“It could have been murder,” I said, “even if I couldn’t figure out how Will had managed to pull it off. Assume he had his ways, assume he could scale the side of the building and get in through a window, or unlock the door and disarm the burglar alarm system and reset it afterward. It was a real locked-room puzzle, though, any way you looked at it.

“But if it was suicide, the hell, what’s simpler than poisoning your own whiskey? He could have done it whenever he had a few minutes alone, and that gave him plenty of opportunity. Just uncap the bottle, pour in the cyanide crystals, and put the cap back on.”

“And be sure not to drink from that particular bottle until you’re ready to catch the bus.”

“That’s right,” I said. “But we’re back to the points you raised earlier. Why, in the absence of any kind of a financial motive, go to all that trouble to make suicide look like murder? And, motive aside, why wrap it up in a locked-room puzzle? Why make it look like an impossible murder?”

“Why?”

“So that Will would get the credit, and look good in the process. This would be Will’s last hurrah. Why not make it a good one and go out with a bang?”

He thought about it, nodded slowly. “Makes a kind of sense if he’s Will. But only if he’s Will.”

“Granted.”

“So how did you get that part? Because if it’s just a hypothesis that you dreamed up because it’s the only way to make sense out of the locked-room-murder-that-has-to-be-suicide…”

“It’s not. There’s something else that got me suspicious.”

“Oh?”

“That first night at his apartment,” I said, “he didn’t have booze on his breath.”

“Well, for Christ’s sake,” he said. “Why didn’t you say so earlier? Jesus, I’m surprised you didn’t arrest the son of a bitch right then and there.”

But he listened without interrupting while I explained my recollection of that first visit to Whitfield’s Park Avenue apartment. “He made a point of saying he’d been drinking when he hadn’t,” I explained. “Now why the hell would he lie about something like that? He wasn’t a heavy drinker, and he didn’t claim to be a heavy drinker, but he did drink, and he even took a drink in front of me. So why the subterfuge, why pretend to have had a couple of drinks earlier in the evening?

“I didn’t have to be able to answer that in order to conclude that he’d lied to me, and I didn’t think he’d do that without a reason. Well, what did the lie accomplish? It underscored his claim of having been really rattled by Will’s threat. What was he saying, really? Something along the lines of, ‘I’m truly and righteously scared, in fact I’m so scared that I’ve already had a couple of drinks today, and now I’m going to have another one and you can stand there and watch me do it.’

“Why would he want me to think he was scared? I busted my head on that one. What I came up with was that the only reason he’d have for going out of his way to impress me with his fear was because it didn’t exist. That’s why he had to lie about it. He wanted me to think he was afraid because he wasn’t.”

“Why bother? Wouldn’t you assume he was afraid, getting marked for death by some clown who was riding a hot streak? Wouldn’t anybody?”

“You’d think so,” I said, “but he knew something I didn’t. He knew he wasn’t afraid, and he knew he had nothing to be afraid of.”

“Because Will couldn’t hurt him.”

“Not if he was Will.”

He frowned. “That’s a pretty big leap of logic, wouldn’t you say? He’s pretending to be afraid, therefore he’s not afraid, therefore he’s got nothing to fear. Therefore he’s Will, master criminal and multiple murderer. I don’t remember a whole lot from my freshman logic class, but it strikes me there’s a flaw in the ointment.”

“A flaw in the ointment?”

“The ointment, the woodpile. Maybe he’s not afraid because he’s got terminal cancer and he figures Will’s just doing him a favor.”

“I thought of that.”

“And, since he’s keeping his illness secret from the world, he puts on an innocent act in order to keep you from wondering why it doesn’t upset him more to be Will’s next headline.”

“I thought of that, too.”

“And?”

“I had to admit it was possible,” I said, “but it just didn’t ring true. The motive for subterfuge seemed pretty thin. So what if I didn’t think he was afraid? I’d just figure him for a stoic. But if what he wanted to cover up was the fact that he was Will, well, you could understand why he’d be moved to keep that a secret.”

“Where did you go from there?”

“I took a look at the first murder.”

“Richie Vollmer.”

“Richie Vollmer. Adrian’s client, now free to do it again.”

“Anybody would have gotten Richie off, Matt. It wasn’t Adrian’s doing. The state’s case fell apart when the Neagley woman hanged herself. It’s not as though Adrian handed her the rope.”

“No.”

“You think he felt responsible?”

“I wouldn’t go that far. I think he saw Richie’s release as a gross miscarriage of justice, and I think he read Marty McGraw’s column and came to the conclusion that Marty was right. The world would be a better place without Richie in it.”

“How many people read that column? And what proportion of them found nothing in it to object to?”

“A whole lot of people read it,” I said, “and most of them very likely agreed with it. Adrian had something most of the rest of us lacked. Two things, actually. He’d played a role in Richie’s little dance through the halls of justice, and he could probably find a way to feel at least some responsibility for the outcome. Maybe he’d passed up a chance to get Richie to plead.”

“All right, it’s speculative but I’ll allow it. You said two things. What’s the other one?”

“He had access.”

“To what, the blunt instrument he clubbed him with? Or the rope he used to hang him from the tree?”

“To Richie. Think about it, Ray. Here’s a son of a bitch they caught dead to rights for killing children, and he walks, so now he’s free but he’s a pariah, a fucking moral leper. And you’re Will, a public-spirited citizen determined to dispense rough justice. What do you do, look him up in the phone book? Call him up, tell him you want to talk to him about the advantages of investing in tax-free munis?”

“But Adrian would have known where to find him.”

“Of course he’d know. He was his lawyer. And do you think Richie would refuse a meeting with him? Or be on his guard?”

“You can never predict what a client will do,” he said. “You’re the next thing to a member of their family during the trial, and then it ends in an acquittal and they don’t want to know you. I used to think it was ingratitude. Then for a while I decided it stemmed from a desire to put the experience behind them.”

“And now?”

“Now I’m back to ingratitude. God knows there’s a lot of it going around.” He leaned back in his chair, his fingers interlaced behind his head. “Let’s say you’re right,” he said, “and Adrian had access. He could call Richie and Richie would meet him.”

“And not be on his guard.”

“And not be on his guard. Adrian wouldn’t have to turn up on his doorstep disguised as a twelve-year-old girl. You have anything beside conjecture to place the two of them together?”

“The cops might have the manpower to turn up a witness who saw the two of them together,” I said. “I didn’t even try. What I looked for was the opposite, proof that Adrian was somewhere else when Richie was killed.”

“In court or out of town, for instance.”

“Anything that would give him an alibi. I checked his desk calendar and his time sheets at the office. I can’t prove he didn’t have an alibi, because he wasn’t around to answer questions, but I couldn’t find anything to establish one for him.”

“What about the others? Patsy Salerno was next. Another distinguished client?”

“Adrian never represented him. But a few years ago he had one of Patsy’s soldiers for a client.”

“So?”

“Maybe it gave him a chance to take a strong dislike to the man. I don’t know. Maybe it left him with a contact in Patsy’s circle, someone who might let slip where Patsy was going to be having dinner and when.”

“So Adrian could get there first and hide in the toilet.” He shook his head. “It’s hard to picture him walking in there in the first place, this Waspy guy chasing up to Arthur Avenue for a plate of ziti and eggplant. And how does he hide in the can, and how can he be sure Patsy’s going to answer a call of nature? I’ll grant you Patsy was of an age where you wouldn’t expect him to go too many hours between visits to the can, but you could still spend a long time waiting. And Adrian wasn’t a guy who’d blend in there.”

“More conjecture,” I said.

“Go ahead.”

“Maybe he didn’t try to blend in. Maybe he used who he was instead of trying to disguise it. Maybe he got Patsy’s ear and set up a supersecret meeting.”

“On what pretext?”

“A traitor in Patsy’s ranks. A leak in the U.S. Attorney’s office. A message from somebody highly placed in one of the other crime families. Who knows what he made up? Patsy’d have no reason to be suspicious. The only wire he’d worry about is the kind you wear, not the kind that goes around your neck.”

“He could even let Patsy pick the time and place,” Ray said. “‘I’ll make sure the back door’s unlocked for you. Slip in, and the bathroom’s along the hall on the right.’”

“I don’t even know if there’s a rear entrance,” I said, “but one way or another he’d let Patsy set up a meeting. And he’d make sure Patsy wouldn’t mention it to anybody.”

“So his identity gives him access. Same as with Richie.”

“It strikes me as the best way for him to operate.”

He nodded. “When you think of Will,” he said, “you picture some Ninja gliding invisibly through the city streets. But the best cloak of invisibility might be a three-piece suit. I suppose you looked for an alibi for him for Salerno’s murder? And I don’t suppose he was fly-fishing in Montana?”

“As far as I can tell, he was right here in New York.”

“So were eight million other people,” he said, “and I don’t see you accusing them of murder. What about Julian Rashid? How was Adrian planning on getting into the compound in St. Albans?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “Maybe he was working on a plan to lure Rashid out. I know he wasn’t there when Rashid was killed. He spent the evening with”—I checked my notebook—“Henry Berghash and DeWitt Palmer.”

“A judge and a college president? I’d say it’s a damn shame the cardinal couldn’t join them. I don’t suppose the three of them wound up at a leather bar on West Street.”

“Dinner at Christ Cella’s, fifth-row seats for the new Stoppard play, and drinks afterward at Agin-court. A notation in his calendar, backed up with a credit card receipt and a ticket stub.”

“That’s just perfect,” he said. “You managed to find him a rock-solid alibi for the one murder Will didn’t commit.”

“I know.”

“You think he set it up that way? He knew Scipio was going to do it and made sure he covered himself?”

“I think it was coincidence.”

“Because it’s hardly incriminating, having an alibi.”

“No.”

“Any more than it’s incriminating not having an alibi for the other two murders.”

“True.”

“But we’ve left one out, haven’t we? The abortion guy. Except he’d hate to be called that, wouldn’t he? I’m sure he’d much rather be known as the anti-abortion guy.”

“Protector of the unborn,” I said.

“Roswell Berry. Killed not here in nasty old New York but halfway across the country in the tele-marketing capital of America.”

“Omaha?”

“You didn’t know that about Omaha? Whenever there’s an ad on a cable channel, a twenty-fourhour eight hundred number for you to order a Vegematic Pocket Fisherman CD of Roger Whittaker’s greatest hits, nine times out of ten the person who takes your order is sitting in an office in Omaha. Did Adrian have an alibi when Berry got killed?”

“Yes, he did.”

His eyebrows went up. “Really? That sinks your whole theory, doesn’t it?”

“No,” I said, “it’s the closest thing I’ve got to hard evidence, and it’s strong enough to have brought me here tonight. See, Adrian did have an alibi for Berry’s murder. And it’s full of holes.”

 

“He went to Philadelphia,” I said. “Rode down and back on the Metroliner, had a seat reserved both ways in the club car. Charged the ticket to his American Express card.”

“Where’d he stay in Philly?”

“At the Sheraton near Independence Hall. He was there three nights, and again he used his Amex card.”

“And meanwhile Roswell Berry was being murdered in Omaha.”

“That’s right.”

“Which is what, two thousand miles away?”

“More or less.”

“Don’t make me dig,” he said. “This would appear to clear Adrian. How does it implicate him?”

“Here’s what I think he did,” I said. “I think he went to Philly and checked into the hotel and unpacked a bag. Then I think he took his briefcase and caught a cab to the airport, where he paid cash and showed ID in the name of A. Johnson. He flew to Omaha via Milwaukee on Midwest Express. He registered at the Hilton as Allen Johnson, showing a credit card in that name when he checked in but paying cash when he left. He got there in plenty of time to kill Berry and he got out before the body was found.”

“And flew back to Philadelphia,” Ray said. “And packed his bag and paid his hotel bill and got on the train.”

“Right.”

“And you’ve got nothing that places him in Philadelphia during the time that our Mr. Johnson was either in or en route to Omaha.”

“Nothing,” I said. “No phone calls on his hotel bill, no meals charged, nothing at all to substantiate his presence in the city except that he was paying for a hotel room.”

“I don’t suppose there was a maid who would remember if the bed had been slept in.”

“This long after the fact? The only way she’d remember is if she slept in it with him.”

“Matt, why’d he go to Philly? You’ll say to set up an alibi, I understand that much, but what was his ostensible purpose?”

“To keep some appointments, evidently. He had four or five of them listed on his desk calendar.”

“Oh?”

“Times and last names. I don’t think they were real appointments. I think they were there for show. I checked the names against his Rolodex and couldn’t find them. More to the point, I checked his phone bills, home and office. The only call to Philly that fits the time frame was the one he made to the Sheraton to book his room.”

He thought about it. “Suppose he was seeing somebody in Philadelphia. A married woman. He calls her from a pay phone because—”

“Because her husband might check Adrian’s phone records?”

He started over. “He can’t call her at all,” he said. “She has to call him, and that’s why there are no calls to her on his phone bill. The appointments on his calendar are with her. The names are phony so no one can glance at his calendar and recognize her name. He goes there and never leaves his room, she visits him when she can, and somebody else named Johnson flies out to Omaha and back, not because he’s Will but because he wants to discuss investments with Warren Buffet.”

“And Adrian stays in his room all that time and never orders a sandwich from room service? Or eats the mixed nuts from the mini bar?”

I went over it again, letting him raise objections, knocking them down as he raised them.

“Allen Johnson,” he said. “Is that right? Allen?”

“Allen at the Hilton, just the initial at the airlines counter.”

“If you’d found a wallet full of identification in that name in the top drawer of Adrian’s desk, I’d say you had something.”

“He could have it tucked away in his closet,” I said, “or stashed it in a safe-deposit box. My guess is he got rid of it once he knew he wouldn’t need it anymore.”

“And when was that? When he got back from Omaha?”

“Or when he wrote the letter designating himself as Will’s last victim. Or later. It would be nice if it showed up on a list of recent cyanide purchasers.”

“Where would you find a list like that?”

“You’d have to compile it, which is what someone very likely did once the autopsy results confirmed cyanide as the cause of Adrian’s death. We can be sure his own name didn’t show up on the list, or we’d have read headlines about it. He’d have thought of that. If he needed to show ID in order to buy cyanide, he’d have made sure it was in another name.”

“And he’d have felt safe enough using Allen Johnson again.”

“Unless he’d already destroyed it, yes. I don’t imagine he’d be overly concerned about someone putting the two Johnsons together, one from a hotel in Omaha and the other from a poison-control ledger in New York.”

“No.”

He excused himself, and came back saying how lucky he was—there had been no one lurking in the bathroom with a garrote.

“Though I wouldn’t have made his list,” he said, “if only because he already had a criminal lawyer on it. Hell of an eclectic list he came up with, wouldn’t you say?”

“Very much so.”

“A sexual psychopath, a Mafia boss, a right-to-lifer, and a black rabble-rouser. All along everybody’s been trying to find the common denominator. You’d think it would become apparent when you know who did it, but it’s still hard to spot.”

“He only really needed a reason for the first one,” I said, “and he had that. There he was, brooding over his role in Richie Vollmer’s release, and McGraw’s column stirred him to action. At that point he very likely intended just to commit one single act of murder.”

“And then what happened?”

“My guess is he found out he liked it.”

“Got a thrill out of it, you mean? Middle-aged lawyer all of a sudden finds out he’s got the soul of a psychopath?”

I shook my head. “I don’t imagine he suddenly blossomed as a thrill killer. But I think he found it satisfying.”

“Satisfying.”

“I think so, yes.”

“Killing people who had it coming, making the world a better place for it. That what you mean?”

“Something like that.”

“I suppose it could be satisfying,” he said. “Especially for a man who’s under a death sentence himself. ‘What can I do to improve the world before I leave it? Well, I can take that son of a bitch off the boards. There, I may not live forever, but at least I outlived you, you bastard.’”

“That’s the idea. The first one’s Richie. The second one’s because he wants to do it again, so he picks someone else the law can’t lay a finger on. He’s had some exposure to Patsy Salerno, enough to form a strong negative opinion of the man.”

“And after that?”

“I would think the motives thinned out as he went along. Numbers three and four were similarly untouchable. Roswell Berry had clearly incited acts that led to the deaths of physicians performing abortions, and the law couldn’t lay a glove on him. I don’t suppose there was a personal element in it, unless Adrian knew one of the doctors or had strong feelings on the subject of abortion rights.”

“His sister,” Ray said suddenly.

“His sister? I didn’t think he had any brothers and sisters.”

“He told me about her once,” he said. “A long time ago, back when he used to put away a lot more than one drink a day. He liked those single-malt scotches even then, though I couldn’t tell you the brand.” He grinned suddenly. “I can remember the taste, though. Isn’t that a surprise? We were both about half lit and he told me about his sister. She was two or three years older than Adrian. She was away at college when she died, and Adrian was in his last year of high school.”

I thought I knew the answer, but I asked the question anyway. “What did she die of?”

“Blood poisoning,” he said. “One of those infections that goes through you like wildfire. That was all they told him at the time. It was years later before he got the whole story from his mother. She wouldn’t tell him until after his father died, and of course you can figure it out now.”

“Yes.”

“Septicemia following a back-street abortion. Did it transform Adrian into a crusader for abortion rights? Not that you’d notice. Maybe he wrote out a check once in a while, or voted for or against a candidate because of his stand on the issue, but he didn’t sign a lot of petitions and open letters, and I never saw him out on Fifth Avenue picketing St. Patrick’s.”

“But when it came time to draw up a little list—” He nodded. “Sure. Why not? ‘This one’s for you, Sis.’” He stifled a yawn. “Funny,” he said. “I never got tired when I drank. It was always the easiest thing in the world to talk the night away.”

“I’ll go home and let you get some sleep.”

“Sit down,” he said. “We’re not through yet. Anyway, all we need is a little more coffee.”

 

“You don’t even begin to have what you could call proof,” Ray Gruliow said. “It’s far too little for an indictment, let alone a conviction.”

“I realize that.”

“All of which is moot, admittedly, given that the defendant is no longer among the living.” He settled back in his seat. “And you weren’t trying to sell it to a jury anyway, were you? I’m the guy you want to buy it.”

“And?”

“And I suppose I’m sold.”

“You could turn up enough evidence,” I said, “once you had a ton of guys with badges looking for it. Print up a few dozen photos of Adrian and show them to people at airports and hotels and you’ll find someone who remembers him. Pull NYNEX’s records of local calls made from his home and office phones. He probably made most of his calls from pay phones, but there may be some calls that tie in with some of Will’s activities. Go through his apartment and his office with the kind of detailed search I didn’t have the time or authority for and who knows what kind of hard evidence you’ll find.”

“So what’s the question?”

“The question is what do I do with this sleeping dog.”

“Traditionally, you’re supposed to let them lie.”

“I know.”

“Adrian’s dead, and Will’s officially retired. He said so in his last letter. What did he do, drop that in the mail on his way out of the courtroom?”

“It looks like it.”

“Wrote the letter, put a stamp on it, carried it around with him. Then his trial’s wrapped up, with his client conveniently copping a plea, and it’s time to throw in the towel. So he mails the letter and goes home and plays out the last scene.”

“Calls me first,” I said.

“Calls you first and says he wishes he had more time. Then goes out and makes sure his bodyguard’s watching when he takes his last drink and kisses the carpet. That business about the wrong zip code on the letter to the News. You think that was to delay the letter?”

I shook my head. “I don’t think so. You couldn’t know it would work. With the volume of mail the paper gets, there’s ample opportunity for some clerk somewhere along the way to spot the letter and redirect it into the right slot. I just think he got the zip wrong.”

“I guess he had things on his mind.” He turned to me, his eyes probing mine. “You know what I think? I think you have to take what you’ve got and hand it to the cops.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Because otherwise they’ll be running down false trails and barking up wrong trees for months on end. How many men do you suppose they’ve got assigned to Will?”

“No idea.”

“A substantial number, though.”

“Obviously.”

“Well, you could let them waste their time,” he said, “on the assumption that it would keep them from making trouble for somebody else, but I don’t even know if that’s true. Who knows how many lives they’re going to turn inside out looking for Will?” He yawned. “But there’s a more basic consideration. Who’s your client? How do you best serve his interests?”

“The only client I’ve had has been Adrian.”

“Well, you haven’t resigned and he hasn’t fired you. I’d say he’s still your client.”

“According to that line of reasoning, I ought to let it lie.”

He shook his head. “You’re missing something, Matt. Why did Adrian hire you?”

“I wouldn’t take any payment for advising him on how to go about protecting himself. I suppose this was his way of paying me for my time.”

“What did he engage you to do?”

“To investigate the whole case. I told him I couldn’t be expected to accomplish much.” I remembered something. “He alluded to my tendency to stay with a case. Stubbornness, you could call it.”

“You could indeed. Don’t you see? He wanted you to solve it. He didn’t want to leave loose ends. He wanted to baffle everybody, he wanted the audience holding its breath when the curtain went down. But then, after a decent interval, he wants a chance to come out and take a bow. And that’s where you come in.”

I thought about it. “I don’t know,” I said. “Why not just leave a letter to be delivered a certain amount of time after his death? As far as that goes, let’s remember that we’re talking about a multiple murderer with delusions of grandeur. Do you really think you can read his mind?”

“Throw all that out, then. The hell with what he wanted and what he didn’t want. You’re a detective. It’s who you are and it’s what you do. That’s why you stayed with it and that’s why you solved it.”

“If I’ve solved it.”

“And that’s why you’ll sit down with your friend Durkin tomorrow and tell him what you’ve got.”

“Because it’s who I am and what I do.”

“Uh-huh. And I’m afraid you’re stuck with it.”