“When did these two get to Philadelphia?” Gregor asked.
“They’ve been in Philadelphia on and off for years,” Ira said. “But both of them attended high schools on the Main Line—Calverness in Wayne and Gressom in Paoli. They must have been the token poor people. Neither of them graduated. Did I need to say that?”
“No. Are they living in Philadelphia now?”
“They’re living on the outskirts. I’ve got addresses here, Gregor, if you want to take them down.”
Ira gave them. Gregor took them down. They did not look familiar. Somewhere out in Bucks County, Gregor thought, and then marveled anew that there always seemed to be pockets in rich places where poor people lived.
“All right,” Gregor said. “Are you sure these two are meeting? Are they meeting with anybody?”
“They’re meeting with one of my agents,” Ira Ballard said. “After we talked I made a point of it. But there isn’t anybody else.”
“Well, that’s a relief. What does your agent say?”
“Eight fifteen,” Ira said.
“Eight fifteen?”
“That’s right. Eight fifteen. They’re going to hit the B’nai Shalom Synagogue on West Benverton Street at eight fifteen.”
“Eight fifteen tonight?”
“Of course eight fifteen tonight, Gregor. What do you think I’ve been talking about?”
“But that’s only.” Gregor checked the wall clock. It was in the shape of a teapot and had been given to him as a housewarming present by Sheila Kashinian. It had come from Lord & Taylor and probably cost the earth. It looked surreal. “That’s only an hour and ten minutes from now,” Gregor told Ira Ballard.
Ira was not sympathetic. “I have been trying to get you all day, Gregor. You’ve been out. I did call the Philadelphia police department and tip them off. They’ll be staking out. The eight fifteen is a gift. The White Knights don’t usually operate that early, but according to my agent the neighborhood around the synagogue isn’t very good and they’re a little nervous. Some white knights.”
“Is the neighborhood likely to be deserted?”
“Not of cops. Listen, Gregor, I’ve got to go. It’s late and I want to get home. This ought to at least get you started on your way to solving your problem.”
“Yes,” Gregor said. “Yes, Ira, this is wonderful. Thank you.”
“Glad to help. Every little bit counts. Only, after the Philadelphia police catch these guys, you could take my agent out to dinner or something. He’s getting that tone in his voice my guys get when they have to spend too much of their time around morons. Say hello to your lady friend for me. And keep in touch.”
Ira Ballard was out of touch. The phone was buzzing in Gregor’s ear.
Gregor replaced the receiver and walked into the living room, thinking. John Jackman had eaten all the mamoul cookies. It was late and neither of them had eaten dinner and Gregor didn’t blame him. Jackman sat up as soon as he realized Gregor was in the room and stretched his legs.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said. “Why don’t we go to that restaurant down the street that Bennis took me to. If it’s still in business.”
“It’s still in business. It’s been in business since 1938. It’s called Ararat.”
“Good. It was great. Let’s go. I’m starving.”
Gregor sat down on one end of the couch and rubbed his face with the palms of his hands. “John,” he said, “if I wanted to sit in on a stakeout, could you arrange that for me?”
“A stakeout? When?”
“Tonight. At eight fifteen, to be exact.”
Jackman checked his watch. “You’ve got to be crazy.”
“I don’t want to sit in with the official presence,” Gregor said patiently. “I just want to be on hand and out of sight when the arrest is made.”
“You’re worse than crazy.”
“Tom Reilly could do it for me.”
“Gregor, what are you talking about?”
“I’m going to call Tom Reilly,” Gregor said. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
John Jackman was staring at him, half-angry and half-astounded. Gregor turned his back on the living room while he dialed. If he got what he wanted, John wasn’t going to get any dinner any time soon, and it was just too bad.
John didn’t even know what all this was about.
2
GREGOR DEMARKIAN HAD NEVER liked stakeouts. He had never even liked the idea of stakeouts. Something in him—the Aristotelian, logical part of his soul—said that stakeouts shouldn’t be necessary. There was a crime. There was a criminal. There was evidence linking the criminal with the crime. Surely that evidence was out there, somewhere, if they were only smart enough to find it. Surely they should be able to think their way through problems instead of attacking them with frostbitten fingers and brute force. It just never worked out that way. Gregor couldn’t count the hours of his life that had been spent on stakeouts. Especially in the beginning, when he was assigned to kidnapping detail, his time in cars had seemed to him to be endless. There was a crime. There was a criminal. There was evidence linking the criminal to the crime. The problem was, the way the jury system was set up, nobody would believe it.