By the time the Fitzgeralds had returned from Montauk that evening, toting a haul of bluefish that Nita now knew how to prepare, plus salad fixings and a peach pie from the farm stand in Amagansett, the investigation had progressed rapidly. After they got cleaned up, Nita volunteered to phone the station from the pay phone for an update.
“We’ve got evidence from two directions,” Steele told her, “out here and in the city. The clerk at the Sixth Precinct traced the rental car. It came from Hertz on Atlantic Avenue in Brooklyn. Customer booked it for Saturday morning, but the previous customer didn’t return it until late that afternoon. All their other cars were out and they had to clean it, so the guy couldn’t pick it up until nearly seven p.m. He paid cash, said he’d have it back Sunday morning. They remembered him real well, because he called every hour to find out if it was ready.”
“How do you know it’s our guy?”
“Because when he filled up on the way back to Brooklyn, he was spotted by someone who recognized him. A positive ID that matches the name on the rental.”
“Well, who is it?”
“Mr. Irving Krasner.”
“¡Que me aspen! I mean, I’ll be darned. What relation is he to Lee?”
“Her brother. He lives at 1630 80th Street in Bensonhurst, an easy subway ride to the Hertz office. It was his bad luck that Lee’s lawyer, Gerry Weinstock, decided to fill up his gas tank at the same time at Pratt’s Tydol station on the highway. Weinstock saw him, and saw the scratches on his face. When he found out we were looking for someone of that description, he felt obliged to come forward. He called us about an hour after you left for Montauk.
“He broke it to Lee first, and she took it hard. Mind you, it’s not air-tight yet, and we don’t know why he did it, though Weinstock has a theory.”
“Which is?”
“He thought she was Ruth Kligman.”
“You mean he came out here to kill Ruth and got the wrong girl?”
“Not exactly. According to Weinstock’s reasoning, Lee found out that Kligman had moved in with Pollock and sent her brother to break it up. You remember Ruth said Edith wasn’t in the house when they came down, and the back door was open. She must have gone outside, and when Irving showed up and found her out there in the dark he assumed she was the girl he was after. He’d never seen her before, and how was he to know there were two of them there that weekend?”
“I see where this is leading,” said Nita. “Irving says you’re leaving right now and tries to force her into the car. Edith has no idea who he is, thinks he’s trying to rape her, and puts up a fight. Maybe she starts to scream, so he grabs her by the throat. She flails at him and scratches his face, which makes him see red and squeeze too hard. He panics and beats it.”
“That’s pretty much the way Weinstock figured it. And it fits with Kligman’s account, how she and Pollock came out and found her lying in the yard gasping for breath.” Nita nodded in agreement.
“I called back to the Sixth Precinct and asked if they could get someone to go around to Krasner’s place and question him,” Steele continued. “Get a blood sample, too. They put the local Brooklyn precinct on it and they hauled him in for questioning. He didn’t admit anything, but they got him to agree to photos and a blood sample. We can’t receive photos by wire, so they’re sending them out on the train. Should be here at six fifty-seven, if she’s on time. Front and both profiles, plus a close-up of the wound on his face. It’s almost healed, but the Brooklyn cop said it’s two clear scratches on his left cheek. Finch can run the pictures over to Pratt’s—that’s the filling station—and show them to the Charlie.”
“What about the blood? Have they typed it?”
“They sure have. Irving Krasner is A positive. A perfect match.”
Over beers for herself and Fitz and a Hires root beer for TJ, Nita filled them in on the latest news.
“Looks like they collared him,” said Fitz with satisfaction. “Shows you how teamwork really pays off.”
Nita agreed. “Even without Osborne’s identification they have enough evidence for an arrest warrant. After all, Weinstock saw him, too, and he knows him. It’s circumstantial—just because he was out here at the right time doesn’t make him guilty—but it’s pretty damning, especially with the scratches and matching blood type.”
“I’m glad it wasn’t Ted or Alfonso,” said TJ. “They’re great guys, even if they are pansies.”
Fitz chuckled. “Takes all kinds, buddy. Remember that when you’re pounding the beat. It helps to be broad-minded.”
Nita, eyes narrowed, gazed sternly at her husband. “Don’t you go giving him ideas, Brian Francis Xavier Fitzgerald. Maybe the force isn’t for him. How do you know he doesn’t want to be a doctor, like Bill Abel, or a lawyer, like Gerry Weinstock? What do you think, Juanito?”
“I think I want to be an artist, like Jackson Pollock” was his answer, causing both parents to threaten to disown him, put him up for adoption, or send him to military school. Or all three.