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  “Who was giving parking tickets on Thirty-third near Canal this morning, Sergeant?”

  The sergeant looked up at him. “Robin Tennes.”

  “I am thrilled to be alive in a time and a place where even a blind girl can be a policewoman,” Kinderman told him. He handed him the ticket and waddled away.

  “Any news on the kid, Lieutenant?” the sergeant called out. He hadn’t yet examined the ticket.

  “No news, no news,” replied Kinderman. “Nothing.”

  He went upstairs and walked through the squad room, deflecting the questions of the curious, until at last he was in his office. The space of one wall was taken up with a finely detailed map of the northwest section of the city, while still another was covered by a blackboard. On the wall behind the desk, between two windows that faced toward the Capitol, hung a Snoopy poster, a gift from Thomas Kintry.

  Kinderman sat behind his desk. His hat and coat were still on, the coat buttoned. On the desk were a calender pad, a paperback copy of the New Testament and a clear plastic box containing Kleenex. He pulled out a tissue and wiped his nose, and then gazed at the photos set into the facings of the box: his wife and his daughter. Still wiping, he turned the box a little, disclosing a photo of a dark-haired priest; then Kinderman sat motionless, reading the inscription. “Keep checking those Dominicans, Lieutenant.” The signature read “Damien.” The detective’s glance flicked up to the smile on the rugged face, and then to the scar above the right eye. Abruptly, he crumpled the tissue in his hand, threw it into a wastebasket and had reached to pick up a phone when Atkins walked in. Kinderman looked up as he was closing the door. “Oh, it’s you.” He released the phone and clasped his hands together in front of him, looking like a garment district Buddha. “So soon?”

  Atkins sauntered closer and sat on a chair in front of the desk. He slipped off his cap, his eyes shifting up to Kinderman’s hat.

  “Never mind the insolence,” Kinderman told him. “I told you to stay with Mrs. Kintry.”

  “Her brother and sister came over. Some people from the school, the university. I thought I should come back.”

  “And a good thing, Atkins. I have lots for you to do.” Kinderman waited while Atkins produced a little red notepad and a ballpoint pen. Then he continued: “First, get hold of Francis Berry. He was chief investigator on the Gemini squad years back. He’s still with San Francisco Homicide. I want everything he’s got on the Gemini Killer. Everything. The whole entire file.”

  “But the Gemini’s been dead for twelve years.”

  “Is that so? Really, Atkins? I had no idea. You mean all of those headlines in the papers were true? And the radio and television, Atkins? Astonishing. Really. I’m floored.”

  Atkins was writing, a small, wry smile curving his mouth. The door cracked open and the head of the crime lab team looked in. “Stop loitering in doorways, Ryan. Come in here,” Kinderman told him. Ryan entered and closed the door behind him.

  “Attend me, Ryan,” said Kinderman. “Notice young Atkins. You are standing in the presence of majesty, a giant. No, really. A man should get his just recognition. Would you like to know the highlight of Atkins’ career with us? Certainly. We shouldn’t cover stars with an okra basket. Last week, for the nineteenth—”

  “Twentieth,” Atkins corrected him, holding up his pen for emphasis.

  “For the twentieth time, he brings in Mishkin, the notorious evildoer. His crime? His unvarying M.O.? He breaks into apartments and moves all the furniture around. He redecorates.” Kinderman shifted his remarks to Atkins. “This time we send him to Psycho, I swear it.”

  “How does Homicide fit into this?” asked Ryan.

  Atkins turned to him, expressionless. “Mishkin leaves messages threatening death if he ever comes back and finds something out of place.”

  Ryan blinked.

  “Heroic work, Atkins. Homeric,” said Kinderman. “Ryan, have you anything to tell me?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Then why are you wasting my time?”

  “I just wondered what was new.”

  “It’s very cold out. Also, the sun came up this morning. Have you any more questions of the oracle, Ryan? Several kings from the East have been waiting their turn.”

  Ryan looked disgusted and left the room. Kinderman followed him with his gaze and when the door had closed he looked at Atkins. “He bought the whole thing about Mishkin.”

  Atkins nodded.

  The detective shook his head. “The man hears no music,” he said.

  “He tries, sir.”

  “Thank you, Mother Teresa.”

  Kinderman sneezed and reached for a Kleenex.

  “God bless you.”

  “Thank you, Atkins.” Kinderman wiped his nose and got rid of the tissue. “So you’re getting me the Gemini file.”

  “Right, sir.”

  “After that see if anyone has claimed the old lady.”

  “Not yet, sir. I checked when I came in.”

  “Call the Washington Post, the distribution department; get the name of Kintry’s route boss and run it through the FBI computer. Find out if he’s ever been in trouble with the law. At five in the morning in the freezing cold chances are that the killer wasn’t out for a stroll and came across Kintry just by accident. Somebody knew that he’d be there.”

  The clatter of a teletype machine began to seep through the floor from below. Kinderman glanced toward the sound. “Who can think in this place?”

  Atkins nodded.

  Abruptly the teletype stopped. Kinderman sighed and looked up at his assistant. “There’s another possibility. Someone on Kintry’s paper route might have killed him, someone he’d already delivered a paper to before he got to the boathouse. He could have killed him and then dragged him to the boathouse. It’s possible. So all of those names should go into the computer.”

  “Very well, sir.”

  “One more thing. Almost half of Kintry’s papers had yet to be delivered. Find out from the Post who called in and complained that they didn’t get their paper. Then cross them off the list and whoever is left—whoever didn’t call in—feed their names to the computer as well.”

  Atkins stopped writing in his notepad. He looked up at the detective with surmise.

  Kinderman nodded. “Yes. Exactly. On Sunday people always want their funny papers, Atkins. So if someone didn’t call and say they wanted their paper there could only be two reasons—either the subscriber is dead or he’s the killer. It’s a long shot. Couldn’t hurt. You should check those names also with the FBI computer. Incidentally, do you believe there will come a day when computers will be able to think?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Me, too. I once read some theologian was asked this question and he said that this problem would give him insomnia only when computers started to worry that maybe their parts were wearing out. My sentiments. Computers, good luck, God bless them, they’re okay. But a thing made out of things cannot think about itself. Am I right? It’s all ka-ka, saying mind is really brain. Sure, my hand is in my pocket. Is my pocket my hand? Every wino on M Street knows a thought is a thought and not some cells or chazerei going on in the brain. They know that jealousy is not some kind of game from Atari. Meantime, who is kidding whom? If all those wonderful scientists in Japan could manufacture an artificial brain cell only one-fourth a cubic inch, for an artificial brain you’d need to keep it in a warehouse one and a half million cubic feet so you could hide it from your neighbor, Mrs. Briskin, and assure her nothing funny’s going on next door. Besides, I dream the future, Atkins. What computer that you know could do that?”

  “You’ve eliminated Mannix?”

  “I don’t mean I dream the general, predictable future. I dream what you never could guess. Not just me. Read Experiment with Time, J. W. Dunne. Also Jung the psychiatrist and Wolfgang Pauli, his bigshot quantum physicist buddy that they call now the father of the neutrino. You could buy a used car from such people, Atkins. As for Mannix
, he’s the father of seven, a saint, and I’ve known him for eighteen years. Forget it. What’s peculiar—on my mind—is that Stedman didn’t notice any sign that maybe Kintry first was hit on the head. With what was done to him, how could this be? He was conscious. My God, he was conscious.” Kinderman looked down and shook his head. “We must be looking for more than one monster, Atkins. Someone had to hold him down. It had to be.”

  The telephone rang. Kinderman looked at the buttons. The private line. He picked up the phone and said, “Kinderman.”

  “Bill?” It was his wife.

  “Oh, it’s you, honey. Tell me, how is Richmond? You’re still there?”

  “Yes, we just saw the Capitol Building. It’s white.”

  “How exciting.”

  “How’s your day, honey?”

  “Wonderful, sweetheart. Three murders, four rapes and a suicide. Otherwise, my usual jolly time up here with the boys at Precinct Six. Sweetheart, when is the carp coming out of the tub?”

  “I can’t talk now.”

  “Oh, I see. Then the Mother of the Gracchi is at hand. Mother Mystery. She’s squeezed in the phone booth with you, right?”

  “I can’t talk. You’re coming home tonight for dinner or not?”

  “I think not, precious angel.”

  “Then lunch? You don’t eat right when I’m not there. We could start back now—we’d be home by two.”

  “Thank you, darling, but today I have to cheer up Father Dyer.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Every year on this day he gets blue.”

  “Oh, it’s today.”

  “It’s today.”

  “I’d forgotten.”

  Two policemen were dragging a suspect through the room. He was forcibly resisting and screaming imprecations. “I didn’t do it! Let go of me, you cocksucking fucks!”

  “What’s that?” asked Kinderman’s wife.

  “Only goyim, sweetheart. Never mind.” A detention room door slammed on the suspect. “I’ll take Dyer to a movie. We’ll discuss. He’ll enjoy.”

  “Well, okay. I’ll fix a plate up and put it in the oven, just in case.”

  “You’re a sweetheart. Oh, incidentally, lock the windows tonight.”

  “What for?”

  “It would make me feel better. Hugs and kisses, darling dumpling.”

  “You, too.”

  “Leave a note about the carp, would you, sweetheart? I don’t want to walk in there and see it.”

  “Oh, Bill!”

  “Bye, darling.”

  “Bye.”

  He hung up the phone and stood up. Atkins was staring at him. “The carp is none of your business,” the detective told him. “It should only concern you that something is rotten in the state of Denmark.” He moved toward the door. “You have much to do, so kindly do it. As for me, from two until half past four I’m at the Biograph Cinema. After that, I’m at Clyde’s or back here. Let me know when there’s something from the lab. Anything. Beep me. Goodbye, Lord Jim. Enjoy your luxury cruise on the Patna. Check for leaks.”

  He walked through the doorway and into the world of men who die. Atkins watched him as he shuffled through the squad room waving off questions like beggars in a Bombay street. And then he was down the stairs and out of sight. Already Atkins missed him.

  He got up from his chair and moved to the window. He looked out at the city’s white marble monuments washed in sunlight, warm and real. He listened to the traffic. He felt uneasy. Some darkness was stirring that he could not comprehend; yet he sensed its movement. What was it? Kinderman had felt it. He could tell.

  Atkins shook it off. He believed in the world and men and pitied both. Hoping for the best, he turned away and went to work.

  2

  Joseph Dyer, a Jesuit priest, Irish, forty-five years of age and a teacher of religion at Georgetown University, had started his Sunday with the Mass of Christ, refreshing his faith and renewing its mystery, celebrating hope in the life to come and praying for mercy on all mankind. After Mass he’d walked down to the Jesuit cemetery in the hollow of the campus grounds where he’d placed a few flowers in front of a tombstone marked DAMIEN KARRAS, S.J. Then he’d breakfasted heartily in the refectory, consuming gargantuan portions of everything: pancakes, pork chops, corn bread, sausages, bacon and eggs. He’d been sitting with the university president, Father Riley, a friend of many years.

  “Joe, where do you put it?” marveled Riley, watching the diminutive, freckled redhead building a pork chop and pancake sandwich. Dyer turned his fey blue eyes on the president and said without expression, “Clean living, mon pére.” Then he reached for the milk and poured another glass.

  Father Riley shook his head and sipped coffee, forgetting where he’d been in their discussion of Donne as a poet and a priest. “Any plans today, Joe? You’ll be around?”

  “You want to show me your necktie collection or what?”

  “I’ve got this speech for the American Bar Association next week. I’d like to kick it around.”

  Riley watched with fascination as Dyer poured a lake of maple syrup on his plate.

  “Yeah, I’ll be here until a quarter of two, and then I’ve got to see a movie with a friend. Lieutenant Kinderman. You’ve met him.”

  “With the face like a beagle? The cop?”

  Dyer nodded, stuffing his mouth.

  “He’s an interesting guy,” observed the president.

  “Every year on this day he gets down and depressed, so I have to cheer him up. He loves movies.”

  “It’s today?”

  Dyer nodded, his mouth full again.

  The president sipped at his coffee. “I’d forgotten.”

  * * *

  DYER AND Kinderman met at the Biograph Cinema on M Street and saw almost half of The Maltese Falcon, a pleasure interrupted when a man in the audience sat down next to Kinderman, made some perceptive and appreciative comments concerning the film, which Kinderman welcomed, and then stared at the screen while placing a hand on Kinderman’s knee, at which point Kinderman had turned to him, incredulous, breathing out, “Honest to God, I don’t believe you,” while snapping a handcuff around the man’s wrist. There ensued a slight commotion while Kinderman led the man to the lobby, called for a squad car and then packed him inside it.

  “Just give him a scare and then let him go,” the lieutenant instructed the policeman driver.

  The man poked his head through the back-seat window. “I’m a personal friend of Senator Klureman.”

  “I’m sure he’ll be terribly sorry to hear that on the six o’clock news,” the detective responded. And then to the driver, “Avanti! Go!”

  The squad car moved off. A small crowd had gathered. Kinderman looked around for Dyer and finally spotted him pressed in a doorway. He was looking up the street, and his hand held his coat lapels together at the throat so that the round Roman collar could not be seen. Kinderman approached him. “What are you doing, founding an order called ‘Lurking Fathers’?”

  “I was trying to make myself invisible.”

  “You failed,” said Kinderman ingenuously. He reached out his hand and touched Dyer. “Look at that. There’s your arm.”

  “Gee, it’s sure a lot of fun going out with you, Lieutenant.”

  “You’re being ridiculous.”

  “No kidding.”

  “That pathetic putz,” the detective breathed mournfully. “He ruined the movie for me.”

  “You’ve already seen it ten times.”

  “And another ten—even twenty—couldn’t hurt.” Kinderman took the priest’s arm and they walked. “Let’s go and have a bite at The Tombs or maybe Clyde’s or F. Scott’s,” the detective cajoled. “We can have a little nosh and discuss and critique.”

  “Half a movie?”

  “I remember the rest.”

  Dyer halted them. “Bill, you look tired. Tough case?”

  “Nothing much.”

  “You look down,” insisted Dyer.
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  “No, I’m fine. And you?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “You, too,” said Dyer.

  “True.”

  Dyer’s gaze flicked over the detective’s face with concern. His friend looked exhausted and deeply troubled. There was something very wrong. “You really do look awfully tired,” he said. “Why don’t you go home and take a nap?”

  Now he’s worried about me, thought Kinderman. “No, I can’t go home,” he said.

  “Why not?”

  “The carp.”

  “You know, I thought you said ‘carp.’ ”

  “The carp,” repeated Kinderman.

  “You said it again.”

  Kinderman moved closer to Dyer, his face but an inch away from the priest’s, and he fixed him with a grim and steady stare. “My Mary’s mother is visiting, nu? She who complains that I keep bad company and am somehow related to Al Capone; she who gives my wife Chanukah presents of Chutzpah and Kibbutz Number Five, these of course being perfumes made in Israel—the best. Shirley. You now have a picture of her? Good. Soon she is cooking us a carp. A tasty fish. I’m not against it. But because it’s supposedly filled with impurities, Shirley has purchased this fish alive, and for three days now it’s been swimming in the bathtub. Even as we speak it is swimming in my bathtub. Up and down. Down and up. Cleaning out the impurities. And I hate it. One further note: Father Joe, you are standing very close to me, right? Have you noticed? Yes. You have noticed that I haven’t had a bath in several days. Three. The carp. So I never go home until the carp is asleep. I’m afraid that if I see it while it’s swimming I’ll kill it.”

  Dyer broke away from him, laughing.

  Better. Much better, thought Kinderman. “Come on, now, is it Clyde’s or The Tombs or F. Scott’s?”

  “Billy Martin’s.”

  “Don’t be difficult. I’ve already made a reservation at Clyde’s.”

  “Clyde’s.”

  “You know, I thought you might say that.”