Conspiracy Theory(59)
“And she leaves the gun.”
“Right there,” Krystof said. “I did not touch it. Not even one time. Not even with my little finger. I just leave it there and then I lock up and try to think what to do. Then I go out for a walk to go on thinking because of the air, and I see you in the church, and I think you will know. I have read about you in the People magazine.”
Gregor did not want to discuss People magazine. He looked at the gun again, wishing he was better at identifying firearms. That was another sort of information he hadn’t had much use for after training, and had no use for at all since his retirement, even when he worked as a consultant. That was why police departments had crime labs.
“I think,” Krystof said, “that if I do not do the right thing, I have much trouble. There are many who believe that all Russians are gangsters. Yes? We are not the Mafia, but people think so. So I think I have to do something smart, and then I see you. I go out after I locked up, but I do not see this woman anymore. She is not a woman from the street here that I know. She is never before coming into the store.”
Gregor looked down at the stack of material in his hands. There was a publication from something called Conspiracy Digest entitled “The Bush Crime Family.” There was material from something called A-albionic, whatever that was supposed to mean. The A-albionic material looked as if it had been printed out from a Web site. “Origins of the Modern Conspiracy to Rule The World,” it said and “Mystery of Masonry’s Origins Solved?”
“Freemasons,” Krystof said wisely. “We have too, in Russia, people who are afraid of the Freemasons. Here, I meet many Freemasons. They are nice men. They ask me to join their lodge, because I am now a member of the community. This is not for the United States, do you understand? This is nonsense for backward people.”
“We’d better call the police,” Gregor said. “If you’ve got a phone, I can—”
Krystof reached under the counter and came up with a phone. Gregor put the magazines and publications down and took the phone instead.
“It is only to prove,” Krystof said, “backwardness and ignorance are everywhere. Stupidity is everywhere. There is no escape. But I do not touch the gun. I am not an idiot.”
3
Four hours later, Gregor was finally free of the newsstand and Krystof An-drechev. If it hadn’t been for the help of John Jackman, it would have taken much longer, and been accompanied by the kind of public circus that brings crowds out of their apartments at every hour of the day or night, little knots of people gathered across the street or down the block from the immediate action, huddled against each other because they forgot to bring their coats, intense. With John’s help, he got an unmarked car and two detectives who were probably assigned to the case. It startled him to realize that he hadn’t paid enough attention to know who was handling the explosion at Holy Trinity Church. He had John Jackman to ask for information. John got him better information that he would ever get out of the officers in charge, unless he had been hired on as a consultant, which he would not be in this matter. He wasn’t really a suspect in the murder of Tony Ross, in spite of the fact that he’d been at the party. Tony had been killed by a bullet from someplace down the drive and into the night. He’d been behind in the big ballroom with a crystal bowl of paté in his hands. He could be a suspect in the explosion of Holy Trinity Church. He lived here. He knew these people. For all the police knew, he could be carrying grudges, harboring resentments, going crazy.
By the time the detectives were ready to go, it was dark. The streetlights were on all up and down Cavanaugh Street. When Gregor walked out onto the sidewalk, he could see the glow that meant the Ararat was all lit up and streaming light out its plate-glass window. In a little while, the lights would be dimmed and candles would be set out for dinner. The Ararat liked to exude “ambience” in the evenings. He looked back at Krystof calmly locking up and the detectives getting back into their unmarked car, the gun nowhere in sight. One of them was checking something in his notebook. The other was staring out into space, making eye contact with nobody. Gregor remembered that from the Bureau. It was what you did when you were gathering evidence or arresting someone while being watched by a hostile crowd.
Gregor had been free to go half an hour before. He had only hung around to make sure Krystof was all right. Gregor was not somebody who assumed that the police in every city were automatically corrupt or automatically racist, but he had been around long enough to know that some of them were both. These two had turned out to be only efficient. They had insisted that Krystof Andrechev give them his fingerprints. They had not insisted that Gregor give them his, but only because Gregor’s were already on file with the department. At least they hadn’t panicked, or arrested anybody. Gregor had a hard time understanding who they would have arrested or for what, but when cops got spooked, it could have been anybody for anything.