p&c.brimstone-第13部分

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　〃Mr。　Cutforth？　There's　a　police　officer　to　see　you。〃　
　Cutforth　peered　into　the　tiny　video　screen　beside　the　inter　and　saw　a　forty…something　cop　standing　in　the　lobby；　shifting　from　foot　to　foot。　
　〃On　a　Saturday？　What　does　he　want？〃　
　〃He　won't　say；　sir。〃　
　Cutforth　finally　got　his　breathing　under　control。　The　thought　of　a　cop　in　his　apartment　right　now　was　almost　inviting。　〃Send　him　up。〃　
　On　closer　inspection；　the　officer　looked　just　like　any　Italian…American　cop；　with　the　working…class　Queens　accent　to　boot。　Cutforth　settled　the　cop　on　the　living　room　sofa　and　took　a　chair　opposite。　The　guy　had　Southampton　on　his　patch；　which　confirmed　what　Cutforth　already　suspected。　This　was　about　Grove。　He　had　caller　ID；　he　should　never　have　answered　that　crazy　son　of　a　bitch's　phone　call。　
　The　cop　took　out　a　notebook　and　pen；　displayed　a　microcassette　recorder。　
　〃No　taping；〃　said　Cutforth。　
　The　cop　shrugged；　returned　it　to　his　pocket。　〃Funny　smell　in　here。〃　
　〃Ventilation　problems。〃　
　The　cop　turned　the　pages　of　his　notebook；　got　himself　all　positioned　and　ready　to　go。　Cutforth　settled　back　in　the　chair；　crossing　his　arms。　〃Okay；　Officer　Dee…Agusta；　what　can　I　do　for　you？〃　
　〃Did　you　know　Jeremy　Grove？〃　
　〃No。〃　
　〃He　called　you　very　early　on　the　morning　of　October　16。〃　
　〃Did　he？〃　
　〃That's　what　I'm　asking　you。〃　
　Cutforth　uncrossed　his　arms；　crossed　and　recrossed　his　legs；　already　regretting　having　let　the　cop　up。　The　only　redeeming　thing　was；　the　cop　didn't　look　too　bright。　
　〃The　answer's　yes；　he　did　call　me。〃　
　〃What　did　you　talk　about？〃　
　〃Do　I　have　to　answer　these　questions？〃　
　〃No…at　least　not　at　this　moment。　If　you　wish；　we　could　arrange　something　more　formal。〃　
　Cutforth　didn't　like　the　sound　of　that。　He　thought　quickly。　〃There's　nothing　to　hide。　I　have　a　collection　of　musical　instruments；　rock　memorabilia；　that　sort　of　thing。　He　was　interested　in　buying　something。〃　
　〃What？〃　
　〃Just　a　letter。〃　
　〃Show　it　to　me。〃　
　Cutforth　managed　to　suppress　any　look　of　surprise。　He　stood　up。　〃Follow　me。〃　
　They　went　back　into　the　control　room。　Cutforth　cast　his　eyes　around。　〃That。〃　
　The　cop　went　over；　looked；　frowning。　
　〃A　letter　Janis　Joplin　wrote　to　Jim　Morrison；　but　never　mailed。　Just　two　lines。　Called　him　the　worst　lay　of　her　life。〃　Cutforth　mustered　a　chuckle。　
　The　cop　took　out　his　notebook　and　began　copying　the　letter。　Cutforth　rolled　his　eyes。　
　〃And　the　price？〃　
　〃I　told　him　it　wasn't　for　sale。〃　
　〃Did　he　give　a　reason　why　he　was　interested？〃　
　〃He　just　said　he　collected　Doors　paraphernalia。　That's　all。〃　
　〃And　you　didn't　mind　getting　a　call　in　the　wee　hours　of　the　morning？〃　
　〃In　the　music　business；　we　keep　late　hours。〃　Cutforth　walked　toward　the　control　room　door；　held　it　open；　giving　the　cop　a　big　hint　about　leaving。　But　the　man　didn't　budge。　Instead；　he　seemed　to　be　sniffing　the　air　again。　
　〃That　smell；　it's　really　peculiar。〃　
　〃I'm　about　to　call　maintenance。〃　
　〃There　was　exactly　this　smell　at　the　site　of　Jeremy　Grove's　homicide。〃　
　Cutforth　swallowed。　What　was　it　Grove　had　said？The　smell　is　the　worst　part　of　it。　I　can　hardly　think　straight。　In　his　call；　Grove　said　he'd　found　something…a　lump　of　fur…covered　meat　the　size　of　a　golf　ball。　It　had　seemed　to　be　alive　。　。　。　at　least　until　Grove　stomped　on　it　and　flushed　it　down　the　toilet。　Cutforth　felt　his　heart　pounding　in　his　rib　cage；　and　he　took　a　couple　of　breaths；　let　them　out　slowly；　the　way　he'd　been　taught　in　those　anxiety　management　classes。　This　was　ridiculous。　This　was　the　twenty…first　fucking　centuryol　it；　Nigel。　
　〃Do　you　know　a　Locke　Bullard；　Mr。　Cutforth？　Or　one　Ranier　Beckmann？〃　
　These　questions；　ing　on　the　heels　of　each　other；　almost　physically　staggered　Cutforth。　He　shook　his　head；　hoping　his　expression　wasn't　betraying　him。　
　〃You　been　in　touch　with　Beckmann？〃　he　pressed。　
　〃No。〃　Hell；　he　never　should　have　let　the　cop　in　here。　
　〃What　about　Bullard？　You　been　in　touch　with　him？　You　know；　just　a　friendly　chat　about　old　times？〃　
　〃No。　I　don't　know　the　man。　I　don't　know　either　one　of　them。〃　
　The　cop　made　a　long　notation　in　his　notebook。　Cutforth　wondered　what　it　was　that　took　so　long　to　write　down。　He　felt　the　sweat　trickling　down　his　sides。　He　swallowed；　but　there　was　nothing　to　swallow。　His　mouth　was　dry。　
　〃Sure　you　don't　want　to　tell　me　more　about　that　telephone　call？　Because　everybody　else　who　spoke　to　him　that　night　said　Grove　was　upset。　Terribly　upset。　Not　exactly　in　the　mood　to　buy　rock　memorabilia。〃　
　〃I　already　told　you　everything。〃　
　Now　at　last　they　returned　to　the　living　room。　Cutforth　didn't　sit　down　or　offer　a　seat　to　the　cop。　He　just　wanted　him　out。　
　〃Do　you　always　keep　the　apartment　this　hot；　Mr。　Cutforth？〃　
　Itwas　hot；　Cutforth　noticed；　hot　even　for　him。　He　didn't　answer。　
　〃It　was　also　excessively　warm　at　the　site　of　the　Grove　homicide；　despite　the　fact　that　the　heat　was　off　in　the　house。〃　The　cop　looked　at　him　inquiringly；　but　still　Cutforth　said　nothing。　
　The　cop　grunted；　slapped　shut　his　notebook；　returned　the　pen　to　its　leather　loop。　〃If　I　were　you；　Mr。　Cutforth；　next　time　I'd　decline　to　answer　a　police　officer's　questions　without　a　lawyer　present。〃　
　〃Why？〃　
　〃Because　a　lawyer　would　advise　you　that　keeping　your　mouth　shut　is　better　than　lying。〃　
　Cutforth　stared　at　the　cop。　〃What　makes　you　think　I'm　lying？〃　
　〃Grove　hated　rock　music。〃　
　Cutforth　stifled　his　response。　This　cop　wasn't　as　dumb　as　he　looked。　In　fact；　he　was　about　as　dumb　as　a　fox。　
　〃I'll　be　back；　Mr。　Cutforth。　And　next　time　it　will　be　on　tape　and　under　oath。　Keep　in　mind　that　perjury　is　a　serious　crime。　One　way　or　the　other；　wewill　find　out　what　you　discussed　with　Grove。　Thank　you　for　your　time。〃　
　As　soon　as　the　elevator　had　hummed　its　way　down；　Cutforth　picked　up　the　phone　with　a　shaking　hand　and　dialed。　What　he　needed　was　a　humping　vacation　on　the　beach。　A　beach　on　the　other　side　of　the　earth。　He　knew　a　girl　in　Phuket　who　did　amazing　things。　He　couldn't　leave　tomorrow…Jowly；　his　biggest　client；　was　ing　in　for　an　overdub　session…but　after　that　he'd　be　clean　gone；　fuck　the　rest　of　the　clients。　He　was　going　to　get　the　hell　out　of　town。　Away　from　his　wife。　Away　from　this　cop　and　his　questions。　And；　most　especially；　away　from　this　apartment　and　its　stench　。　。　。　
　〃Doris？　Nigel　here。　I　want　to　book　a　flight　to　Bangkok。　Tomorrow　night　if　possible；　otherwise　first　thing　Monday。　No；　just　me。　With　a　limo　and　driver　for　Phuket。　And　find　me　a　nice　big　house　on　the　beach；　something　really　secure；　with　a　cook；　maid；　personal　trainer；　bodyguard；　the　works。　Don't　tell　anyone　where　I've　gone；　okay；　Doris　darling？　Yeah；Thai　land　。　。　。　I　know　it's　hot　this　time　of　year；　you　let　me　worry　about　the　heat。〃　
　Do　you　always　keep　the　apartment　this　hot；　Mr。　Cutforth？　
　He　slammed　the　phone　down　and　went　into　the　bedroom；　threw　a　suitcase　on　the　bed；　and　began　hauling　things　out　of　his　closet：　bathing　suits；　sharkskin　jacket　and　slacks；　shades；　sandals；　money；　watch；　passport；　satellite　phone。　
　They　couldn't　nail　him　for　perjury　if　they　couldn't　friggingfind　him。　
　　　
　11
　
　By　the　time　Sergeant　Vincent　D'Agosta　entered　the　back　doorof　the　New　York　Athletic　Club；　he　was　a　very　pissed…off　cop。　The　doorman　had　stopped　him　at　the　Central　Park　South　entrance…even　though　he　was　wearing　a　tie　as　part　of　his　full　dress　uniform…and　upon　hearing　his　inquiry　sent　him　around　to　the　back　door　because　he　wasn't　a　member。　That　meant　walking　all　the　way　to　Sixth　Avenue；　down　the　block；　and　ing　back　around　on　58th　Street…almost　a　quarter　of　a　mile。　
　D'Agosta　cursed　under　his　breath　as　he　walked。　Cutforth　was　lying；　that　much　he　was　sure　of。　He'd　taken　a　gamble；　with　that　wild　guess　about　Grove　hating　rock　music；　and　Cutforth's　eyes　had　given　him　away。　Still；　for　all　his　tough　talk；　D'Agosta　knew　there　was　an　entire　legal　system　between　him　and　a　rich　bastard　like　Cutforth。　Milbanke　had　been　a　total　wash：　all　she'd　wanted　to　do　was　babble　about　her　new　emerald　necklace。　The　nutcase　hadn't　given　him　a　single　decent　lead；　not　one。　And　now　here　he　was；　taking　an　unexpected　constitutional　around　one　of　Manhattan's　long　crosstown　blocks。Shit。　
　Finally　arriving　at　the　back　door　of　the　Athletic　Club；　D'Agosta　punched　the　button　for　the　service　elevator…the　only　elevator　there…and　when　it　opened　at　last；　creaking　and　groaning　after　a　good　three…minute　wait；　he　punched　9。　The　elevator　ascended　slowly；　pissing　and　moaning　the　whole　way；　at　long　last　opening　its　doors　again　with　a　wheeze。　D'Agosta　stepped　out　into　a　dim　corridor…for　a　fancy　club；　this　one　was　pretty　dark…and　followed　a　little　wooden　sign　with　a　gold　hand　pointing　a　finger　towardBilliards。　There　was　a　faint　smell　of　cigar　smoke　in　the　air　that　made　him　crave　a　good　Cuban。　His　wife　had　nagged　him　into　giving　up　the　habit　before　they　moved　to　Canada。　But　maybe　he'd　take　it　up　again。　Hell；　no　reason　not　to　anymore。　
　As　he　walked　down　the　corridor；　the　smell　grew　stronger。　
　He　came　through　a　door　into　a　spacious　room；　its　far　wall　studded　with　grand　windows。　As　he　entered；　another　guardian　of　the　order　sprang　up　from　a　little　desk　with　a　〃Sir！〃　Ignoring　the　man；　D'Agosta　peered　around　the　room。　His　eye　finally　discerned