the Bureau. Do you realize you’re illegally parked?”

“I’m on official police business.” Jackman punched the side of his fist against the glove compartment to open it and got out his police parking card. He hung it over the back of his rearview mirror. “Knew in the Bureau, how? He was a special agent or somebody you picked up for bank fraud?”