On the Other Hand, Death - Stevenson Richard - Страница 43

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He chortled lewdly. "Eight or ten of them are absolute dogs, honey, but I thought you wanted this list for a kidnapping case."

"Ha, ha. Dog owners, Newell. As with the cats."

"I really don't know a lot of these people, but hold on a sec." He hummed the theme from A Summer Place while he perused his list.

"Here's one," he said. "Martin Fiori has dogs and cats. I've been out to his place, and it's an absolute menagerie. "

"Oh, really? What kind of dogs? Are they trained?"

"Yes, I happen to know that they do do tricks. There are two poodles who can jump through a hoop, and a Pekinese who faints on command. Martin'll say, 'Have the

vapors, Patsy,' and the little pooch will roll right over and faint dead away. I'll tell you, it's an absolute scream."

"Martin doesn't sound promising. Who else have you got?"

"Let's see. Oh, here's one. Buddy Strunk has a dog. Some kind of mongrel, I remember. Real friendly. The sniffy type. Visitors to Buddy's apartment sit all evening with their legs locked together. But I don't think Buddy has a cat. No, no cat at Buddy's."

"Keep going."

"Dr. Vincent has a dog. And a cat."

"Who's he?"

"Dr. Charles Vincent. He's on the ER staff at Albany Med. He has a big bash once a year out at his place in Latham that I've gone to."

"What kind of dog? Do you remember his dog? A German shepherd maybe, or something else in the smart, mean department?"

"Gosh, I don't think so. I'd remember a big, ugly beast like that. I think Charles's dog is reddish. An Irish setter probably."

"Yeah, okay. I'll check that one. Who else?"

"Unn. I think that's about it, I'm afraid. There are probably lots of others. But you didn't ask about dogs. Just cats. So I didn't inquire."

"Crap. Okay. Well, this is something anyway."

"Oh, here's one more who doesn't have a dog or a cat that I know of, though he might. But his brother does. His brother trains dogs."

"Who's that? Tell me all about him."

"He's Duane Andrus, an aide in the Albany Med ER. His dad was a vet and used to run the Andrus Kennels out on Karner Road in Guilderland. The old man drank himself to death years ago, and then the brother—Glen, I think his name is—he's a security guard at Albany Med—"

"A security guard who wears a uniform?"

"Yes, he would."

"Go on. Tell me more."

"Well, Glen kept the kennels open for boarding after the old man died, until the place was shut down after the SPCA complained about bad treatment of the animals. The place was a real hellhole, from what I read. Filth, starvation, beatings. That was just last month, I think. Or late June maybe. It was in the papers. The only animal that came out of that place healthy was Glen's dog, the one he trains. Duane helped out out there, I know. Which doesn't surprise me. He's the type."

"The type for what?"

"Meanness, carelessness, flakiness. A real asshole."

"What else do you know about Duane?"

"That man is a criminal if there ever was one. Hustles his ass, and has a monumental coke habit, or so I hear. He's been in jail for assault, that I know for sure. Duane always seems to have money. He's got some sugar daddy in town, I'm told. He hangs around the pool table at the Watering Hole. He's mean, dumb, and ugly, but not nearly as ugly as he is mean and dumb, ha-ha. Hunky though, in his vulgar way. If that's the type you go for."

I let the tape play in my head again. I heard the voice, and the background noise. Friday night at the Watering Hole. The mean-looking cowboy whose pool shot McWhirter ruined. The one who smelled like the stockyards. Or a kennel.

I said, "You're a sweetheart, Newell. That's my man, I'm all but sure of it. Listen, is it possible that Duane Andrus would have been one of the people your friends called tonight? You didn't call him, did you?"

"Duane is really not my cup of tea, honey. I go for the strong silent type. Deep. Like Richard Gere. And no, I don't think anyone else would have called him either.

Duane is not exactly what you'd call approachable. Unless you've got a hundred-dollar bill in your hand."

"Newell, thank you. You've done something important tonight. If there's any justice, you'll get a shot at the Troy Savings Bank Music Hall for this."

"Why, thank you, darlin'. I'll pack the place for sure if it's two-for-one on a Wednesday night."

I rang off and asked the patrolman guarding the farmhouse how I could get in touch with Bowman.

"The lieutenant said he was going up in the chopper. I hadn't better bother him now."

"Bother him," I said. "On this one, he'll have your ass if you don't."

I told the cop where I'd be and what I'd be doing and to relay the message to Bowman as rapidly as the department's bureaucracy could manage it.

I wanted a gun with me but couldn't take the time to drive all the way back to my office to pick up my Smith & Wesson. I dialed Lyle Barner's number. After ten rings I was about to hang up when he answered.

"Yeah? Who's this?"

"Don Strachey, Lyle. I need help. Now."

"Don— Oh. What's the problem, Don?" He sounded nicely relaxed and distracted. Too relaxed. I regretted doing this to him.

"I want you to meet me in fifteen minutes—ten, if you can—outside the Star Market at Western and Karner Road. Come armed."

"Hey, man, hey. I've got— There's someone with me.

"Get rid of him. I know who the kidnappers are and where they are. I'll need help. Bowman will turn up eventually. But I need a strong man who has experience with unruly types and can handle a gun, and I need him now."

"Oh, right, Don. Ten minutes. Star Market, Karner and Western."

The cop was in his car trying to raise someone on the radio when I pulled out of Dot's driveway and went pounding up Moon Road.

The lights were out at the Deem and Wilson households. I supposed they were all asleep, dreaming of untold wealth. The wealth that they would be within hours of collecting, were it not for my rushing out to Karner Road to take it away from them.

23

Lyle’s Trans Am roared into the Star

Market lot five minutes after I did. I was standing beside my car when he pulled up beside me.

"Listen, Don, let me explain something. It wasn't my idea—"

The passenger door on the other side of Lyle's car opened. A man stepped out and looked at me across the car roof. His face rang a bell.

"Hi, sport," I said. "Long time no see."

He gazed at me coolly.

"He insisted on coming," Lyle burbled on. "I mean, jeez, if I'd thought he was going to— I mean—"

My impulse was to flatten them both. Drag Lyle from the seat of his pretentious hotdogger's shitwagon and knock him the hundred yards over to Dunkin' Donuts and shove him into the artificial-vanilla-flavored cream machine. Then come back and kick the other one's ass down Western Avenue the six miles back to the apartment.

Instead, I strolled into Star Market, bought a gallon jug of spring water, brought it out, uncapped it, took a

swig, then poured the rest of it over my head. Ga-lug, ga-lug, ga-lug. The stuff wasn't particularly cooling, but it was wet and cooler than my body temperature, and it had its effect.

Lyle stared at me with his mouth hanging open. Timmy looked away, trying with everything he had not to laugh. Not that his newly hardened heart wasn't thudding inside his tank-topped chest.

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