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"I dont know," I said. "I dont see how much more I can do. I think what I probably should do is apologize for taking up this much of your time and then quit trying to make something out of nothing. "
"Thats not what it sounded like, something out of nothing. "
"No," I said, "it sounds good, what I put together, but what is it besides smoke and mirrors? I certainly havent got anything I could take to the cops. I still have a few friends on the force, and theyd take the trouble to hear me out, but I cant think of anybody whod be inclined to reopen the case on the strength of what Ive got. "
"So youll just give up?"
"Probably not," I admitted. "Ive got a stubborn streak, and time on my hands. The best thing would be if somebody hired me to round up lost relatives for a family reunion. That would give me a good reason to stop poking around in a case thats not going anywhere. "
"Is that what you want?" she said. "Because Ill hire you. "
She was taken aback when I said she couldnt. Early on shed sort of assumed that was what I was building toward, and it hadnt taken her long to decide to go along with it. And now that shed come right out and made the offer, I was turning her down.
"I dont understand," she said. "Its what you do, isnt it? And youve already been doing it, without a client, and not getting paid for it. Now Im prepared to be your client, and you dont want to take the case. "
"Youd be wasting your money, Kristin. "
"So? Youve been wasting your time. If you can waste your time, why cant I waste my money?"
"I surrendered my private investigators license," I said.
"Why would you do that? Did you decide to retire?"
She might as well know; maybe it would help dissuade her. "They were threatening to take it away from me," I said. "I was helping a friend, and I had to cut some corners. That got a few official noses out of joint, especially since the friend I helped is a career criminal. "
"Really? A career criminal?"
"Oh, very much so," I said. "A certifiable bad guy. "
"But hes your friend. "
"Yes. "
A light came into her eyes. She said, "Theres no conflict of interest here, is there? I mean, your friends not the third man, is he?"
"He stands about six-four and outweighs your friend Peter," I said, "so I dont think Biermans shirt would fit him. "
"Thats reassuring. But I still want to know who killed my parents. If I cant hire you, who should I hire?"
FIFTEEN
I started to tell her shed have trouble finding anybody to take her case," I told Elaine, "but I stopped myself when I realized it wasnt true. Ray likes to say that theres no case so bad you cant find some lawyer wholl take it, and God knows thats true of private detectives. If youll write out a check, someone will be happy to accept it. "
"And did she write out a check?"
"I told her cash would be better. She gave me a thousand dollars, and I said Id let her know when that ran out, but that it probably wouldnt unless I got results or incurred heavy expenses. When its over Ill tell her if I think I have more money coming, and she can pay it or not, depending on how she feels about it. And I gave her an assignment. I told her to go through the articles the police returned to her and see if anythings missing. "
"Not because you think some cop took a bracelet home to his wife. "
"They generally dont, not in a major murder case. No, I thought the killer might have kept a souvenir. Sometimes they do. What else? I told her not to expect written reports or expense accounts, and suggested that shed be better off not expecting anything. I wasnt working for her, I said, just doing her a favor, just as shed be doing me a favor by giving me a gift of a thousand dollars. "
"Same as in the old days. "
"Pretty much. It was okay for a while there, having a license, being respectable, keeping books and making out bills. But I think I like it better this way. "
"Well, it suits you. But thats a pretty small advance, isnt it?"
"I dont know, it strikes me as a pretty handsome gift. Hundred-dollar bills, ten of them. "
"Not very much money, though. A thousand dollars. "
"There was a time when you could buy a decent car with it, and therell probably come a time when thats the price of a decent cup of coffee. But right now youre right, its not very much. "
"The work youve already done," she said. "How much would that be worth?"
"Not a red cent," I said. "I didnt have a client. "
"If you had. "
"I dont know. I put in some hours here and there. "
"More than a thousand dollars worth. "
"Maybe. "
"Its not as though we need the money," she said.
"No. "
"Though we can always find a use for it. "
"We always do. "
"Matt? Youre not going to fall in love with this one, are you?"
"Im already in love. " She didnt say anything, not out loud, anyway, and I said, "No, Im not going to fall in love with her. Shes decent and bright and pretty, and shes forty years younger than I am, and she couldnt be less interested. And, to tell you the truth, neither could I. "
"Thats interesting," she said. "But let me ask you another question, and you can take all the time you need answering it. " She tilted her head, licked her lip, lowered her voice. "Is there anything you could be interested in? Anything you can think of?"
I thought of something.
Later she rolled over and propped herself up on an elbow.
"Thirty-nine," she said.
"On a scale of one to what?"
"Silly man. That wasnt a rating, it was a correction. Youre thirty-nine years older than she is, not forty. "
"Well, I have tell you," I said. "I feel younger already. "
SIXTEEN
He is five feet eleven inches tall, and his weight has remained between 165 and 170 pounds for the last fifteen of his thirty-seven years. That makes him the same height and weight as the late Jason Paul Bierman, but that is less of a coincidence than it might at first appear. It might have been coincidental if circumstances had thrown him and Bierman together first, if their roles in the human drama had preceded his awareness of their superficial resemblance. But no, it was the other way around. He had picked Bierman out of the great sea of humanity, noting his height and weight, his build. Why, hed thought, they could wear each others clothes.
(Bierman, appearing in court, charged with trying to sneak under a subway turnstile. Charges dismissed, Bierman leaving the courtroom, looking vague, uncertain. He catches him as he hits the street, takes him by the arm. Bierman cringes, no doubt assuming hes being arrested again. "Mr. Bierman? Jason? Relax, my friend. I think perhaps I can help you. " Bierman trying the couch, choosing the chair. Closing his eyes, sharing his hopes and fears. Learning the gospel. "Jason, what do you get?" "You get what you get, Doc. ")
And so hed selected Bierman. Good luck for him. Bad luck for Bierman.
Or was it bad luck? Bierman had been one of lifes losers, a man who asked little of life and got less. You never got more than you asked for, he liked to tell people, and there was nothing wrong with asking for all you wanted. You may go to the ocean with a teaspoon or a bucket, he liked to say; the ocean does not care.
Bierman took a teaspoon, and held it out to the ocean- upside-down.
So his life had never amounted to anything, and in death, in addition to serving as a part of a Grand Design (which, to be fair, would have meant precious little to Bierman, even if hed been aware of it, which he manifestly was not), in addition to that, why, Bierman had achieved in death what he had never achieved in life.
The sad bastard was famous.
He is at his computer now, scanning a newsgroup he has taken to visiting lately, alt. crime. serialkillers. Theres been a spirited exchange of posts recently between someone who has an unwholesome amount of information to share about the Green River killer and someone else, similarly
well informed, who claims to be the Green River killer. The likelihood that theres any truth in the claim strikes him as somewhere on the low side of infinitesimal, but that doesnt make the posts any less interesting to scan.
And yes, there are some new additions to the string of posts about Bierman. Technically, of course, Bierman is a far cry from a serial killer. Three corpses, all of them slain in a single night and in connection with a single crime, do not a serial killer make. Youd have to knock off unrelated individuals over a span of time, though just how many it takes is a matter of some dispute, and indeed is perennially disputed on alt. crime. serialkillers.
If Biermans anything, hes a mass murderer, like the disgruntled postal employees who bring an automatic weapon to work and lose it big time. Three, though, is on the thin side. You might need a little more in the way of mass in order to make it as a genuine mass murderer.
(As a matter of fact, Bierman is no killer at all, and probably lived out his brief span without so much as giving anyone a bloody nose, but none of these people know that. They all assume Bierman killed the three victims credited to him, and some of them, mirabile dictu, are willing to add other victims to his string. )
He reads the post, nodding, smiling, shaking his head. The minds of the various members of the newsgroup, revealed in their posts, never fail to fascinate him. Some write with evident admiration of the notorious murderers of our time, comparing the tallies and techniques of Bundy, of Kemper, of Henry Lee Lucas. Others take a strong moral stand, draping it over a fierce desire to punish; theyre death penalty enthusiasts, and rejoice whenever its applied to one of the subjects of newsgroup gossip. And, of course, there are those in both camps who are deliberately striking a pose, playing a part, feigning contempt or admiration for reasons one can only guess.
He never posts. Hes tempted sometimes, when hes inspired with just the words to tweak these clowns. But what, really, is the point? He doesnt post, he lurks. To post is human, to lurk divine.
Bierman, he thinks, Ive made you immortal. Living, you were a walking dead man. Dead, you live!
His wristwatch, set to beep not on the hour but a precise ten minutes before it, tells him its 12:50. He reads the last of the Bierman posts, clicks Mark All Read, and signs off. His screensaver comes on, showing a city skyline at night, forever changing as lights go on and off, on and off.
He sits back, stretches. His shirt is unbuttoned at the throat, his tie loose. He reaches under his collar and produces a mottled pink disc an inch and a quarter in diameter, perhaps an eighth of an inch thick, holed in the center. Its stone, rhodochrosite, and cool to the touch, and it hangs around his neck on a thin gold chain. He rubs the smooth stone between his thumb and forefinger, savoring the feel of it.
He tucks it inside his shirt, buttons the top button of his shirt, tightens his tie. He checks the knot in the mirror and its fine, perfect.
And he can feel the pink stone disc, smooth and cool against his chest…
Time to go to work.
SEVENTEEN
"So we got us a client," T J said. "Damn! We on the clock, Doc. "