Too Many Murders(31)

“Oh, potties!” said Myron, using an expletive he had picked up somewhere and thought innocuous enough for Sophia’s ears.

“You’re in love, that’s why you want a divorce,” Desdemona said, gathering empty glasses.

“Do you think so?”

“I do. One more drink, then we eat. Roast leg of New Zealand lamb with all the trimmings.”

She and Sophia left for the kitchen. Carmine stared at his beloved friend sternly. “Myron, I don’t need this complication.”

“I’m sorry, Carmine. I didn’t think! I just wanted to be at Erica’s side.”

“As long as you understand the limitations.”

“I do, now that you’ve spelled them out. I’ll take Erica to lunch tomorrow and explain.”

“No, you won’t. Like all the other suspects, she has to be in the Cornucopia building tomorrow, all day. Maybe into the night as well. I suggest you explain matters on the phone, and hope that I’m done with her in time to take her to dinner.”

“Shit!”

“Be it on your own head, Myron. And don’t expect to get much sympathy from Sophia.”

“Fuck!”

“Your vocabulary’s going downhill, old friend. So what’s so exciting about this News magazine article?”

“Weren’t you listening? Just that it’s the best article on the Reds in years, especially about the Central Committee members. In case you’ve forgotten, Carmine, this country is in the middle of a cold war with the USSR.”

“No, I hadn’t forgotten that. But at the moment my city seems in the middle of a hot war against persons unknown. And here come our second drinks, so let’s go back to News magazine.”


Since everybody present at the meeting knew how little progress had been made, the only man in attendance who wasn’t surprised at its being called was Carmine. The only woman, Delia Carstairs, had a very good idea what was going down, but her function was to take minutes, not make comments.

“We’re going about this the wrong way,” Carmine said after John Silvestri opened the proceedings. “From today on, the department goes back to normal insofar as it can. Larry, you and your guys will take over Holloman’s routine crimes—by which I mean crimes unconnected to the twelve deaths of April third. If we don’t pay them any attention, we’ll be swamped by robberies and domestic violence as well as biker and militant and other gang feuds. Get out there and let the local hoods know we haven’t overlooked them. You did great work on the three shootings and the prostitute, Larry, but that’s ground to a halt, and I’m not wasting our manpower chasing leads that go nowhere. So thanks very much, guys, but I won’t need you anymore.”

Significantly, Larry Pisano and his men didn’t look at all indignant. Rather, they looked relieved. In being sent back to Holloman’s routine crimes, their success rate had just soared. In fact, so eager was Larry to get onto his new task that he rose to his feet without being dismissed.

“Then you don’t need me here, Carmine, right?”

“Right.”

Carmine waited until the three men left the room. “What I say now goes no farther, understood?”

“Eminently,” said Commissioner Silvestri. “You’ve formed some conclusions?”

“Yes, sir, I have. I don’t claim that they’re the correct ones, but for the moment they suit my purposes. Some of the eleven murders—from now on we ignore Jimmy Cartwright—I believe were commissioned from out of state. The three shootings, definitely. Possibly also Peter Norton’s poisoning, Bianca Tolano’s rape, Cathy Cartwright’s killing, and the smothering of Beatrice Egmont. Each was done professionally, and I include the sex murder in that because it was so—textbook.”

“You’re talking seven crimes, Carmine,” said Patsy, frowning.

“Yes.”

“What about Dee-Dee Hall?”

“No, I think she was a personal kill. And so were Evan Pugh and Desmond Skeps.”

“You’re forgetting Dean Denbigh. Where does he fit in?”

“I’m not sure yet, Patsy. My instincts say a commission, but if it is, why go to such tortuous lengths with the tea packet and tea bag? Why shouldn’t they show evidence of tampering? Maybe he’s a stray.”

“That I refuse to believe!” said Danny Marciano. “On any other day, there’s a chance, but not on April third. You’ve used up your stray with Jimmy Cartwright, Carmine.”

“I know, I know!”

A silence fell, suddenly so profound that the susurration of Silvestri’s state-of-the-art air conditioner was a roar.