Эд Макбейн - Jigsaw

“And Gerry Ferguson’s?”

“Same thing. Insurance. I went in there looking for it because you’d already told me it wasn’t in the safe. So where else could it be? Had to be in her apartment, right? I wasn’t going to kill her, but she started screaming the minute I came in. I was too close then to let anybody stop me. You don’t know how close I came to putting this whole thing together. You guys were helping me more than you realized. I almost had it made.”

“You’ve got balls, all right,” Brown said, shaking his head. “You come to the police for help in locating the proceeds from a bank robbery. That takes real balls.”

“Real brains ,” Krutch corrected.

“Oh, yes,” Brown said.

“It wasn’t easy to think this up.”

“You’ll have plenty of time to do a lot more thinking,” Brown said.

“What do you mean?”

“You figure it out.”

“In prison, do you mean?” Krutch asked.

“Now you’ve got the picture,” Brown said.

This time, the helicopter ride was a joyous one. For whereas there were thirty-four side streets entering the River Road, only one of those side streets was opposite a twin cluster of offshore rocks. Coincidentally, the rocks were just west of the Calm’s Point Bridge, from which vantage point Bonamico must have snapped the picture, standing on the bridge’s walkway some fifty feet above the surface of the water. They landed the chopper close to where Donald Duck’s eye must have been before the city’s Highway Maintenance Department had repaired it, and then they walked toward the rocks and looked down into the filthy waters of the River Dix and saw nothing. Carmine Bonamico’s “X” undoubtedly marked the spot, but water pollution triumphed over the naked eye, and there was nary a treasure to be seen. They did not uncover the loot until they dredged the river close to the bank, and found an old leather suitcase, green with slime, water-logged, badly deteriorated. Seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars in good American currency was ensconced in that bag, slightly damp to be sure, but nonetheless negotiable.

It was a good day’s pay.

Arthur Brown got home in time for dinner.

His wife met him at the door and said, “Connie’s got a fever. I had the doctor here a half-hour ago.”

“What’d he say?”

“He thinks it’s just the flu. But she’s so uncomfortable, Artie.”

“Did he give her anything?”

“I’m waiting for it now. The drug store said they’d deliver.”

“She awake?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll go talk to her. How’re you?” he said, and kissed her.

“Forgot what you looked like,” Caroline answered.

“Well, here’s what I look like,” he said, and smiled.

“Same old handsome devil,” Caroline said.

“That’s me,” he said, and went into the bedroom.

Connie was propped against the pillows, her eyes wet, her nose running. “Hello, Daddy,” she said in her most miserable-sounding voice.

“I thought you were sick,” he said.

“I am, ” she answered.

“You can’t be sick,” he said, “you look too beautiful.” He went to the bed and kissed her on the forehead.

“Oh, Daddy, please be careful,” Caroline said, “you’ll catch the bug.”

“I’ll catch him and stomp him right under my foot,” Brown said, and grinned.

Connie giggled.

“How would you like me to read you a story?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said. “Please.”

“What would you like to hear?”

“A good mystery,” Connie said. “One of the Nancy Drews.”

“One of the Nancy Drews it is,” Brown said, and went to the bookcase. He was crouched over, searching the shelves for Connie’s favorite, when he heard the urgent shriek of a police siren on the street outside.

“Do you like mysteries, Daddy?” Connie asked.

Brown hesitated a moment before answering. The siren faded into the distant city. He went back to the bed and gently touched his daughter’s hair, and wondered again, oddly, if Geraldine Ferguson had ever roller-skated on a city sidewalk. Then he said, “No, honey, I don’t care for mysteries too much,” and sat on the edge of the bed, and opened the book, and began reading aloud.