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  Ripley said nothing for a moment, then: "I'm a little backed up with work here, inspector. I'd appreciate it if you could look into that yourself."

  Creed sighed. "Sure. Okay. But call me back when you've pulled the file on that case, would you?"

  "Will do."

  ~ * ~

  Rick smiled a broad and ingratiating smile at Milly Farino when she opened her door for him. He said, "Well, hello, Milly. Can we talk?"

  Milly, a short, thin woman, with long black hair, and a soft, inquiring look about her, had been interrupted as she was about to take her afternoon shower—she showered twice a day—had thrown a peach satin robe around herself and knotted it tightly. She gave him an uneasy smile and said, "I was about to shower, Rick." She thought it was strange that he was at her door. He had been there only once before, with a date, four months earlier, when Milly had thrown a cocktail party.

  "I won't be long, Milly." Rick's smile grew broader and more ingratiating, which made Milly feel even more uneasy. She was an excellent reader of people, and she thought there was something odd about Rick today. She thought she was seeing two people instead of one—as if she were looking into an imperfectly glazed mirror, and there was a fuzzy, dark secondary image a couple of degrees to the left or right of the primary image. She lived in a suburban area five miles east of Toronto, in a small white Cape Cod that was one of a dozen small white, beige, or blue Cape Cods on the street. She glanced past Rick at his black Jaguar, parked on the street in front of the house. "You could have parked in the driveway, Rick," she said. "There's no parking on the street."

  "Would you like me to move the car, Milly?" His ingratiating smile became inquiring.

  She shook her head. "No. It will be okay for a minute or two, which, I'm afraid, is all I can spare you now." She backed away from the door and held it open. Rick walked past her, nodding, said, "Thanks, Milly," went into the tiny living room and sat cross-legged on a brown art deco love seat.

  Milly stood in the living-room doorway, arms hanging in front of her stomach, hands clasped. She looked and felt on edge. "So, as I said, Rick, I can spare you just a few minutes—"

  "Death really is the great equalizer, Milly."

  She shook her head. "I'm sorry, Rick. Those are good cocktail-party lines, I suppose, but I really must ask you to get to the point."

  "So you remember?"

  "Of course I remember."

  "Then the point is this, Milly: I always thought you were an elitist. I always thought you were a snob."

  "Oh?"

  "Yes, Milly."

  Milly sniffed. The house was cool, and when she stood for too long dressed as she was now—in only a thin satin robe—her sinuses began to drain almost at once. "I see"—she gestured nervously with her arm—"you came lere to tell me I'm a snob. Why, Rick?"

  Rick stared at the floor, as if in thought. "It's not that I blame you, or ever blamed you, for being a snob. Some people are born fat. Some people are born thin. Some people are born snobs." He looked up at her. "Like you, Milly." He smiled again, but it was not ingratiating. It was flat and cruel.

  "You came to my house merely to insult me, Rick?"

  He said, ignoring her, "And even your house, Milly, is strangely elitist. It's so damned . . . humble. And you are so damned humble! And it's all so damned false. But death, ah yes, death"—he pointed straight into the air—"is indeed the great equalizer, just as you said. And I am merely he instrument of that . . . equalization." He chortled.

  Milly took a quivering step backward, stopped, put her hand to her mouth, and sniffed again, deeply, so it sounded like a snort.

  Rick said, "But that is so very real, Milly. That is real!" le pushed himself to his feet and wiped his hands together as if cleaning them.

  "You're joking with me, Rick?" Milly asked.

  He threw his big, square head back, glared at her down is nose, and pointed a stiff accusing finger at her. “Snob!" he bellowed. "Elitist! I am the great equalizer, and I have come to equalize!"

  "Please say that you're only joking," Milly pleaded.

  He shook his head. "No, I'm not," he bellowed. "I'm sorry. I'm not joking."

  Milly backed up another step. Her robe slid open a little, revealing a thin pink thigh. "Are you going to rape me?"

  "No." Rick smiled, as if at a bad joke. He was still pointing a stiff finger at her. "I don't want to rape you. I don't need to rape you, Milly Snob. I need to murder you!" And he was across the small room in a second.

  ~ * ~

  "Inspector Creed, this is Sergeant Ripley in Chicago. I've got the file on the Augusta Mullen murder."

  "Good. Thanks for calling back. There are some points I'd like to clear up—the computer printout I have is pretty sparse."

  "Fire away."

  "First of all, the plastic itself—"

  "A polypropylene derivative. You can get it practically anywhere."

  "So there was no probability of a lead there?"

  "That's right."

  "And the victim's fiancé~?"

  "Not a suspect."

  "I see." Creed paused, then asked, "The victim's body was found on the ninety-sixth floor. Did it appear that that was where the murder took place?"

  "We found absolutely no blood beyond what was on the inside of the plastic, Inspector. The murder could have taken place anywhere in that building."

  "Did you work on the assumption that it took place on the ninety-sixth floor?"

  "Why would we assume that, Inspector? We had no reason to assume anything."

  "Merely as a starting point, sergeant."

  "And if it hadn't panned out?"

  "You'd have started somewhere else, of course." Creed found that he was losing his patience. He steadied himself. "I was merely wondering, sergeant, if you'd drawn up a list of the businesses on the ninety-sixth floor, and the ninety-fifth."

  "Yes. The lieutenant—he was a sergeant then—had a list drawn up. You want it?"

  "Can you read it to me?"

  "Right now?"

  "Yes, sergeant. If you don't mind."

  "You got a pencil handy?"

  "I'm recording our conversation."

  "Okay, here we go. Wetterings and Agnew, Financial Advisors; Code, Boylan, Browne, and Doppler, Attorneys; Johnson and Taylor, Import-Export Bankers; Vic-tor Technologies; Lawrence and Sharon McGovern, Tax Consultants." The list continued for another minute; then Ripley paused and asked, "You want the ninety-fifth floor now?"

  "Do you mind?"

  "It'd be easier to send it to you."

  "And it would take longer, I'm afraid. Please read it."

  "It's your ear." He continued reading for another minute, then ended with "Yaeger, Svenson and Trumbley."

  Creed broke in, "Could you give me the name of that architect again?"

  "Sure, 'Yaeger, Svenson and Trumbley.' Does that mean something to you?"

  "Can you find out if they're still in the building?"

  "I can give you the number for the Sears Tower Management Association and you can call them yourself, Inspector."

  Creed noted more than a hint of weariness in Ripley's voice. "Yes, thank you. I'll do that."

  Ripley gave him the number.

  ~ * ~

  "You have a man staying here whose name is Baker," Ryerson Biergarten said to the desk clerk at the Brownstone Hotel on King Street. "Can you tell me his room number, please."

  The desk clerk shook his head slowly. "I'm sorry, sir, but I can't give you that information without a warrant or permission from the party himself."

  "But he is staying here?"

  "Information as to the identity of our guests, sir, is strictly confidential without, as I've said—"

  "Room 412?"

  The desk clerk's mouth dropped open.

  "Thanks," Ryerson said and went to the elevators.

  ~ * ~

  "Yaeger, Svenson and Trumbley, Architects," cooed the receptionist.

  Dan Creed identified himself and said, "C
ould I speak with Mr. Yaeger, Mr. Svenson, or Mr. Trumbley, please."

  The receptionist answered, "It's Ms. Svenson, sir, and I'm sorry, but neither she nor the other partners are in at the moment. Perhaps I could help you."

  "Perhaps." Creed paused. He wasn't sure what he was looking for. He wasn't entirely convinced that he wasn't barking up the wrong tree by following through on what Ryerson Biergarten had said. He went on, "How long have you been working in the Sears Tower?"

  "Ten years."

  "So you'd have a good idea of the businesses that have come and gone from there in that time?"

  "No, sir. It's a very big building."

  "I understand that. I'm talking specifically about architectural firms—"

  "There are ten architectural firms in the Sears Tower, Mr. Creed."

  "And has that remained fairly constant?"

  "Yes. People come and go, but the old, established firms, such as ours, remain."

  Creed smiled. "You wouldn't know just how many architectural firms have come and gone in the past five or six years, would you?"

  "I wouldn't have that information right at my fingertips, no." She paused. "Please hold, I have another call." Moments later, she came back on the line. "As I was saying, sir, I wouldn't have that information right at my fingertips. However, the Sears Tower Management Association would. I have their number—"

  "Yes, so do I. Thanks." He paused, then hurried on, before she hung up, "Miss? One more thing?"

  "Yes?"

  "Has your firm ever employed any junior partners—architects who wouldn't be on your masthead, I mean."

  "I know what you mean, sir. Yes, we have. Since I have been with the firm, we've employed eight junior partners."

  "Are they all still with the firm?"

  "All but three, sir."

  "Could you give me their names?"

  "Sir, they were killed in a plane crash four years ago."

  "Oh. Sorry."

  "We also had a fourth partner. A senior partner. He's no longer with the firm. He left us five years ago."

  "And his name?"

  "Fredrick Dunn."

  "Could you spell that?"

  She did. Creed went on, "And where did he go?"

  "I'm not sure. I think that he left the state." She paused. "I'm not at all sure that he didn't leave the country."

  Creed had gotten the Toronto yellow pages from a bottom drawer of his desk as soon as she'd given him the name Fredrick Dunn, and he had turned hurriedly to ARCHITECTS. Now a little whoop of joy escaped him.

  In Chicago, the receptionist at Yaeger, Svenson and Trumbley said, "Sorry, sir?"

  "Do you believe in miracles?"

  "Not really."

  Creed said, "Well, I do!"

  SIXTEEN

  Ryerson pleaded, "One of my major imperfections, Lenny, is that I can be a real bastard!"

  Lenny had opened his hotel-room door only part way and was scowling at Ryerson. "I don't need you, Rye! I don't need your crap!"

  Ryerson shifted the squirming Creosote so he was up on his shoulder and facing backward. Ryerson nodded. "I agree, Lenny. And if you decide to simply slam the door in my face, I'll understand. However, I came here for two reasons."

  Lenny's scowl softened.

  Ryerson continued, "I came here, first of all, to apologize for what I said. It was cruel and stupid."

  "I agree," Lenny whispered tightly.

  "And I came here, also, because I need your help."

  Lenny's soft scowl disappeared. It was replaced by a quick, incredulous smile. Then the scowl returned. "Why the hell would you need my help?"

  "Because," Ryerson answered, his tone hard and serious, "I'm trying to catch a murderer, and I think I can do it more quickly if both of our brains are working on it."

  Lenny's scowl disappeared. He smiled again, broadly, incredulously. "Didn't I tell you, Rye? Didn't I tell you?"

  "Tell me what, Lenny?" Ryerson was smiling, too. He was pleased with Lenny's happiness.

  "That we're a team. Didn't I tell you that?"

  Ryerson nodded. Creosote belched. Ryerson said, "Yes, I believe you did."

  ~ *~

  Rick Dunn said to the waitress at Lorenzo's Restaurant on Queen Street, "I need a priest."

  The waitress quipped, "If it's not on the menu, we don't have it." She smiled. Her smile vanished under Rick's cold, hard gaze.

  He said in a stiff monotone, "I'm going to eat here, Miss. And when I'm done, I'm going to go and find a priest. A Roman Catholic priest. And what I'm asking you is this: is there a Roman Catholic church nearby?"

  The waitress shrugged. "So who goes to church?" She glanced at another waitress working the front part of the small restaurant. "I'll ask Freda." She paused. "What are you going to have?"

  Rick studied the menu a few moments then asked, "How's the vegetable lasagna?"

  "The vegetable lasagna's real good. You want some?"

  Rick nodded. "Yes, thank you. Plus a glass of milk, please. And a side order of whole-wheat toast."

  "Sure," said the waitress. "I'll ask Freda about that church."

  "It's urgent," said Rick.

  ~ * ~

  "Possessed people," Ryerson explained as Lenny got into his freshly laundered white suit, "are still the people that they always were. That's important. And, as I said before, the psyche becomes split into two unequal halves that are in communication with each other—which is to say that each half knows that the other half exists, although this knowledge can be on a very elemental, very instinctive level.

  "Possession, Lenny, can also release us from the constraints that civilization imposes on our normal psyches. When we're possessed, we may experience feelings that we have never experienced before, and those feelings may be very pleasurable." He stopped; Lenny had disappeared into a walk-in closet.

  Lenny called, "Yeah, I'm listening."

  Ryerson put Creosote on the floor. The dog looked momentarily confused, then trotted across the room and tore into one of Lenny's saddle shoes. Ryerson breathed, "Oh, hell!" vaulted across the room, and yanked the shoe from Creosote's mouth.

  Lenny reappeared. "What's going on, Rye?"

  Ryerson grinned sheepishly, glanced at the saddle shoe in his right hand, then at Creosote in his left, and said, looking at Lenny, "Creosote was eating your shoe. I'm sorry."

  "My saddle shoe?"

  "Yes." Ryerson held up the shoe. "But it's okay. I got to him in time."

  "Saddle shoes aren't easy to come by, you know."

  Ryerson nodded. Creosote strained hard to get another bite of the shoe. "I'm aware of that, Lenny. And they're very nice shoes."

  Lenny had his white suit jacket in hand. He said as he poured himself into it, "You're patronizing me, Rye. I wish you wouldn't. You think saddle shoes are stupid—admit it."

  Ryerson considered, then shook his head. "They're not stupid, Lenny. Whatever someone wants to wear is his business. Look at me. My first wife said I had the ‘poor man's preppy look,' and I guess she was right."

  Lenny crossed the room, took the saddle shoe from Ryerson, and sat on the bed to put it on. "Everyone's got his particular costume," he said.

  Ryerson said, "You continually astound me, Lenny."

  ~ * ~

  "Can I speak plainly, Father?"

  "You may speak whatever is in your heart, my son. How long has it been since your last confession?"

  "Twenty-five years."

  "That's a very long time."

  "Is that a joke?"

  "No, it's not a joke, merely an observation."

  "I have murder in my heart, Father."

  "Which is to say—"

  "Which is to say that I've killed a few people—one or two or three people."

  The priest gasped.

  "Good," Rick said. "You believe me. The last asshole I talked to thought I was being . . . allegorical."

  The priest said, his tone forced, and his voice dry, "This is a very, very serious thing you have con
fessed, and though I am duty bound to—" There was a knock at the door to his side of the confessional. "Who is it?"

  "Sister Felicia."

  "Yes, what is it, Sister?"

  "Someone has fainted in the chancel, Father."

  "Then see to him."

  "It's a woman, Father. And I can't rouse her. I've called for an ambulance."

  "What do you mean you can't rouse her?"

  "She will not come around, Father. I felt that you should be told immediately."

  The priest said nothing.

  Rick chuckled.

  The priest turned his gaze to the screen that separated him from Rick and whispered hoarsely, "What have you done?"

  Rick answered, "Only what gives me pleasure. You know, Father, it's what life's all about." The priest shot from his side of the confessional and ran toward the chancel. Rick rattled on, mindless of the fact that he was speaking to himself, "I asked someone once, half-jokingly, 'What's life all about?' And this person answered, 'My Zen master said Life is like a ship that goes out on the great ocean.' I looked at her. I thought she was going to give me some pseudospiritual bullcrap. But she continued, 'The ship is going to sink eventually, and you can either have a great time before that happens, or you can have a lousy time. But,' she emphasized, 'it is going to sink.' So, Father, before my ship sinks, I'm going to have one hell of a time!"

  ~ * ~

  Max Tyler said to Inspector Creed, "There's no answer at this guy's office, Dan."

  Creed checked his watch. It was 2:30 on a Tuesday afternoon. "Someone should be there," he said. "His secretary, anyway."

  "That's what I thought," Tyler said.

  Creed stood up, got his coat from a coat rack near his desk and headed for the door. Max stepped out of his way. Creed said as he passed, "We're going over there, Max."

  "Sure thing."

  Creed stopped and put his hand on Max's shoulder. "Call Ryerson Biergarten, would you? Have him meet us there."

  "Where's he staying?"

  Creed looked confused. "Damn, I don't know." He shook his head. "Forget it—let's get over to this guy's office. If Biergarten is all he claims to be, he'll be there waiting for us."

  ~ * ~

  At that moment, Ryerson was walking on King Street with Lenny Baker, and he was delivering a monologue. He was also feeling a twinge at the nape of his neck, as if some small creature had begun burrowing into his skin. It felt like the combination of a dull ache and a soft itch, and while he delivered his monologue, he tried to figure out what the twinge was telling him. "So you see my point, don't you, Lenny?"