Early Monday morning Aaron called in: "At the Museum of Modern Art. Looking up a couple things. I'll be in around eleven."
Aaron had something—Janek could feel it, that he was the only one of the five of them to have come up with an idea. He told Stanger to check out Spalding. ("If he gives you any crap tell him he's a murder suspect and I want to see him down here with his lawyer.") He assigned Howell and Sal to interview friends and associates of Ellis. ("I think he's a fake, but we got to be sure. Play it like we think he's a homicidal sadist and see how they react.") Then, when the office was clear, he sat back in his chair to wait. He thought about Al and then about Hart's eyes and how cold they were and how he'd always thought that Hart could kill.
When Aaron came in he was ready to sell. He took Karp's drawings of Ellis and Lane and tacked them to the wall.
"You and Karp see Ellis the same way," Aaron said, "a monkey, one paw clutching bananas, the other beating his chest. Suppose Karp's right, too, about my guy, Lane. Then what've you got? An owl, a nightbird, staring out waiting for his prey. Yeah, I know, Karp's a cartoonist. He may have better-than-average insights, but what's that got to do with the case? Nothing except that when I saw his drawing I thought, Wow, that's it, that's just the way I see the guy."
"Did you talk to him again?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"First time around I got enough."
"So what have you been doing?"
"Checking him out."
"And?"
"Well, I'll tell you, Frank, he makes movies about guys who stab whores and diddle around with cops."
Janek waited, and when Aaron didn't add anything he sighed—there had to be more.
"Come on," he said. "I've heard that story. Ellis—"
"This is different."
"I sure hope it is," Janek said.
They ate lunch at the Taco-Rico, then drove to a repertory cinema near the Columbia University campus. Aaron insisted that Janek come; he said what he'd seen over the weekend was too subtle to explain. Janek said if it was all that subtle it probably wasn't going to throw much illumination on the suspect. Aaron said it might or it might not but that he had a very strong feeling and since the other suspects were more or less closed out what did Janek have to lose?
So he allowed himself to be dragged uptown, pleading reluctance all the way. He knew Aaron didn't have a bombshell and that he wasn't going to find out what he did have until he let Aaron soften him up.
The titles were spelled out on the marquee: "TWO BY LANE: HAIRDRESSER and MEZZALUNA."
"Two. Christ. You didn't tell me it was a double feature."
"If you want we'll only stay for one."
The theater was old and cavernous, nearly empty that weekday afternoon. A bearded wino, sprawled out on a rear-row seat, alternately snored and gasped. A small contingent of young people passed a joint in a row near the screen. The place smelled of old popcorn and stale marijuana smoke. The usher, elderly and decrepit, wore a soiled uniform and a mismatched gray toupee.
"Not one of your fashionable first-run houses," Janek said. "And not exactly a couple of hits."
Aaron nodded. "A few critics love his stuff, but he's definitely not commercial. More like a cult director with a small devoted audience."
Hairdresser was about a killer named Seymour Trent who, after he stabbed his prostitute victims, lovingly gave them each a wash and a perm. He was pursued by a mean piggish cop named Templeton who staggered drunk when he wasn't speeding dangerously in his patrol car around the unnamed California coastal town where the story was set. There was an aura of corruption about everything in this town: cretinous deputies, hostile hippies, leering merchants, toothless, hard-boiled whorehouse madams. At the end killer and cop took part in an extravagant chase through a run-down amusement park. Trent escaped off a speeding roller coaster by jumping into a murky river. Templeton swigged whiskey from a bottle and stared down at the oily water with the eyes of a bedazzled fool.
A crude low-budget film, probably an early work, Janek thought, employing inexperienced actors playing implausible characters in a story that didn't add up. But he also recognized energy: an atmosphere of menace; the way the killer's knife flashed in the light; and a hypnotic photographic style.
There was a brief break between the films. When the lights came on, the theater ricocheted with coughs.
Aaron leaned over and whispered into Janek's ear, "Notice the cop didn't make his collar."
Mezzaluna was stronger than Hairdresser, though in format pretty much the same. The murderer, Targov, a worker in a slaughterhouse, killed his whore victims with a mezzaluna, the Italian half-moon-shaped vegetable-chopping device.
When Targov slayed, the murder scene would dissolve into a memory: Targov as a boy watching his mother rolling her mezzaluna from side to side and smiling quietly as if with secret knowledge.
The detective was named Masterson and the location was Chicago. Masterson was slow-witted, walked with the heavy swagger of a street cop, slurred his words and rocked nervously on his heels when he stood still.
There was some sort of grim battle of wits between killer and cop; one felt that Masterson knew Targov was his quarry but for some unstated reason could not make an arrest. After numerous complications Masterson tracked Targov to a meat-packing plant, where he chased him amidst a maze of hanging carcasses, fired out his revolver, then lost him in the dark.
As Masterson shrugged, gave up and backed away, the camera closed in on the shadows. When the detective opened the packing-house door a splinter of light penetrated, reflected off the mezzaluna and made it flash silver in the dark.
Janek was half nauseated. The story was unreal, the plot absurd, the ending unsatisfying. But still he felt that Lane was skillful; despite the shallowness of his work, he conveyed a vision, something bleak and miserable that stuck in Janek's mind.
"So you see," said Aaron when they were out on the street, "he makes movies about intense killers who use sharp instruments to cut up whores."
"What else?"
"The same contrived, arranged style your lady friend saw in our photographs. The same studied artificial look."
They got into the car. Aaron didn't start it up; he watched Janek, who stared out the windshield with his hands locked behind his head.
"You're right about the look," Janek said. "He works hard making the killings beautiful. They're really exquisite if you can stand to look at them. But I think there's more. The stories. That's what you wanted me to see." He turned. Aaron nodded. "The same strange logic, right? Like in our case. All that elaborate moving back and forth. Perfectly planned and executed, with a kind of artistic signature at the end instead of the mess and blood we should have found."
They talked about it. Aaron said he felt the movies were a smirk. "The cops are slobs, right? Templeton and Masterson. But the killers, Trent and Targov, are brilliant. Remember what you said the first day: 'I'm superkiller and I defy you cops to solve my crime'?"
"I was just spouting."
"Maybe so. But I get that same message from the movies. They give me a bad feeling, like that to Lane the killings aren't all that important, like the big play's the struggle between the killer and the cop."
"What were you doing at the museum?" Janek asked.
"Using the library. They've got back issues of the scholarly film magazines." Aaron unfolded a clipping and passed it to Janek. He had underlined several passages in an article entitled "The Rage of Peter Lane":
...and when on the soundtrack we hear a chorale from a mass, the degraded crime-scene becomes a cathedral. Diabolic turns holy. The forbidden act of erotic murder becomes an artistic act of ritual sacrifice....
The detective: he is inevitable, and in all Lane's stories more or less the same—a clown, a man to be taunted, to be broken and scorned as he fails to solve his case. The killer goads him, makes him mad, and when he charges wildly the killer steps nimbly aside and the detective stumbles, confused, at nothing, at the air....
As they drove downtown he felt Aaron's stare.
"So why aren't you more excited, Frank? Usually when you get interested in a suspect you act a little more turned on."
Janek exhaled. "Who says I'm interested?"
"What's the matter? You saw it. The crime scenes in his movies look like ours, and the movies are about the same kinds of crazy homicides."
"Too corny."
"Okay." Aaron pulled the car over and stopped. "I dug around on this guy. He's given a lot of interviews. One thing he says again and again, that he'd like to make a picture that would inspire a real murder."
"Grandiose talk. He's trying to sound gruesome. All the terror guys sound off like that."
"But suppose it's a little different from what he says." Aaron paused. "Suppose what he really wanted to do was make a movie about a murder he first committed himself."
Life imitating art; art imitating life: that did seem corny to Janek, but still he found Lane interesting.
Spalding was out of the case: for some reason the old man took a liking to Stanger, invited him into his apartment and confided his theory that the real target in the Ireland homicide had not been Amanda but her dog.
Ellis' friends were incredulous at the notion that anyone would think him capable of murder. His S&M fashion stills? Tongue-in-cheek. Orgies? Sometimes his guests got kinky and stripped. Homicidal sadist? You got to be kidding. Jack's a pussycat. Though, occasionally, he does overdo the hype.
Dr. Raymond Evans, Michael Hopkins and Nicholas Karpewicz were also out. And so was Hazel Carter: her weekend alibi had held up. But Cynthia Tuttle's records showed that on one occasion Brenda had joined a class just before Mandy's regular hour. Janek was intrigued. The girls had brushed very close, had likely seen each other, perhaps had even spoken in the changing room. He imagined the one suiting up, the other toweling off, as models and dancers gossiped at adjoining lockers. None of which, he knew, had much to do with the case, though he felt haunted by the possibility that they'd met.
That left the film director—if the window theory was to stand. Janek stared at Karp's sketch, the one that showed Lane as a brooding owl. He repositioned it on the squad-room wall so that Lane's eyes were on the row of crime-scene photographs.
Tuesday morning he called the squad together. "We're going to look at this guy real close. He hasn't met you, Sal, so you're the one to tail him. Covertly. No pressure. You lose him you pick him up later, right? Howell and Stanger: get photographs. There're plenty in the film magazines. Now, when you talk to the prostitutes you show them shots of Lane. Have they ever seen this guy? Is he a john? Aaron, you'll coordinate and start a background check. Usual sources—Defense Department, FBI. I want to know who he is."
"Jesus," moaned Aaron, "another book."
"Got to know him before I interview him. You think he likes to play games. Fine, we're stupid, just like the apes in his films. We're so stupid we don't even know we're in a game. Here's the strategy: we're looking at him, but no direct approach. When and if we find something, like that he made some memorable expeditions before he found his Amanda look-alike, I'll take a crack at him. And when I do I don't want to be a stupid cop."
Aaron's greeting Thursday morning: "I don't know, Frank. Are we throwing too much into this?"
Janek glanced around the squad room. The place smelled of coffee and cigarettes. "Where are the other guys?"
"Sal's sitting in a car outside Lane's building. Stanger and Howell will be in later. The whores aren't up till afternoon."
"So what's the problem?" Already he felt tired. He'd spent the night thinking about Hart. His hatred surprised him; it went beyond anything he'd felt in years.
"The problem, Frank, is Lane. He's top of the list by default. We're five guys. And now we're all working on him full time."
"Thought you liked him."
"I do like him. But..." Aaron shrugged. "Is the allocation right?"
Janek sat down. His mind was whirling. There were Tommy Wallace and Hart, and Switched Heads and Lane. "Got to allocate the way I feel, Aaron. May look like default, but I'm running on a hunch. I felt something at her window. Made me shiver. It's someone out there, someone who can see in. Lane fits. Right now I got to go with that. So—anything else?"
"Yeah. Sal's having trouble. It's not a one-man job. Even a normal, low-key surveillance you're talking at least three guys and you're better off with five. But Lane's not normal. Doesn't keep regular hours. Doesn't go to a job, sleeps late, then stays out half the night. But the other morning Sal missed him. Doorman said he went out at dawn. Wanders around a lot, too. Like he'll take a series of subway rides, down to West Fourth Street, change to a Brooklyn train, then switch back to a train heading uptown. Or he'll ride down to City Hall, then walk across the Brooklyn Bridge. Quite a few times Sal's lost him. No way he can keep up."
"Maybe Lane knows he's on him."
"Yeah. That's possible."
"If Sal's talking to the doorman—"
"Doormen know we're watching the neighborhood. Sal didn't let on he was particularly interested in Lane."
"Still—"
"Sure. He could know."
"So you want two more men."
"Would help a lot."
Janek shook his head. "Hart won't give them to me."
Aaron nodded and turned back to his phone. Janek watched him awhile, listening to him work. Aaron was good, a superb telephone investigator. Janek wished he could tell him why he didn't want to ask Hart for anything.
Lane didn't own a car. Which left the possibility he'd rented or leased one, or had used a stolen car that night. Which meant checking with all the car-rental agencies in the city, and the registry of stolen-car complaints going back three days before the homicides. None of which would prove anything, as Aaron and Janek knew perfectly well, since Lane could have rented a car in Philadelphia or Baltimore or anyplace within hundreds of miles. Or used fake ID to rent one. Or stolen one on Long Island or upstate. Or owned one he'd registered under an assumed name. Or had used a taxi whose driver hadn't responded to their call to check all destination lists. Or had taken a bus and hadn't been remembered because he'd carried the heads in a gym bag. Or had marched across Central Park carrying them in a backpack on an eccentric nocturnal urban hike. Which meant that a check of rental agencies and the registry of stolen-car complaints was hardly worth doing. Which didn't mean it didn't have to be done. Which it was. With the expected result. Which still didn't mean anything.
As Aaron put it to Janek as they shared another in an endless stream of pizzas at the Taco-Rico, "Well, at least we know one thing. He's got a driver's license. So we can assume he probably knows how to drive."
At the end of each day Janek would drive uptown, check the mailbox at his basement apartment, take a shower, change his shirt, then drive over to Long Island City to Caroline's loft.
He'd become a short-haul commuter and, he decided, he did some of his best thinking on the road. He developed a little ritual: As soon as he swung from the access ramp onto the Queensboro Bridge he would glance back at Manhattan in his rearview mirror. Darkness was falling earlier; the twilight vision he'd enjoyed the first time he'd driven to her—the glow behind the buildings, the luminous city set powerfully against the fading sky—was replaced now by the spectacle of lit skyscrapers standing guard before the black, impenetrable night.
The sight never failed to move him or to inspire some kind of idea. And when he arrived she would be there waiting for him, her loft filled with soft jazz music and softly dancing light, and he would take her in his arms and breathe in the scent of her body and her hair, and then they would drink wine and make love on her brass bed beneath her gently turning ceiling fan and sometimes he would feel less anger in himself and other times a tension he could neither fathom nor define.
Janek read Aaron's notes on Lane:
...won't go on talk shows. Rarely gives interviews. Conceals background by putting out contradictory stories on his past. At various times has claimed he was brought up: in Midwest; on Indian reservation; in rural community in California; that his father (named Jack Lane, Joe Lane, Harold Lane, etc.) was: barber (cf. Hairdresser), veterinarian, police officer (!), parole officer, and, alternatively, that subject doesn't know parents' names since he was orphan and brought up in foster home.... As far as can be determined subject has never mentioned mother or siblings.... Subject claims to have attended Princeton but name does not appear in college records. Claims that he studied filmmaking in Germany and worked as assistant to Munich-based director, Schoendorfer, check out....
Aaron managed to learn that neither the Defense Department, the Drug Administration nor the FBI had any knowledge of Peter Lane—a feat he accomplished informally on the phone by working through his network of law-enforcement friends. Old favors were reciprocated and new debts incurred, but answers to the most basic questions (names of parents, date and place of birth) eluded him. He could have obtained them if he'd been able to look at Lane's passport application, but that was protected by the Privacy Act of 1974. Lane had not been indicted for any crime, nor was he the subject yet of an officially sanctioned criminal investigation. And so, for all his brilliant telephone technique, his contacts, his coaxing and sweet talk, Aaron Rosenthal, to his immense surprise, could not manage to break through this single block.
One night on the bridge Janek thought about phoning Carmichael. And then he thought, No. Not yet.
He was worried. He sometimes got his cases confused. His mind would flash back and forth between them the way it had weeks before when he'd practiced switching people's heads.
Every case, he knew, had its solution. Switched Heads had a solution, and Wallace/ DiMona had one, too. The trick was to find it, to look for it within the case, in the characters of the players, their weaknesses and strengths.
He thought, There has to be a way to get to Hart, not to fight him on his terms but to make him fight on mine.
Aaron summarized his Peter Lane material in a thickening loose-leaf book he kept locked up with an extra yarmulke in the center drawer of his desk:
Subject has had numerous "girlfriends" but no long-term intimate relationships. Several informants speak openly of subject's detachment during, and quick loss of interest after, what they describe as "perfunctory" or "technical" sex....
Subject has no known close male friends....
Subject's reputation among technicians: businesslike and relentless. Among actors: "exploitive," "brilliant," "unscrupulous." Considered by those who have financed productions as extremely mercurial—"friendly and seductive" when backing to be gained but "indifferent and unreachable" once films completed and released....
On numerous occasions subject has expressed following view: "The test of the ultimate murder film would be its power to inspire an actual murder."
Cinema critic and psychoanalyst Dr. David Lee writes: "[subject's] films seem driven by obsessions derived from undefined, heavily masked psychological conflicts in [subject's] past: an overpowering matricidal rage in which all women are equated with prostitutes, and an unresolved early conflict with paternal authority symbolically represented by police."
"'Heavily masked psychological conflicts'?" Aaron gripped the phone. "What exactly did you mean by that?"
"Before I answer I'd like to know—"
"Listen, Dr. Lee—" Aaron met Janek's eyes and winked—"this man's been quoted as saying he'd like to see his films inspire homicides."
"But surely, you understand, he meant that in a certain spirit."
"Like how?"
"Well, you know that several times when The Deer Hunter was broadcast some people got hurt playing Russian roulette."
"Didn't know that."
"Yes. I believe a couple of people were actually killed."
"You're saying—"
"And there's the case of Mr. Hinckley and Taxi Driver."
"We know about that."
"Well, then you know that's what he means." Aaron held out the phone and rolled his eyes. "In a certain competitive spirit vis-à-vis other young film directors. And I don't believe you law-enforcement people should take such statements literally. Especially considering what I hear about the public-safety situation in New York City. I don't mean to tell you how to do your job, Sergeant. But, really, I find this dialogue rather..."
After Aaron delivered himself of the courtesies and hung up, he turned to Janek and slowly shook his head. "I don't seem to do so great with the academics."
"But your question was very good."
"I forget my question."
"About 'heavily masked psychological'..."
"Yeah. But he's masking the whole thing, Frank. I mean screw the 'conflicts.' Who the fuck is this guy?"
Aaron was happy. "We got pay dirt. And these guys are terrific."
He was speaking of Stanger and Howell, who had developed, contrary to everyone's expectations, into a first-rate prostitute-interviewing team. They were sitting in the squad room now looking a little smug as Aaron read aloud from their report:
"'According to informant, subject did nothing perverse. Informant describes subject as "a perfect gentleman." Subject made no particular demands upon informant other than requiring her to perform fellatio upon him while postured on her knees. After which, according to informant, subject added a modest tip to informant's professional fee."
Stanger and Howell's language was grotesque, but Janek knew what it meant: the discovery of a prostitute who recognized Lane from photographs was the first slim piece of evidence to support his theory of the switch.
"You got to hand it to these guys, Frank."
Janek nodded. "I love them. So keep at it, guys. Get me more.
Sal was hollow-eyed. It was seven in the morning; Janek had driven uptown to meet him in Amanda's apartment. Sal had stationed himself there on the premise that if Lane had spied on Mandy from his bedroom window, then he could spy on Lane through the same two panes of glass.
The air in the room was close. There were dirty coffee cups in the sink and crumbled potato chip bags on the counter. A big glass ashtray was overflowing. The room stank of a tired cop.
"Have to be careful, Frank. Move around too much and he knows I'm here. Never turn on the lights. Just sit in the easy chair and watch. Getting so I can find my way around in here with my eyes shut. Know every inch of the place. Including the can. Just love the can, Frank. I mean, it doesn't weird me out to go in there anymore. Course I don't leave the shower curtain shut. Not the way she did. Matter of fact, I took it down. I mean, who needs it? I take my showers at home.
Sal raised his eyebrows then in a particularly emphatic way to show Janek he was talking about a lot more than personal hygiene.
"What's your feeling?"
"I've kept a log of everything—"
"Sal—" Janek placed his arms on the younger man's shoulders. "I know what you've reported. What's your feeling about the guy?"
"He knows I'm on him," Sal muttered softly.
"What makes you feel that way? Does he look back a lot?"
Sal shook his head. "It's not like that. It's hard to explain." He paused. "He moves. He moves like he's conscious of me. But he never looks back. Never. And that spooks me, Frank. He's so controlled, you see. So incredibly controlled. And then the other night he did something and I could swear...”
"What did he do?"
"Well, I was in here watching. He couldn't have seen me. The window was closed. Christ, it was so bitching hot I could hardly breathe. And I was still. Like a fucking stiff, Frank. I swear I was sitting in that chair like a fucking stiff. And the lights were on in his bedroom. He leaves them on a lot. Sometimes I got to wait hours before I see him come in there, but the lights are always on. Okay, he comes in, not self-conscious at all, and he starts to get undressed. He pulls off his shirt. He likes those asshole shirts with the alligators over the nipple. So, okay, now he's stripped. He comes over to the window and I think, hey, this may be it, he's going to do something for a change, he's going to make a move. So I'm very alert and very still too. Just watching. And I can see he's doing this kind of deep breathing. You know, inhaling, exhaling, tightening up the stomach muscles, that whole trip. He's not a big guy, he's no body builder, but he's strong. Okay, then he tenses up and holds the pose, his eyes fastened on the window over here. I actually felt he was looking in. Knew he couldn't see me, but it felt like he could. So then he breathes out, relaxes, you know. And then he—you won't believe this, Frank. The guy throws me a kiss."
A kiss. "Show me how he did it."
Sal demonstrated: he placed his hands on his hips, pursed his lips and kissed the air and at the same time thrust out the lower half of his face.
"Was it hostile?"
"Did I do it hostile? Didn't mean to, because it wasn't like that at all. It was almost—like, you know, he was wishing me good night. Sleep well. Happy dreams. Fuck you. Like that."
Like that. The kiss bothered Janek. Like how? he wondered. "Let's go out and get some coffee."
"He's there now. Sleeping. Don't want to lose him."
"You need a break," Janek said. "Come on."
"But—"
"Sal,listen to me. I don't give a good goddamn about the stakeout. You're acting weird. Let's get out of here."
They went to Aspen, the place with the copper pots and the waitresses with Finch accents where they'd met the night they'd done the walkthrough. Janek encouraged Sal to talk, about baseball, the coming hockey season, the stock market, anything that interested him. Several times he noticed the younger man glance nervously at his watch.
"I'm thinking of pulling you off him," Janek said. "How would you feel about that?"
"Won't lie to you, Frank. These haven't been the greatest two weeks of my life."
"You've been very conscientious."
"Trying to do the job."
"Not easy. I know."
"I've worked plenty of stakeouts—"
"Alone's different."
"Yeah. It is."
"So, it didn't work. Looks like he may be onto you. And that's not your fault. So we throw it in on the surveillance for now."
"What do you want me to do?"
"Got any ideas?"
Sal smiled. "There is something. But I know you'll never—"
"What?"
"Let me do a wiretap."
Janek studied him. Sal was wearing the shrewd conspirator's grin. "No point," Janek said gently. "If he did this he did it alone, so there's no one he's going to talk it over with. No judge will grant us an order, and an illegal tap could backfire later on."
"Still."
"Forget it. That's one sure way to screw up the case." Sal lowered his eyes. "I know. I'm sorry. It's just..."
"Tell you what," said Janek. "You want to do something extracurricular, I got a job for you, very covert."
Sal looked at him. "An investigation?"
Janek nodded. "If you take this on it's between us. No one else must know, not even Aaron."
"A job for my rabbi. You know I'll do it, Frank."
"Anything, right, to get pulled off Lane? I'm pulling you off anyway. This other thing is optional. And no questions. That's the deal."
Sal nodded. "What do you need?"
Janek sucked in his breath. "A full financial background report on Chief of Detectives Hart. All assets. Real estate. Bank accounts. Stocks owned and traded. Going as far back as you can dig."
"Chief Hart?" Sal's face was suddenly motionless.
"And his wife, Karen. Particularly her. Because I think you'll find that most of what they've got is held in her name, not in his."
Sal liked the project; Janek could tell. It appealed to the same part of him that wanted to put a wiretap on Lane. "How do we keep this from Aaron?"
"You continue to file reports on Lane. You know the patterns, so you mix the stuff around a little bit."
"And it comes out just the same." Sal grinned.
Janek nodded and, for a moment, wondered if he was making a mistake. He had a major case, few resources, and now he was putting Sal on something else. Sal couldn't get hurt; Janek would protect him, absorb the blame, admit he'd given Sal an illegal order and take the consequences, the loss of his job and probably his pension too, if it came to that. He hesitated. Then he told himself he didn't have a choice. He smiled. This time he and Sal shared the shrewd-conspirator grin.
It was at Caroline's door that he remembered the kiss. When he entered the loft he went straight to the bathroom, stood before the mirror, pursed his lips and threw a kiss at himself just the way Sal had described.
"Good night. Sleep well. Happy dreams. Fuck you."
Caroline was at the stove when he came out. They smiled at each other as he dialed the precinct from her desk. Howell answered—at least someone was working late. "In my desk. Lower left-hand drawer. Mandy's diary. Couple of pages marked with paper clips near the end."
While he waited for Howell to find the entry he threw Caroline a couple of kisses.
"Weird the way you're doing that."
"Weird how?"
"I don't know. Mean. Grudging, I guess."
Howell found the passage. Janek listened as he read it over the phone: "'A kiss goodnight. A stingy, little kiss. If only it were real affection. Poor me here with Petti all alone..."
He put down the phone. "Hey." She turned to him. He threw her three.
"What are you doing?"
"Being stingy."
"Mean," she said.
"Stingy little kisses?"
"Right."
"Like 'Fuck you,' right?"
"Right."
He thanked her as he dialed Aaron.
"...Here I am, Frank, just sitting down to dinner with my four beautiful daughters and my lovely wife, and you call me about a kiss."
"That's it, Aaron. A stingy little fuck-you kind of kiss."
"You crazy or something?"
"I don't think so," Janek said.
"Got to be him," Janek said. They were in bed. The fan was milling above their heads.
"So what are you going to do now?"
"See him," he said. "I think it's time."
"How will you handle it?"
"Oh—play it by ear."
She took hold of his face, turned it so she could see his eyes. "Bullshit," she said. "You're going in there with a plan."
He nodded. "I'll probably slap him around a little. The way you think cops like to do."
"Janek." She punched his arm.
"Okay, I'm going to pattycake him a few times, mentally, of course, in a couple of different places. The way I figure it he'll play it like a tar-baby, try and sucker me in, get me mad, try and tie me up. Then, depending on how I feel, I may haul back and clobber him one. Just to see how he takes it, to see if he's breakable or not."
She shivered. "What if he isn't breakable?"
"Then I'll know what I'm up against. And he'll know something, too. He'll know I know it's him."