The Death Of Blue Mountain Cat Part 33

"My partner, Harold Leroi," Madison said.

Oster peered through the window in the holding cell door, looked back at Thinnes, then pointed into the cell. "Hey, see that? The Enquirer's right. Elvis isn't dead."

"Not yet, anyway," Leroi said.

"So, what's the story on this guy?"

"We respond to a complaint of a male Cauc hanging around the U of C campus, acting suspicious," Madison said. "And we spot him just over the line, here in Three."

"Naturally," Leroi added, "we ask ourselves, 'What's wrong with this picture?'"

"So we stop him and do a Terry, and we find a gun."

"And we turn out his pockets and find the keys to a big truck. This guy doesn't look like he can afford the beater he's driving."

"So we search his car and find some very interesting dinner-ware in the trunk." Madison lifted a cardboard box from the floor onto the desk and flipped open the top. Inside was a pottery bowl almost exactly like the ones Thinnes found in Teresa Moreno's apartment, like the Anasazi bowl Bisti used in his fatal installation. "Mr. Hale claims he bought this down on Maxwell Street," Madison continued. "And he was going to try'n sell it to some professor over at the U. He conveniently forgot the guy's name."

"Probably Matthew Dennison," Thinnes said.

"This some kind of black-market thing?" Leroi asked.

Oster said, "We're still working on that. We've gotten several different versions, so far."

Leroi nodded. "Well, he told us his name was Oliver North, but then we ran his prints..."

"We'd like to arraign him first thing in the A.M.," Madison said. "Of course murder one beats unlawful use any day..."

They didn't try the Mutt-and-Jeff routine on Hale. It would have been a waste of a performance. He'd seen it before. And they didn't want a ha.s.sle over whether they'd read him his Miranda rights.

Thinnes was pretty sure they had a good circ.u.mstantial case, even without Poke Salad Annie's ID. It would be up to the state's attorney to sober her up and make her appear credible on the witness stand.

"We don't give a s.h.i.+t why he did it," Thinnes told Oster before they joined Hale in the interview room. "So long as he's willing to admit he did it."

In the room, Oster said, "Why'd you do it, Elvis? We know you did it. We got a witness."

A witness that will never stand up in court, Thinnes thought, but we're not telling you that.

"Don't try that witness s.h.i.+t on me. The old a.s.shole's dead. Who's your witness, his dog?"

"Don't you wish. No, we got a human witness."

"Who'd the old a.s.shole be?" Thinnes said.

"I ain't saying anything more."

"You just said enough to hang yourself, Mr. Hale. Your best bet is to come clean and try to cut yourself a deal."

"Someone named your name," Oster added. "How else would we connect you up?"

"Prove it!"

"We will. In court." He let Hale think about that for a minute.

"I want a lawyer."

"Fine," Oster said.

"Elvis's lawyer just showed up," Oster told Thinnes, later. "They're conferring."

Oster and Thinnes, Swann, Viernes, Ryan, and Ferris had just polished off a pizza and were was.h.i.+ng it down with coffee. Just then, Columbo walked in.

"What's five hundred lawyers in the bottom of the lake?" Ferris asked, loudly enough for the a.s.sistant state's attorney to hear.

"Jesus!" Viernes said. He p.r.o.nounced it HAY-SOOZ. "What'd a lawyer ever do to you?"

"I'll tell you some day when we got more time."

"Sorry, Columbo," Swann said.

"Oh, Columbo's not insulted," Ferris said. "He'd be the first to admit state's attorneys are all wannabe cops or apprentice politicians."

"I have a theory about lawyer bas.h.i.+ng," Columbo told them.

"Jealousy?" Thinnes asked.

"Yup. Those who can, do; those who can't, criticize."

"Yeah, Ferris is a great critic."

"You know, Ferris," Viernes said, "when you retire-a.s.suming you're not shot first-they're gonna throw a party and everyone's gonna come."

"To make sure he's really leaving," Thinnes told Columbo.

"Yeah," Viernes added. "And if he dies with his boots on, even Thinnes won't be able to solve it-"

Ryan finished for him. "Too many people with a motive and a weapon."

Sixty-Four.

Lauren Bisti was depressed. Thinnes recognized the symptoms. He could even still remember-barely-what they felt like. "How're you feeling?" he asked.

"Depressed. My doctor wants me to take Prozac, but it's normal to feel bad when you've lost someone." She smiled; it didn't reach her eyes. "I'm sorry, but I don't remember."

"Thinnes, I got six calls this week from people in high places," Rossi said, "wanting to know when we're gonna solve this Downtown Indian murder."

Only six? Thinnes thought.

"The commander wants to know. The chief wants to know, and so do I."

"You read my reports. What more do you want me to do?"

"Find the f.u.c.kin' killer!"

Half an hour later, the sergeant handed Thinnes a handful of telephone-message slips. "Thinnes," he said, "I got good news for you and some bad news."

Thinnes glanced toward Rossi's office. "I could use some good news."

"The good news is, they matched the sh.e.l.l casing found at your Uptown Indian scene with the gun District Three took off Elvis Hale."

"That's nice. What's the bad news?"

"Hale's escaped."

Thinnes shook his head. "How'd that happen?"

"He took some other prisoner's court call and got let out on an I-bond. Just walked away."

"Why doesn't that surprise me?"

Thinnes hung up the phone and sighed and told Oster, "Wingate's secretary says her boss is out of town-indefinitely. And Kent's lawyer-I'm sorry, attorney-is gonna sue me for everything I've got if I don't stop hara.s.sing his clients."

Oster laughed and hitched a thumb toward an interview room. "Maybe we should start calling 'em hara.s.sment rooms."

"Kent and Wingate are in cahoots, but good luck proving it."

"Kent and Wingate," Oster repeated thoughtfully. "There's a match made in heaven."

"Where?"

"You know what I mean-Kent's got the product. Wingate the buyers."

"The sixty-four-thousand-dollar question is, does Wingate know what they're really peddling?"

Sixty-Five.

Caleb stopped at the Margolis Gallery to give Anita the cymbidium he'd gotten her for Christmas. It wasn't as unique or expensive as Bisti's painting, but he knew it would please her. "Carlos said you could bring it back and exchange it for something else when it stops blooming," he told her.

"I'll let him board it for me until it blooms again, but I won't give it up. It's lovely."

"What are you doing Christmas Eve?"

"I was hoping you'd ask me out."

"Would you join me for dinner?"

"I'd be delighted. By the way, I came across the name of someone else who sells dubious artifacts, if you're still interested..."

"I want something for Christmas," Caleb told the man. "Maybe something Anasazi. I'm willing to pay a premium."

"I haven't got anything right now."

"I'd be willing to pay a broker's fee if you could give me a name."

"All I have is an address."

"That's a start."

The address was a Gold Coast high-rise. It was late in the evening by the time Caleb got there. The doorman was just turning a shabbily dressed man away from the door. He greeted Caleb quite differently.

Since he didn't know who he was looking for, Caleb tried the absentminded-professor routine. "A friend of a friend's," he said vaguely. "I'm so stupid. I left home without the name. And there's no one home I can call to ask." He waved his hands as if to conjure up the name. "Native American art, pots and-"

"You must mean Mr. Wingate."

"That's him. Is he home, by any chance?"

"No. Sorry. Maybe you ought to phone first next time."

Caleb nodded as if he found the advice profound. "I'll do that, of course. Thank you."

When he got into his car, he phoned Thinnes's pager.

The vagrant Caleb had noticed when he arrived was still loitering near the entrance to the building's parking garage, where the doorman couldn't see him. There was enough light for Caleb to notice something familiar about him, so he looked more closely as he got in the Jaguar. The man looked just like Elvis Presley!

Caleb realized he had to be the Elvis Thinnes was looking for-Elvis Hale-and Hale apparently realized, simultaneously, that he'd been noticed.

He stepped closer until he stood just forward of Caleb's door and said, "What the f.u.c.k are you looking at?" Then he reached under his coat and drew out a gun. It was a loaded revolver. He pointed the weapon at Caleb's head. "Park it."

Caleb put the gears.h.i.+ft in neutral and set the parking brake.

"Open the door!"

He did.