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  "Clean?" Max asked.

  "Yeah," Creed answered.

  Harry Lamb protested, "Just because I do coke doesn't mean I go around cutting people up."

  "That," said Creed, "is something we'll have to find out for ourselves."

  TWELVE

  A jowly middle-aged man in a stiff gray suit—one of a half-dozen people seated at a big circular oak table on the fiftieth floor of an office building on Bloor Street West—said to Rick, who was seated opposite them all, as if before a panel of judges, "I'm sorry, sir, but the plans you submitted to this committee are not acceptable. Our engineers found problems in a number of areas—most importantly in the stress calculations applicable not only to the subbasement load points, but also—"

  Rick held up his hand. "Listen," he said, and leaned over the table and smiled wearily, "I know there are problems with this design. I tried to tell you people that, didn't I? I wanted more time with it. I wanted to sit down with your engineers and review—"

  The jowly man cut in. "I'm sorry, sir, but we have given you every opportunity to avail yourself of our engineers, and you have not done so."

  "You have?" Rick was confused. "Really? When?" A thin, square-faced woman explained, "A number of times, sir. I have here, in fact, a half-dozen letters which this firm sent to you inviting you to avail yourself of the expertise of our engineers. But you never responded. And you never met with our engineers. Sir, we gave you this contract not only because we believed in your work, but also as a gesture of our goodwill as Canadians—"

  "Shit!" spat Rick. "'Goodwill as Canadians,' my ass!"

  "Sir, please," the jowly man sputtered.

  Rick pushed on, "Your so-called 'Canadian goodwill' is a lot of horse manure, my friend. I was the best man for the job, and you knew it. Otherwise you'd have hired someone else. Don't try to con me."

  "Yes," said the woman. "You're right. Our goodwill had very little to do with our decision to hire you. However, sir, what you once were is not reflected in the designs you gave us. I've seen better work from first-year architecture students, and I believe I speak for all of us when I say that not only are we releasing you from this contract, but you're damned good and lucky we aren't suing you for the return of money already paid."

  Rick stared at her a moment. Then he stood up, gathered some papers on the table together, put them in his briefcase, and left the room.

  ~ * ~

  "Why were you up in the tower, Harry?" Creed asked. They had brought Harry Lamb into the station house, and he was seated in a straight-backed metal chair in the interrogation room.

  Lamb sighed and shook his head. "This is getting to be a bore, guys. I mean, why's anyone go up in the tower? To see the fucking sights, right? To take some chickie up there and impress the hell out of her and see the fucking sights."

  Creed said, "But you didn't impress her, did you, Harry?"

  "So boil me in chicken fat. I didn't score. So what?"

  "And that got you mad, didn't it?"

  Harry sighed again. "What it got me was lover's nuts—"

  "It got you so mad, in fact," Creed insisted, "that you came back later and waited for Jason Granger to show up-',

  "Oh, hell, if I really did go back up there, wouldn't someone have seen me?"

  "You know the answer to that question as well as we do, Harry. You're throwing up a smoke screen. Why?"

  Harry sighed. "I want my lawyer."

  "Harry, talk to us."

  "The only thing I'm going to say to you is what my lawyer tells me to say."

  "That's not smart, Harry."

  "There you go sounding like Joe Friday again."

  "Just tell us why you did it."

  "I didn't."

  "Tell us why you did it and, believe me, you'll feel a lot better."

  "Did you rehearse that?"

  "C'mon, Harry. Get it off your chest. You went up there, you tried to score, you didn't, you got mad—"

  "What are you saying? That every guy who doesn't score goes out and kills someone?"

  "No. Not everyone."

  "Just me, huh? The coke-head."

  "Talk to us."

  "Go to hell!"

  "Every journey begins with the first step."

  "Let me write that down and put it in my wallet."

  "You talk to us and life will be much, much easier for you."

  "Goddammit, I told you, the only one I'm going to talk to is my lawyer."

  And so it went.

  ~ * ~

  At Queen's Hospital, five miles north of Toronto, the doctor in charge at the Psychological Evaluation and Testing Center asked Ryerson, "So you believe you're psychic, Mr. Biergarten?"

  "Yes." Ryerson was seated on a steel examination table with his hands clasped over his knees and his head lowered. He was wearing a white hospital gown.

  "And that is why," the doctor continued, "you were doing what you were doing in the CN Tower?"

  "Yes."

  "How long have you had these . . . impulses, Mr. Biergarten?" The doctor was a tall, thin, balding, no-nonsense man in his early fifties.

  "I don't have impulses," Ryerson answered, his voice a low monotone. "I have reactions." His head was still lowered. He was fighting off the effects of a tranquilizer.

  "Can you look up at me?" the doctor said.

  Ryerson raised his head. The doctor looked first in Ryerson's right eye, then his left. "Thank you. You can lower your head." Ryerson did it. The doctor continued, "Were you trying to jump from the tower?"

  "No."

  "Then what were you doing?"

  "I was trying to fly."

  "Is there a difference?"

  "Yes."

  "And that difference is?"

  "Sorry?"

  "And that difference is?"

  "What difference?"

  "The difference between jumping and flying."

  "Do you know that your lover has a yeast infection?"

  The doctor said nothing.

  Ryerson continued, "She gets them quite often." His head was still lowered; he was still speaking in a low, weary monotone. "She gets them once every few months. The problem is very deeply rooted. The problem is with you, doctor."

  The doctor managed, "We're straying." He glanced furtively about the room, as if someone were listening.

  "Yes," Ryerson said. "We're straying."

  "Let's not . . . do that," said the doctor. He smiled his flattest, most professional smile. "Let's stick to the topic at hand."

  "By what right are you keeping me here?" Ryerson asked. He raised his head. The tranquilizer was wearing off.

  The doctor answered, still smiling flatly, "The Mental Hygiene Law of 1938 provides for temporary involuntary incarceration of any individual who demonstrates that he is a danger either to himself or to others."

  "Oh," said Ryerson, and lowered his head once again.

  "And that, I'm afraid, is you, Mr. Biergarten."

  "Your wife doesn't know about your lover, does she, doctor?"

  The doctor said nothing.

  "And it would probably be of little consequence to her if your lover were not as young as she is."

  The doctor whispered, "This is incredible."

  Ryerson looked up. "I'm sorry, doctor, but I can't fool around here answering your questions. I have work to do."

  The doctor shook his head quickly, in clear frustration. "But I ... have no lover, Mr. Biergarten," he stammered.

  Ryerson managed a weary smile. "I'm not making a value judgment, doctor. I can see that this ... woman brings you happiness."

  "Yes ... yes," whispered the doctor.

  "But if you want it in a word," Ryerson said, "then the word is blackmail. Either I get out of here immediately—"

  The doctor shook his head again. "That's not necessary, Mr. Biergarten. Yes. I believe you. I'll sign the papers."

  Ryerson nodded. "The happiness she brings you, Doctor, is a very good thing. I can see that."

  "Thank you," the d
octor said.

  "I assume someone will bring me my clothes?"

  "Immediately."

  ~ * ~

  Lenny Baker was sitting on a blue vinyl couch in the hospital lobby. He'd been waiting for Ryerson, and as Ryerson approached, heading for the front doors, Lenny stood, smiled his huge, pink, aging cherub kind of smile and extended his chunky hand. Ryerson stared at it a moment, then shook it quickly. "Thank you," he said, and started for the doors.

  Lenny looked crestfallen after him. "That's all?" he called. "God, Rye, I practically saved your life—"

  Ryerson stopped and looked back. "I wasn't going to jump. I couldn't have, even if I'd wanted to."

  "Sure," Lenny said, and went over to him. "I know that. But you could have fallen through accidentally. And if it weren't for me, you probably would have."

  Ryerson was stymied. He shrugged. "Okay, then again, my thanks. I mean it, Mr. Baker. Thank you very much." He sighed. "Listen, do you want the truth?"

  "Sure. Of course. Doesn't everyone?"

  "No. But this is the truth between you and me: I don't like your methods, Mr. Baker. That's not a value judgment, and it's not something personal. I don't dislike you as a person. Actually, you're kind of endearing, in a bumbling way. But professionally, I'd say we're simply not compatible,"

  Lenny grinned toothily. "I'll change my methods, then."

  "I doubt very much that you can."

  "You think I'm fat and disgusting, don't you? You can't deny it—I'm just as psychic as you are. I can read it in you—"

  "I don't think you're fat and disgusting."

  "I jog, you know. I just started. I do one mile every morning. Next week it'll be two miles, and the week after that it'll be three miles—"

  "I told you—I do not find you fat and disgusting. That's not the issue; it's not the problem." Again he started for the doors. He felt Lenny's hand on his shoulder. He stopped, looked back.

  Lenny said, with a Cheshire-cat smile, "The police got somebody for that CN Tower murder, Rye."

  Ryerson said nothing.

  Lenny added, "I heard it over the TV in there." He nodded toward a small room to the left of the lobby.

  "Who?" Ryerson said. "Did you get a name?"

  Lenny nodded. "Yeah. Some guy named Lamb."

  "This is incredible," Ryerson said. "They've got the wrong man." He wasn't speaking to Lenny, he was speaking to himself. "That's all there is to it. The idiots have got the wrong damned man."

  "Yeah," said Lenny, "I know it, you know it, the guy they got knows it, but that's all that knows it."

  Ryerson continued shaking his head. He turned quickly and headed for the front doors. Lenny fell in behind him. On the street, Ryerson hailed a cab, got in, saw Lenny getting in with him, said, "No. Please, no!" And there was such desperate urgency in his voice that Lenny backed away and hailed his own cab.

  "Follow that car!" Lenny said to the driver.

  "What car?" asked the driver.

  "That one!" Lenny yelled, pointing stiffly at Ryerson's cab.

  "Why?" asked the driver.

  "What do you mean, ‘Why?' I want you to follow it, that's all."

  The driver turned around, smiling. "Listen, this is not some scene out of a Doris Day comedy. I am not going to follow that cab—it's not my business to follow cabs. It's my business to take people places and to obey all traffic regulations at the same time. If I have to successfully follow that cab, it will doubtless mean breaking several of those regulations, with the possible revocation of my license to drive. Therefore, as much as I'd like to comply with your wishes to, as you put it, ‘Follow that cab!' I'm afraid that I can't. And I won't. If you wish to ‘follow that cab,' you will have to do it on foot, or perhaps rent a bicycle."

  "Shit!" Lenny breathed and hopped out.

  The driver leaned over and said out the passenger window, "However, if you have knowledge of that cab's destination, well, that would be a different matter entirely. I could simply take you there, and you could ..."

  "Twelfth Precinct!" Lenny snapped and hopped back in.

  ~ * ~

  Ryerson said to Creed, "You're holding someone for the CN Tower murder, aren't you, Dan?"

  "Yes, we are," Creed answered. "Are you going to tell me we've got the wrong man?"

  Ryerson nodded. "Actually, you do."

  Detective Creed grinned. "Well, I'm one up on you. I know we've got the wrong man."

  Ryerson was surprised. "And yet you're continuing to hold him?"

  "On another charge, yes. But for now, it's probably best politically to let the public believe that we've got a suspect. It might also make the real murderer . . . careless."

  "I've gotten images of the real murderer, Dan," Ryerson broke in.

  Creed sighed.

  "It's someone who lives in Toronto," Ryerson said.

  "Tell me why that's not the astounding revelation of the month, Rye."

  Ryerson added, "It's someone in power, someone who has authority."

  Creed said, "Someone in authority, Rye? What's that supposed to be, a joke? 'Someone in authority' is a description of anyone over twenty-one with an IQ larger than my hat size."

  Ryerson shook his head. "I'm trying to make sense of it, myself. It's a man in authority, a man who has power—"

  "A man who has power over what, Rye?"

  "I'm not sure. I don't know." A smile of recognition came to him. "Yes," he said. "I do know. It's a man who has power over . . . buildings." He paused. "Buildings," he repeated.

  Creed laughed. "What's that mean, Rye? Our killer is a janitor?"

  Ryerson looked confused. "A janitor? No, I don't think so, Dan. I don't think so. I think it's an architect." He hesitated very briefly. "Dan, I know it's an architect."

  Creed let a little smile play on his lips. He opened one of his desk drawers, pulled out the Toronto yellow pages—a book two inches thick—and opened to the section listed Architects. He flipped one page. Then another. And another. He looked up at Ryerson. His smile faded. He said, "At a guess, I'd say there are three hundred architects listed here." He flipped back to the beginning of the section and pointed at what Ryerson knew was the first listing. "Shall we go talk to ‘Aadman, Carl,' first?" Then"—he lowered his finger slightly—" ‘Aldeman, Judy,' then 'Arlington, Graham,' then—"

  Ryerson cut in, "It's a man. I know that."

  Creed nodded. "Wonderful. That lowers the field to maybe two hundred seventy-five possible suspects. And tell me this, Rye—even if you were able to give me a name, what am I supposed to do with it? You give me a name—you give me 'Joe Schmo'—and what am I supposed to do? Am I supposed to go to a judge and say, ‘Judge, this psychic says that Joe Schmo is our tower killer. Give me a warrant, okay?' If that sounds stupid, Rye, it's because it is."

  "If I gave you a name, Dan, you'd know who to watch. I don't have to tell you that."

  Creed regarded Ryerson for several moments. Then he said, "You're still trying to make amends, aren't you?"

  "Amends for what?" Ryerson asked angrily.

  "You know very well for what. For screwing up the Cobb disappearance. That was a real blow to your pride, wasn't it, Rye? That hit you where you live."

  Ryerson sighed. "Yes. I'll admit it. But what motivates me, or appears to motivate me shouldn't be of any concern to you, Dan. As long as I can help."

  Creed turned his attention suddenly to the doorway. "What the hell are you doing here?"

  Before Ryerson turned to look, he knew who Creed was talking to. He heard Lenny Baker say, "Hi, Dan. Me and Ryerson Biergarten here are working together. You didn't know that, did you?"

  Ryerson shook his head slowly, in exasperation. "No, we aren't," he whispered.

  Creed didn't hear him. "I thought you had better judgment, Rye. This guy's the biggest con man in Toronto."

  "Used to be the biggest con man in Toronto, Dan," Lenny corrected. "I've gone straight."

  Ryerson turned his head. "Do you have any idea of the trouble
you're causing me, Mr. Baker?"

  And, while Lenny was thinking of something to say, Ryerson said, to no one in particular, "His name is Rick."

  THIRTEEN

  Frenzy was a good word. It fit. Like being on a merry-go-round. Like being in a blender. Like being in a cement mixer.

  A cement mixer?

  Rick pressed his intercom button. "Roberta, do I have any appointments this afternoon?"

  "No," came her voice over the intercom. "You had one with the Toronto Architectural Board, but you canceled it."

  "I did?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Do you know why?"

  "You canceled it because you were ill."

  "When was that?"

  "Yesterday."

  "I wasn't ill yesterday."

  "No, sir. You asked me to tell them you had a forty-eight-hour flu. That's the phrase you used—‘a forty-eight-hour flu.' I've rescheduled the appointment for the twenty-ninth." A pause. "Is that all, sir?" She got no response. "Mr. Dunn?" Still nothing. "Are you okay, sir?"

  "No," he answered, his voice suddenly low and hoarse. "I'm confused."

  After several seconds of silence, Roberta said, "Confused about what, Mr. Dunn?"

  "I need to see a priest, Roberta."

  She said nothing.

  Rick Dunn went on, his voice still very low and hoarse, "A Roman Catholic priest. Can you get one for me?" There was a hard urgency in his voice, as if he were pleading for air.

  Roberta said, "I'll look in the yellow pages, Mr. Dunn."

  Rick answered at once, "Do that. Look in the yellow pages. Find a priest and get him up here quickly. Please!" Silence.

  "Mr. Dunn?" Roberta called.

  Silence.

  Roberta went to Rick's office door. She knocked on it. "Mr. Dunn?"

  "Go away!" she heard.

  "Do you still want that priest, Mr. Dunn?"

  "I want you to go away, dammit!"

  Roberta put her hand on the doorknob. Her stomach fluttered. "Perhaps a doctor, instead, sir?"

  Silence.

  Roberta added, "I can call Dr. Peterson for you. I can have him up here as quickly as possible." A short pause. "Do you think you need a doctor, Mr. Dunn?"

  Silence.

  Roberta's grip on the doorknob strengthened. Her stomach fluttered harder, as if there were some small bird inside her beating its wings. She smiled a flat, quivering smile and called, "I'm going to ring Dr. Peterson." She let go of the doorknob and added, "Unless you say otherwise, Mr. Dunn, I'm going to ring Dr. Peterson now and get him up here as quickly as possible."