Текст книги "Tongue tied"

Автор книги: Richard Stevenson

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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 11 страниц)

"For fuck's sake," Moyle was saying as soon as he lit up a cigar, "this is my first smoke in thirty-six hours. These terrorists, not only did they deprive me of a single decent meal-the meatball sub they fed me last night was for shit-the bastards wouldn't even buy me a cheap smoke, and here I'm afraid for my very life and I'm going into frig-gin' nicotine withdrawal on top if it."

"What sadists," Jeris said, and lit up too.

The black-glass coffee table had three ashtrays lined up on it, each the size of a meteorite crater but not as clean. The beige leather couch and chairs to match faced a television set that could have been used for the return of Cinerama, though thankfully it was turned off. Moyle was sucking up his rehabilitative smoke, but apparently he was not going to insist that our questioning of him be conducted while ESPN played reassuringly in the background. On other cases, I had seen that happen.

"Anyway," Moyle said to Jeris, "a fat lot of help you and Glodt were while I'm locked in some toxic dump in Jersey or someplace with no smokes, and sawdust for meatballs, and these deranged fags mutilating me and threatening to eat my pancreas for lunch if I don't do what they tell me. I heard what the reward was from Steve-a niggerly six-five-and J. Pukingham Christ, I couldn't fucking believe my ears.

Except, of course, knowing Steve, I sure as shit could believe it, and did. Steve the big spender. Steve the bleeding heart. Steve the Brooke Astor of New York AM radio."

"At first it was five," Jeris said. "But Jay and I pleaded with Steve, we were practically kissing his skinny butt, and he said okay, then six-five. For Steve, that's not small.

He says he's gonna have to raise the national ad rates in October to get his money back if anybody claims the reward."

I said, "Leo, why did you think you might have been taken to New Jersey? You told the officers who picked you up outside Jay Plankton's apartment this afternoon that you had been blindfolded while you were in transit. But now you say you might have been held in New Jersey. Why is that?"

Moyle was only vaguely aware of who I was. He knew that I was a private investigator who had once had contacts with the FFF, that I had been hired by Jeris and Plankton, and that I was working with NYPD. He peered over at me with his small gray eyes and said, "We were either in Jersey or Queens because we went through a tunnel going, and we came through a tunnel coming back. It sounded like traffic in a tunnel, and my ears popped."

Jeris said, "Hey, Leo, they popped your ears, but at least they didn't pop your cherry."

Jeris chuckled, while Moyle considered this somberly and didn't chuckle back. He wasn't ready to get back into the old J-Bird routine just yet.

Barner said, "Yeah, Jersey or Queens, maybe. Lincoln, Holland, Queens Midtown.

What about Brooklyn Battery? Could it've been Brooklyn?"

"Could've been Brooklyn, yeah," Moyle said. "I couldn't tell. I'm so freakin' scared, I'm not exactly playing 'Name that Tunnel.' But going out, we go through the tunnel, then we drive for maybe an hour, maybe two, I don't know. It's on expressways, though, with some slowing down and speeding up, and no stop-and-go till we're almost where we're going. The same coming back, except in reverse.

"What kind of vehicle, I don't know, as I told the feds. At first it's some Bronco, or like that, that I was shoved into. But then after a couple of minutes they switched-this is before the tunnel, still in the city-and I don't know what I'm in. I'm on the floor of some van or delivery truck, blindfolded, tape over my mouth, and trussed up tighter than Steve Glodt's account at Brooklyn Dime."

"Which isn't probaby going to get any looser," Jeris said. "Not for the six-five reward anyhoo. I mean, who's going to claim it? The FFF assholes who snatched you and then let you go? That would take balls."

"Well, balls these pricks definitely have," Moyle said. "Light in the loafers they may be, but I can't say these frig-gin' sissy-boys don't have guts."

I said, "Were the kidnappers wearing loafers?"

"What?"

"Never mind. You were blindfolded."

"I was the entire time. I never saw their shoes. They untied my hands when we got to their place, but I never saw daylight for twenty-four hours. I felt like I was in a tomb and it could have been my own."

Barner said, "How did you know how much was being offered as a reward?"

"They had the radio on-WINS," Moyle said. "I was in this one hot room the whole time, no air conditioner even, just a fan and a radio. I was on a couch that smelled like somebody spilled some chick's nail polish on it. I just had to sit there or lay down to sleep, with my feet tied to the leg of the couch. I hardly got any sleep at all. I didn't know what these perverted creeps were gonna do to me next, ampute my hemorrhoids or extract my bottom teeth. There were two of them who did all the talking, and this one guy really liked to bust my nuts, tell me I was a homophobic shithead, and I was gonna pay for my sins."

"Those were the words the kidnapper used?" I asked. " 'Homophobic shithead' and

'pay for your sins'?"

"Yeah. The fag scumbag."

Jeris cleared his throat theatrically, but it went right by Moyle. He was back on his own turf and figured he could unwind and work on getting back to being himself.

I said, "The two who spoke-was there anything distinctive about their voices?"

"You mean like, did they lithp? No."

"They were both adult men?"

"Yeah."

"New Yorkers?"

"How do you mean?"

"Did either man have an accent? Brooklyn? Queens? I. ocust Valley lockjaw?"

"No," Moyle said. "They just talked regular American Knglish, like me."

Moyle in fact had a mild South Boston accent, as if his vocal cords had been replaced early in life by a kazoo that somebody had stepped on. I said, "Did they sound like they were from Boston?"

"Oh. I dunno. I guess not, no."

"Were there any other voices that you heard, male or female?"

"No women," Moyle said. "But everybody was mostly, like, in another room. I might have heard a woman out there at one time. But I couldn't make out what anybody was talking about. There was always one of them in my room holding a gun on me, they said. They untied my hands, but I didn't try anything because twice this one sadist pushed a gun barrel against my forehead and said to cooperate or he'd blow my brains right through the wall. This was the one that really scared the piss out of me. He called me a sinner and an unrighteous man. This one wouldn't even let me take my blindfold off when I took a crap-God, I was practically having diarrhea-and he made me leave the bathroom door open while the pervert stands there and watches me take a shit."

I said, "He called you an 'unrighteous man'? Those were the words one of them used?"

Barner glanced my way, then back at Moyle, who said, "Yeah, this one might have been a religious nut. A queer religious nut."

"What did these two call each other?" Barner said. "What names did they use?"

"No names," Moyle said, blowing cigar smoke. "I think they were being careful not to."

Barner said, "Did they mention Jay Plankton?"

"Oh, yeah. They had plenty to say about Jay and the show."

I said, "All unfavorable?"

"This one guy, the one who was busting my onions, he said when they got hold of Jay, Jay was gonna feel the pain. That's what the guy said, 'feel the pain.' He said my tattoos were nothing compared to what was in store for Jay. He said when I was released I should tell you all that."

"Who all?" I said. "You should tell who all that?"

"You all."

"Did he actually use our names?"

Moyle's beedy eyes all but disappeared as he considered this. "No," he said. "It was just, tell the cops. He didn't mention any names in particular."

Barner said, "Is it your impression that these people were planning on injuring the J-Bird? Is that what they were saying?"

"They could," Moyle said. "It sounded bad. They talked about sending Jay to a

'reeducation farm.' First they were going to take me to a reeducation farm, they said. But then they decided I wasn't reeducatable. I think that's when they decided to tattoo me and let me go, and to snatch Jay instead."

Jeris pointed his cigar at Moyle and said, "Leo, that's a great tribute to your manhood, if not your intelligence." Jeris grinned, but Moyle still wasn't quite ready for amusement at his own expense, and he just looked confused.

"Did they talk about the Forces of Free Faggotry?" I asked. "The FFF?"

"Oh yeah. Blah– blah, blah– blah, blah– blah. FFF this, FFF that. Last night, I'd had it up to here, and I told them, 'To me, you're all just a bunch of fucking fruitcakes.' And I think that's when they decided I was hopeless, and unreeducatable."

"But," I said, "if you were unreeducatable, what made them think Plankton would be any different? You guys on the J-Bird show are famous for all being on the same wave-length. Especially on the subject of gays and gay rights."

Jeris was quick to cut in and say, "Don here is gay himself, Leo. So be careful how you answer, ha-ha."

Moyle looked at me and said, "You don't look like a fag, Don. What're you doing, undercover work?"

I said, "And you do look like a fag, Leo. You've got love notes to Elton John and Ricky Martin tattooed on your upper arms. Things get confusing sometimes, don't they?"

Moyle reddened, and it was hard to tell which was stronger, his humiliation or his rage. As soon as he had entered his apartment, he had hiked up the air-conditioning and put on a New York Jets sweatshirt, covering up the infuriating inkwork.

"I asked about it at Lenox Hill," Moyle said, crushing out his cigar butt. "Tattoos can be removed. It takes time, but I've already talked to one of the top dermatologists in New York-who's a huge fan of the show, by the way-and he says he can pretty much erase them. If I have to, I can have my own tattoos done on top of the residue of the ones these barbarians put on me. Pol Pot had nothing on these shitheads. They're going to pay too. Kidnapping and assault. I want their heads. I want their sick, perverted fag heads!" Moyle had begun to tremble, and a vein on his left temple was throbbing dangerously.

I said, "I guess you'll just have to get used to the fact, however, that your tattoos are going to live on in the annals of tabloid journalism. To help restore your mental health, Leo, you might want to skip picking up tomorrow's Post and Daily News."

Moyle winced and looked even more agitated, but Jeris tried to help out. "Look at it this way, Leo: this is great juice for the show, once Jay gets back. Assuming he does come back, which I tend to think he will. That's because these FFFers, they're only talking about reeducating Jay, maybe roughing him up a little, like you say, but I'll bet not letting rats loose on his liver or any heavy shit like that. Look, Larry King's people called, and Fox, the Today Show -they all want you. Not Jay, but you, Leo. And Steve called and told me-he said, tell Leo to do 'em all; don't let even one opportunity slip away. Assuming you feel up to it, of course, which by Monday Steve is reasonably certain you will, and I am too.

"I mean, get some sleep, some brew, some pussy, and you'll be all set for some exposure. In fact, Steve wants you to do the show on Monday if Jay's not back. I've got the entire staff working on bookings. We'll get people who understand what you've been through, and can empathize, and who're still mad as hell over what happened to them. I'll get Patty Hearst, Lindbergh's daughter-what's her name and some of the hostages from Iran and Lebanon like Terry Anderson. Or Loni.

Was she kidnapped, too? Steve thinks this whole FFF thing is gonna do the show no harm at all-assuming, of course that you come out of it with your mental gazoomies intact, which appears to be the case, and that Jay does, too. Getting Jay back on the show Tuesday or Wednesday would be ideal, in fact.

"Detective Barner," Jeris said to Lyle, who had listened to this recitation with a look of wonder, "do you think it's possible, based on what you know of the FFF and Leo's experience, that your department can track down the kidnappers and get Jay sprung by, say, midweek?"

"Sooner than that is my intention," Lyle said. "It's my firm hope."

"Well, we could make anything work if we had to. Of course, Jay's well-being is uppermost."

Barner appeared to reflect on this. Moyle was gazing at Jeris thoughtfully, too, and looking not just shaken but also a little queasy.

Somes

Microsoft Word – Stevenson, Richard – [Donald Strachey Mystery] 8 – Tongue Tied

Chapter 17

"Christ, it's another planet, these media guys," Barner was saying. "It's all ratings, and like that. This guy's been abducted, and what are his asshole buddies talking about? Juicing up the show, and who goes on the air, and how to cash in."

"Don't be too sweeping in your condemnation of the broadcast media, Lyle. I listen to National Public Radio, where I'm sure it's different. If Noah Adams was kidnapped, Linda Wertheimer and Robert Siegel wouldn't cynically sensationalize the event and turn into mike hogs. They'd offer themselves as substitute hostages, or at the very least recruit a group of public-spirited NPR underwriters to take Adams's place. Maybe Jennifer and Ted Stanley."

Barner, at the wheel of his NYPD unmarked Ford, let this pass without comment. We were headed down the FDR toward the Williamsburg Bridge, and traffic was heavy and slow. I'd heard New Yorkers in Columbia County and the Berkshires talk about how the city empties out on summer weekends. Then, who was clogging the streets and highways on this steamy Saturday night in July? Had the population of Philadelphia been recruited to drive up and keep the New York bridge-and-tunnel toll collectors from growing bored and the asphalt from buckling owing to lack of use? It was a conundrum.

There was a more pressing puzzle, too. That was the question of Thad Diefendorfer's having neglected to inform me that the Lancaster County presumably Amish friend he was going to hang out with in Brooklyn was his old FFF boyfriend, Sammy Day. "Day" didn't sound Amish, but I supposed it could once have been Dazenburger or Dazenfeffer. Did Amish people who left their traditional communities behind for twenty-first-century life sometimes change their names as part of their assimilation? I didn't know.

And what was the business of one of Leo Moyle's captors accusing Moyle of being a sinner and an "unrighteous man"? What was that about? It didn't sound like FFF lingo, original or neo. It sounded downright Amish, in fact, according to what Diefendorfer had been telling me. And who were these people with their mysterious comings and goings at Sam Day's Brooklyn apartment at all hours of the day and night?

Maybe I would soon find out, because it's where Barner and I were en route to. We planned on simply knocking on the door and asking Diefendorfer and Day a series of pertinent questions. And, as a precaution, Barner had arranged to have additional police officers on hand should they be needed. Meanwhile, Barner also had a team of detectives checking out metropolitan-area tattoo artists, one of whom was apparently sufficiently angry at homophobes and radicalized enough to show up and do the inkwork on a kidnapped, bound, and blindfolded Leo Moyle on a Friday night.

Barner tuned the car radio to WINS, where a variety of New Yorkers, from Grand Central to Yankee Stadium, offered comments to reporters on what WINS called the

"shocking" abduction of Jay Plankton. Some interviewees weren't sure who Plankton was. One seemed to confuse him with Howard Stern and another, inexplicably, with Al Sharpton. But most knew of the J-Bird and seemed to regard the kidnapping with a mixture of sympathy, concern and bemusement. It wasn't, after all, as if Walter Cronkite had been dragged off. There was one mild anti-FFF, anti-gay epithet that was allowed on the air and, in the interests of what radio and television news professionals think of as "balanced coverage," a gay man on Christopher Street presenting a reap-what-you-sow argument.

Mayor Giuliani had appeared on the steps of city hall to plead with the kidnappers to treat the J-Bird with "compassion" and to remind them that if they harmed Plankton they would have to pay a "very, very heavy price." One resourceful reporter tracked down Ed Koch and asked his opinion of the FFF. The sort of gay, semi-out former mayor said the FFF meant well but had gone too far-"Violence is never the answer" and in any event was wasting its time going after "a basically harmless gasbag like Jay Plankton."

Senatorial candidates Rick Lazio and Hillary Clinton released nearly identical statements announcing that they and their staffs and supporters were all praying for the J-Bird's safety and early release. These prayers apparently were private, for no vigils or services were planned by either of the competing office-seekers.

Word of Leo Moyle's tattoos had already leaked, WINS reported. A spokesman for Ricky Martin said the singer would have no comment, but Elton John was quoted as saying he looked forward to a joint appearance with Moyle at the next Academy Awards show. No one was sure if he was kidding. Moyle himself was described by WINS as

"in seclusion" at his East Side apartment. Jerry Jeris told the station Moyle was grateful for the support and prayers of all the J-Bird show's fans, who, he said, should tune in on Monday to hear Moyle's description of his "night of terror" and his thoughts about it.

As we pulled onto the ramp for the old Erector-set contraption called the Williamsburg Bridge, Barner said, "Are you still pissed off at me?" "Why?"

"For fucking up the thing you had going with your farmboy crush, that hottie Thaddie."

"I'm not happy, Lyle, that you were operating behind my back. But I was operating behind yours to a certain extent, so what can I say?" Barner glanced my way as we hurtled across the vibrating old steel span. "That's a rare admission for you, Strachey.

What's come over you?"

"But apparently I need to explain to you one more time, Lyle-or twenty-five more times, if that's what it takes– that I am not now having, nor have I ever had, nor do I ever intend to have, a romantic relationship with Thad Diefen-dorfer. I concede that my erotic life may once have resembled that of Patti Smith and her band. But with the rare, odd, innocuous deviation, the life Timothy Callahan and I now lead most resembles that of Gerald and Betty Ford. So if you don't mind, you can just knock off the hot Thaddie routine."

With no particular inflection, Barner said, "You're lying."

I could think of no reply as we rumbled down onto the ancient streets of Brooklyn.

After a moment, I asked Lyle, "What's with you and Dave tonight? Speaking of nonexistent threesomes, or fivesomes, or whatever it isn't."

"Nothing's with Dave and me tonight," Barner said. "I'm on duty, obviously, and he's out on the Island somewhere with… with his poppers and hi s God-knows-what-other-mind-altering-substances and some other guys. I wasn't invited this time."

"About which you are probably ambivalent."

"Yeah."

"When will you see him again?"

"It depends," Barner said. "1 heard from my captain earlier, and he's feeling the heat to bring Jay Plankton back safe and sound to his fans and ex-wives within a matter of hours or preferably minutes. So there's no getting around that that'll be my job twenty-four-seven until Plankton is freed."

"It's almost like the FFF kidnapped Giuliani himself, or Pataki, or George Steinbrenner."

"You got it."

"I'm sure Dave understands your situation, what with his being an officer who aspires to the police detective's life."

"Yeah, Dave says he wouldn't mind working this case himself just to test his oath and his loyalty to the department. He thinks that any grief that falls Jay Plankton's way is just what the bastard has coming. And Dave wasn't sure how hard he'd work to save Plankton from being tortured, at least psychologically. Dave regards Plankton's radio show as a form of psychological torture."

"As do so many of us. But for most of us, our work does not require constant exposure to the J-Bird and his rants."

"Dave once told me that having the J-Bird show on in the squad room every morning is like a scene in some book he read in high school where the government stuffed a guy's head into a small cage and let a hungry rat loose in it. Or threatened to, anyway."

"That's Orwell's 1984. Dave's is a pretty extreme reaction. Plankton seems to me more gnatlike than ratlike. But anyway I can just choose not to listen."

"For me," Barner said, "torture is having to listen to hip-hop."

"I agree we're a long way from when the cultural heroes of the country's black underclass-and hip middle class– were Ellington and Basie. But the culture as a whole is cruder and meaner. Black people have no monopoly on that."

"Maybe that's what the kidnappers are doing to Plankton right now-making him listen to hip-hop," Barner said.

"For Plankton, that would certainly fit the description of 'feeling the pain,' what the kidnappers said they had in store for the J-Bird."

"Although," Barner said, "if it's Plankton's homophobia that the FFFers are mad about, they probably have some gay-something they're using to get under Plankton's skin."

"Right. Like the tattoos Moyle got. But something that won't just insult Plankton but. .. 'educate' him was what they told Moyle. Moyle was uneducable, the FFFers said, but Plankton, a better candidate for some reason, was headed for the reeducation farm. I don't know what the FFFers have in mind, but the term is ominous. Maoists used it in China and Cambodia."

"Aren't the Amish sort of communistic?" Barner said.

Back to Thad. "No, I don't think so, Lyle. Well, yes, in the sense that there's a theory of sharing, and nonconformity is discouraged. But I don't think the Amish rough people up when they stray from the Mennonite party line. They just treat them like they don't exist. Whoever's got Jay Plankton isn't shunning him. They seem to want him to suffer and to change through suffering."

"Maybe that's not Amish," Barner said, "but it does sound religious. Mennonite is, like, a religion, isn't it?"

"Yes, it's a Christian church, though I think the Men-nonites believe in simplicity and self-abnegation, but not self-flagellation."

"I guess Thaddie doesn't have to self-flagellate," Barner said. "Not with you and Timothy Callahan around."

I decided not to try to sort that one out. Instead, I turned up the radio, which described traffic conditions-"flowing smoothly" was the overly optimistic description-as well as the weather. The forecaster said clouding up, then rain early Sunday. This was followed by another report on the abduction of the J-Bird. Little new information was offered, just the release of a statement from the Bush campaign saying the Texas governor had been shocked and saddened by "this attack on a great American," and the entire campaign was praying for Plankton's safe return to his loved ones.

I said to Barner, "There's no relief for the deity's listening posts tonight."

"The pols are keepin' the Almighty hoppin'," he muttered, and hung a right onto Union Avenue.

Chapter 18

"So how'd they get away?" Barner was asking two cops, a buxom black woman and her portly white male companion, both of whom appeared to be in their twenties.

"We think they must have come out when the Mister Softee truck stopped in front of the building," the female officer said. "There was a lot of people on the sidewalk waiting for the ice-cream wagon. And then when it stopped, it played its dumb little tune, and more people came out of the bodega across the street where we were parked."

"It was either we didn't spot them come out and walk away through the crowd," the male patrolman said, "or they remained concealed on the other side of the truck."

"This was just, like, five minutes ago," the female officer said. "Jeez, I guess we blew it."

"Jeez, I guess you did," Barner said, and shook his head. The two cops looked glum, hurt and worried.

It was the building superintendent, Ignacio Melendez, in fact, who had informed us upon our arrival that the occupants of Samuel Day's apartment had left the building just minutes earlier. Three men from the apartment had passed by the open door to the super's first-floor apartment. He knew they were under police surveillance, Melendez said, but he did not try to stop them. He assumed the police would follow them. Anyway, he said, he thought the three men might be dangerous if the cops were interested in them. One of the men, according to Melendez, was carrying a long-handled shovel with a sharp blade.

Barner asked the super to describe the men. The one he knew was Sam Day, he said, a tall, bearded man in his forties, who had been renting a second-floor apartment for the past two years. The second man was a slender, paler man of about the same age, with a patch of chin whiskers. He was the one wielding the shovel. Melendez said this man seemed to live with Day at least part of the time, and both of them kept late hours. Their companion when they left the building moments earlier was described as a blue-eyed man with big ears. That sounded like Thad.

The super was lingering in the entryway to the building, along with a number of tenants and neighborhood residents apparently curious about the police presence.

They seemed wary but not hostile. Most looked Hispanic. Barner had told me earlier that Williamsburg had become in recent years a mix of Central Americans, Hasidic Jews and hip white kids in their twenties who couldn't afford to live in the no-longer-low-rent East Village near the bars and clubs where they hung out. Most of the young crowd were farther west, though, and the business signs on Lorimer were mainly in Spanish.

Barner and I went up to the super and Lyle asked him to step inside for a moment so they could have a word. In the dingy entryway, Lyle told Melendez, "We'd l i k e to look inside Day's apartment. Have you got a key on you?"

Melendez, round and solid-looking in gray work pants and matching shirt, seemed doubtful. "I don't know. I want to help you out. But don't you got to have a warrant?"

"There's been a kidnapping," Barner said somberly, with just a hint of indignation and even menace. "A man's life may be at stake. Every minute counts. In a life-or-dcath situation, no warrant is required."

"Is that the radio guy?" Melendez asked. "Yeah, Jay Plankton."

"You think they got this Plankton guy up on two?" "Possibly. We have to check it out. If he's in there, he may be injured."

"I never heard no screams."

Barner glanced at his watch and said, "Who owns the building?"

Whoever it was, Melendez looked as if he didn't want to get his employer involved.

"Come on," he said, and led us up a narrow stairwell and along a dim hallway to the rear of the building.

Melendez inserted a key from his jingling ring into the lock at 2R, and then a second key into a second lock. The wooden door swung open to reveal not a kidnapper's torture chamber but merely a messy small apartment. As we edged into the living room, where a table lamp was lit, I could hear Timothy Callahan's voice in the far distance:

"Surely gay people don't live here."

A daybed in the living room was unmade, and clothes had been tossed over a nearby chair. They looked like Thad's. There were a couple of easy chairs and a coffee table against the wall with an old Zenith TV set atop it with wire-coat-hanger rabbit ears.

I stuck my head into the small kitchen. The dishes in the drying rack were clean, and there was a smell of rice-beans-meat takeout coming from the garbage can under the sink.

"That's the bedroom in there," Melendez said.

"Just one?" Barner asked.

"The back apartments, they just got one bedroom."

"Police!" Barner said loudly, and went through the open door. These theatrics were unnecessary, for no one was in the room. The double bed was unmade and more clothes were stacked on makeshift shelves. Barner checked the closet; the clothes inside were neater, hung on hangers above two pieces of luggage. A rear window with a sliding screen stretched into it was open to the warm night air. Outside was a small yard with a single scraggly tree of an unidentifiable type twenty feet below.

Barner opened the suitcases in the closet-empty; no dismembered J-Bird body parts-and checked for name tags, but there weren't any. I went back to the living room. There were magazines and newspapers scattered around– the New York Press, the Village Voice, the Nation, the New York Review of Books -and a shelf packed with mostly softcover books. It was an assortment of fairly literate stuff, fiction and nonfiction, with an emphasis on naturalist writing: Peter Matthiessen, Bill McKibben, Roger Tory Peterson. There were gardening books too and tomes on agriculture around the world. You could never be sure ("Katie, they just seemed like the nicest young men until the body parts started showing up in my gladiola bed"), but this looked like the reading material of rational people, not political-radical kidnappers.

When Barner came out of the bedroom, I said, "Maybe they had a shovel because they're farmers. They've got all these books on growing things."

"Not in Brooklyn," Barner said.

"Didn't Walt Whitman grow things here?"

"Not lately."

"Anyway, I think his rural life was farther out on Long Island."

Barner said, "Maybe Day's is, too. There's still some farmland left way east in Suffolk County. 'I'hey may have gone out there in Diefendorfer's truck." 'I'he female officer had gone off to check on Thad's pickup truck, which she said had been parked on the street two blocks away.

I said, "Midnight, Saturday, however, seems like an odd time for farmwork."

"I thought of that," Barner said. " I t could be they brought the shovel along for something else. Some bad purpose besides agriculture."

"Could be."

Barner looked through some papers stacked on the back of the kitchen table that was against one wall of the living room, and I watched. "No FFF stuff," I said. "No drafts of ransom notes."