Janwillem De Wetering - The Hollow-Eyed Angel

De Gier looked sympathetic.

"Jagger's hoof just grazed him," Maggie said. "I dismounted to check whether he was okay. He kept saying he was fine, not to bother."

Maggie frowned. "I apologized, I even offered to get an ambulance. That's a big no-no, you know, a police horse damaging a civilian. I was prepared to call the precinct on my radio, get someone higher up to check out the scene." She shook her head again. "But Fritz said he was fine."

"No nausea, no shock, nothing?"

Maggie's ponytail swung both ways. "He said he was just fine."

"Then what happened?"

Maggie remembered an old tourist couple, with the same accent as de Gier's, harassing her. She had ridden off but the couple called her back. Fritz was sitting on a bench by that time. He looked a bit tired. She didn't feel like talking to him again and had ordered the couple "on their way."

"That's where I went wrong," Maggie said. "Fritz wasn't okay." Maggie's ponytail bobbed about again. "The investigation at the precinct exonerated me, but I don't feel good about not going back."

De Gier asked about the seeing-eye dog called Kali.

Maggie thought she had seen the dog that Sunday, possibly with a man called Charlie. An older man, muscular, who worked out in the playgrounds. "He drags one leg, but not too badly. He should use a cane."

Maggie didn't know whether Fritz and Charlie knew each other.

She might have seen the dog with Fritz, she couldn't remember. Kali often roamed around by herself, which was prohibited. Dogs were supposed to be on a leash. She had talked to Charlie about that but you know what they're like. "Yes, ma'am…fuck you, ma'am."

Would Charlie say that?

No, he would think that.

Yes, Maggie said now, she was fairly sure she had seen Charlie and the dog on the day Fritz was grazed by the hoof of her horse, Jagger.

After the meal-she insisted on separate checks- they walked about. The weather was pleasant. She walked him along Prince and Spring Streets to look at windows displaying art. They had fancy coffees in a West Broadway cafe. By five o'clock she took him to a videotape rental store.

"Are you free tonight?"

He used the store's phone to reach the Cavendish. The commissaris was lying down after attending his lecture. "You're still with the mounted lady, Sergeant?"

"I can come back," de Gier said hopefully. "Didn't you want to check out Tribeca tonight, where Termeer used to live?"

The commissaris had managed to reach Charlie, after getting a telephone number from Chief O'Neill. "Tomorrow evening, Sergeant. You have tonight off. Enjoy yourself. Keep that lady talking. We might learn something more."

"Are you feeling all right, sir?"

The commissaris felt somewhat better. He would just rest. Try to get his temperature down. The bellhop Ignacio had lent him a book by a Mexican crime writer, "No Happy Ending, by Ignacio Paco Taibo II. A relevant title, Sergeant."

"A Mexican writing in English?"

The commissaris picked up the paperback. "Translated. It's good. The Mexican background makes it even more interesting. Well written too. Would you like to read it in Spanish? Ignacio says there is a Spanish bookstore here. Maybe he should get you a copy."

De Gier sounded tired. "I don't read mysteries."

"Snob." The commissaris raised a correcting finger. "You're missing out on exercises in morality, the tension between libido and superego, the search for essential values-if any, of course-comparisons in relativity, the different, often conflicting, mores of sociologically separated groups, psychological insights, animal studies and tribal customs, the concept of the police as a uniformed mafia, the use of magic in crime…"

"Taibo brings up all that?"

The commissaris patted the book. "Some, Sergeant. Some Quite a bit in fact. There is some connection to our case there, I think, but I haven't finished the novel."

"No Happy Ending? You think our case is not going to end well, sir?"

The commissaris coughed.

"But if you have a fever," de Gier said, "maybe I should come over."

"Just a touch," the commissaris said. "You enjoy yourself. You can come over for breakfast."

"Yes," de Gier said unhappily.

He hung up. "I am free."

"Good." Maggie grinned. "Want to see a movie? My roommate won't be in tonight, she is staying over with her mom in Brooklyn."

Maggie's favorite star was Mel Gibson. She and de Gier checked through the store's stock together. She recommended The Year of Living Dangerously, and de Gier said he would like to see that but then he picked up The Road Warrior and read the cover. Bizarre-Action-The Australian Outback-Surrealistic.

"You want to see that?"

De Gier tried to remember who liked bizarre, surrealistic Australian Outback adventure movies. Johan Termeer. De Gier didn't think he shared young Termeer's tastes. The man was a hairdresser. Gay, too. But also a policeman. Tough. Someone who would take on a Yugoslavian gangster. De Gier hesitated. Why see a dubious movie if there were good movies around? This was Woody Allen country, he had never seen Manhattan.

Maggie said she couldn't possibly see Manhattan again. She rented The Road Warrior. "Good action. I don't mind seeing it again. You'll love it." She laughed. "There's a couple doing it in a tent, and a car roars up and whips off their cover. You should see their faces. And there is a guy eating dog food from a can in a dead tree while he watches the enemy through an old brass telescope. My kid brother was inspired by that scene. He found a telescope too and a crate of Alpo and the fire brigade had to pry him out of a tree."

"The commissaris wants to know about Termeer's background," Adjutant Grijpstra told Detective-Constable-First-Class Simon Cardozo. "The man left this country twenty years ago. For America. Never came back. You're a bright young man, Cardozo. Where do we start?"

Cardozo smirked. "Maybe Termeer played golf?"

Grijpstra patted Cardozo's arm. "You're still annoyed you weren't in on the Crailo Golf Club expedition?"

"I might have pointed out that there is no golf playing in Central Park," Cardozo said. "Furthermore, I would have…"

"Bert Termeer's background," Grijpstra hollered, "you've read the file. I want you to suggest something. Okay?" Grijpstra swung hairy fists over Cardozo's head. He dropped the hairy fists and spoke gently. "Okay."

"Okay," Cardozo said.

"What do we do?" Grijpstra whispered.

Cardozo combed his tousled hair with his fingers. "Find someone who knew old Bert Termeer."

"The Younger Termeer," Grijpstra said, while checking de Gier's notes on his interview with Termeer's nephew. "Old Termeer had a girlfriend, a certain Carolien, his landlady…hmmm…didn't share beds, did they?… had their own quarters… she liked having sex with the mailman and somesuch…" He looked across the room at Cardozo. "What to you make of that?"

"Maybe an intellectual relationship?" Cardozo asked. "But the lady is dead. Remember? Suicide due to advanced multiple sclerosis?"

Grijpstra wanted positive input.

"Who do we know," Cardozo asked brightly, "who knew Bert Termeer, who isn't dead?"

There was only Jo Termeer, the nephew. Jo Termeer had been questioned by de Gier. The object of that interview was to determine the seriousness of complaint's request. There had been no emphasis on the dead man's past.

"I'll phone," Cardozo said.

Grijpstra checked his watch. "Food first."

They walked over to a sandwich shop nearby at Rose Canal. While Grijpstra ordered shrimp and smoked eel on white buns, soft, hold the onions, no mayo on his French fries, coffee with, Cardozo used a pay phone.

Jo Termeer picked up.

"Good evening, this is Detective-Constable Cardozo. A few routine questions, please. You aren't busy?"