Read Online Melting Clock by Stuart M. Kaminsky - Free Book Online
Authors: Stuart M. Kaminsky
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clock to the problem.
“I wasn’t leaving. I was going outside to wait for the police.”
“Were you going to talk to them in Bohemian?” asked Phil.
I didn’t like it when I couldn’t see his face. I didn’t know if he was boiling up or cooling down.
“I made a mistake,” I said.
“Maybe your client got there first, and when he saw what Place had done to the painting he went nuts and killed him,” Seidman suggested.
“No, not this client,” I said.
“Who is he?” Phil said, so softly I almost missed it.
Now I was scared. Just before Phil completely lost control he made one last effort, always a failure, to be so calm and quiet that the unwary might think he had dozed off. But I had almost half a century of experience.
“Come on,” I said. “You know I can’t tell you.”
Phil spun around and looked at me. He was grinning. I had never seen that before.
“He’s a suspect,” Phil said. “And we’re going to get him or you’re going to go up on charges of interfering with a homicide investigation.”
“What about murder?”
“Medical examiner says Place was shot before eight,” said Seidman. “Both your landlord at the Farraday, Butler, and Minck say you were in the Farraday till eleven.”
“The bullet, Steve,” I said. “Is it from a thirty-eight? My gun’s a thirty-eight and I haven’t fired it. You can take it to ballistics.”
Seidman shifted and looked uneasy.
“Can’t match the bullet. No known make or caliber.”
“Look for the second Place in Los Angeles to find the first painting. You have till midnight on New Year’s Day,” said Phil, looking directly at me with that new grin. “We found the note in your wallet. You were too late, Tobias.”
“We’re playing with a wacko,” said Seidman. “Did this guy kill Place just because he had the second name in the phone book?”
“Which of you figured it out?” I asked, my eyes fixed on my brother’s face for the slightest twitch that would tell me he was ready to attack, and that neither Seidman nor the Fifth Army would stop him.
“It didn’t take much,” Phil said. “We had a clue you didn’t mention. Place’s dead body.”
“Look—” I started.
“No, you listen,” Phil said. “You’ll find the next on Thirteenth Street at midnight tomorrow.”
“In the town of the spectator,” I added.
“What?” asked Phil, sensing a needle.
“The writing on the painting. It ended with ‘the Town of the Spectator,’” Seidman explained.
“Who gives a shit?” said Phil. “There is no Thirteenth Street in Los Angeles. There are only seven listings for Street in the phone book and there’s no Thirteenth Street. Pico is Thirteenth Street. There’s a Thirteenth Avenue.”
“He says Street, he means Street,” I said.
“How many paintings are there, Toby?” asked Seidman. “Are they all by Dali? Who’s the guy who owns the paintings, the guy you’re working for?”
I sat up a little and pulled at my underwear. I was fragrant from the night in the lockup, fragrant and hungry.
“Come on, Steve,” I said, hoping it didn’t sound like a whine. “If I give you the name of my client, I’m out of business. My reputation will be shot. It’s what I’ve got to sell.”
“You can sell apples on the street in front of Union Station,” said Phil. “I’ll buy a dozen.”
“Phil, you’re my brother, and I really love you, but you’ve got no sense of humor.”
This time the fist came down on the desk. Everything on the blotter and beyond, the in-box, a few pencils, the photograph of somebody’s wife, danced around. Phil went cold blank, a very bad sign. Seidman saw it and stepped away from the wall again, motioning for me to get up. I figured he planned to block his partner, not enough to do much good but enough to give me a start out the door. I wasn’t sure where I’d go when and if I did make it beyond the Coke machine.
“Phil,” Seidman warned.
I started to get up.
“Let him
“I wasn’t leaving. I was going outside to wait for the police.”
“Were you going to talk to them in Bohemian?” asked Phil.
I didn’t like it when I couldn’t see his face. I didn’t know if he was boiling up or cooling down.
“I made a mistake,” I said.
“Maybe your client got there first, and when he saw what Place had done to the painting he went nuts and killed him,” Seidman suggested.
“No, not this client,” I said.
“Who is he?” Phil said, so softly I almost missed it.
Now I was scared. Just before Phil completely lost control he made one last effort, always a failure, to be so calm and quiet that the unwary might think he had dozed off. But I had almost half a century of experience.
“Come on,” I said. “You know I can’t tell you.”
Phil spun around and looked at me. He was grinning. I had never seen that before.
“He’s a suspect,” Phil said. “And we’re going to get him or you’re going to go up on charges of interfering with a homicide investigation.”
“What about murder?”
“Medical examiner says Place was shot before eight,” said Seidman. “Both your landlord at the Farraday, Butler, and Minck say you were in the Farraday till eleven.”
“The bullet, Steve,” I said. “Is it from a thirty-eight? My gun’s a thirty-eight and I haven’t fired it. You can take it to ballistics.”
Seidman shifted and looked uneasy.
“Can’t match the bullet. No known make or caliber.”
“Look for the second Place in Los Angeles to find the first painting. You have till midnight on New Year’s Day,” said Phil, looking directly at me with that new grin. “We found the note in your wallet. You were too late, Tobias.”
“We’re playing with a wacko,” said Seidman. “Did this guy kill Place just because he had the second name in the phone book?”
“Which of you figured it out?” I asked, my eyes fixed on my brother’s face for the slightest twitch that would tell me he was ready to attack, and that neither Seidman nor the Fifth Army would stop him.
“It didn’t take much,” Phil said. “We had a clue you didn’t mention. Place’s dead body.”
“Look—” I started.
“No, you listen,” Phil said. “You’ll find the next on Thirteenth Street at midnight tomorrow.”
“In the town of the spectator,” I added.
“What?” asked Phil, sensing a needle.
“The writing on the painting. It ended with ‘the Town of the Spectator,’” Seidman explained.
“Who gives a shit?” said Phil. “There is no Thirteenth Street in Los Angeles. There are only seven listings for Street in the phone book and there’s no Thirteenth Street. Pico is Thirteenth Street. There’s a Thirteenth Avenue.”
“He says Street, he means Street,” I said.
“How many paintings are there, Toby?” asked Seidman. “Are they all by Dali? Who’s the guy who owns the paintings, the guy you’re working for?”
I sat up a little and pulled at my underwear. I was fragrant from the night in the lockup, fragrant and hungry.
“Come on, Steve,” I said, hoping it didn’t sound like a whine. “If I give you the name of my client, I’m out of business. My reputation will be shot. It’s what I’ve got to sell.”
“You can sell apples on the street in front of Union Station,” said Phil. “I’ll buy a dozen.”
“Phil, you’re my brother, and I really love you, but you’ve got no sense of humor.”
This time the fist came down on the desk. Everything on the blotter and beyond, the in-box, a few pencils, the photograph of somebody’s wife, danced around. Phil went cold blank, a very bad sign. Seidman saw it and stepped away from the wall again, motioning for me to get up. I figured he planned to block his partner, not enough to do much good but enough to give me a start out the door. I wasn’t sure where I’d go when and if I did make it beyond the Coke machine.
“Phil,” Seidman warned.
I started to get up.
“Let him
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