Late Payments Page 16

  “It’s a trap I set for gropers,” Fleetwood said. “Gotcha, huh!”

  “You got me, all right,” Powder said.

  Fleetwood took the injured hand. She kissed the back of it, then each of the knuckles.

  Powder said, “You don’t know how good that feels.”

  Fleetwood continued delivering tiny kisses.

  “I’m doing things and I don’t know whether they’re right or wrong,” Powder said.

  They both knew it wasn’t Powder’s usual frame of mind when he did things.

  She squeezed his hand.

  “If you were a normal woman, I’d make love to you now,” Powder said. “I’d make you tingle.”

  “If you were a normal man, I wouldn’t be here,” Fleetwood said.

  They went to the canteen. Tidmarsh was waiting for them. He had three cups of machine coffee lined up on a table next to a window. He looked tired.

  It was six-fifteen and the building was still quiet.

  “Terrific way to spend a Saturday night, Powder,” Tidmarsh said.

  Powder sat down and rubbed his face. “Have you found out what we want to know?” he asked.

  “I think we have spent a fruitful night,” Tidmarsh said.

  Before going to Tidmarsh in his home. Powder had, compulsively, gone over and over Mencelli’s hypothesis, asking himself, “If it’s true, what has had to be happening?”

  Many killers had been his first conclusion.

  He’d also arrived at a speculation about who could possibly be in a position to kill so often and so anonymously: doctors.

  Then he had turned to trying to understand how a statewide group could know where to find so many disabled targets, senile targets, chronically ill targets.

  Even a hundred cooperating medical men couldn’t sustain the numbers required from their own patient lists over such a long time. They had to get information from outside.

  Then Powder had realized that the state computer system contained, among other things, the biggest single pool of medical information in Indiana.

  Tidmarsh said, “We followed your suggestion and tapped into the state system Mencelli drew his own data from. Once in, we located the file that tells who has asked for what information and when. That file had to exist for the state to know who to send the bills to for financing the operation of the system.”

  “Yes,” Powder said.

  “And, it turns out that a hell of a lot of people use the data pool,” Tidmarsh said. “We spent most of our time trying to sort them out. State users, census functions, health department demographical studies. And research projects.”

  Powder nodded slowly. “And you found someone?”

  “We think so,” Tidmarsh said. “We were looking for someone who had been taking information out of certain specific medical data pools for a number of years. That cut it down quite a lot, because not that many projects last for as long as seven years. Even so, there were still a considerable number to choose from.”

  “But then,” Fleetwood said, “we got our first bit of luck.”

  “We think it was luck,” Tidmarsh said. “No proof about any of this.”

  “What kind of luck?” Powder asked.

  “We came across a name,” Fleetwood said. “A name we knew.”

  “A name she knew,” Tidmarsh corrected. “A name associated with one of the ‘research’ projects that had drawn the right kind of information for the appropriate length of time. A project for something called Social Concern in Medicine.”

  “All right,” Powder said. “So what’s the familiar name?”

  “John F. Baldine.”

  Powder scratched his head. The name was not familiar to him.

  Fleetwood gave a faint, snorting chuckle. “The guy who Jules confided in at the state census department.”

  Powder stared at her. “The one who immediately told his superiors about Jules’ extracurricular work and got him fired?”

  “That’s him,” Fleetwood said.

  Powder rubbed his face hard. “And why didn’t we think about this man before?”

  “I don’t know,” Fleetwood said. “I don’t know.”

  Powder said, “Tell me about him.”

  “I didn’t know much from Jules,” Fleetwood said. “Only that he was another loner in the office and the reason they got friendly was that nobody else liked either of them. Jules also said he was arrogant and patronizing. Jules also said he is not as smart as he thinks he is.”

  “Sounds like they made a perfect couple,” Powder said.

  Fleetwood did not appear to find the remark funny or perceptive.

  Tidmarsh said, “We went into the personnel files on Baldine. He’s forty. Born in a town called Smartsburg.”

  “Near Lebanon?”

  “Yeah. Went to Purdue, both as an undergraduate and then for a Ph.D. Been in the job nine years. Single. We got a home address.”

  “And you are convinced that the information he’s been gathering is consistent with what we were looking for?”

  “Yes,” they both said firmly.

  “And what about this Social Concern in Medicine?”

  Tidmarsh smiled. “The address is the same as Baldine’s.”

  “Anything about it anywhere else in the data bank?”

  “There is no other entry.”

  Powder pondered. “So, we’re saying that if there is someone doing what we think, and if that someone is getting the necessary information from this data pool, then Baldine is possible. Nothing stronger than that.”

  “He did get Jules fired.”

  “For unauthorized use of computer time and unauthorized entry into various files. Both of which transgressions Jules committed.”

  “We are saying he is distinctly possible,” Tidmarsh said. “I think both Carollee and I have what you call a gut feeling about him.”

  Powder raised his eyebrows, since Tidmarsh had declined visceral judgments before. However . . . “OK. I credit that,” Powder said.

  “If something is going on. Which brings us to our second bit of luck this evening.”

  Powder waited.

  “Carollee really has a good sense of numbers, you know,” Tidmarsh said. “A nice feel for them.”

  “Oh yes?”

  “In order to give her an idea of the kind of work Mencelli did, I showed her how he got into one of the out-of-state data banks.”

  “And?”

  “I pulled some of the numbers I checked before. Then, they matched the numbers Mencelli had given me. But this time they were different.”

  Powder blinked. “Different?”

  “Someone had altered them.”

  “In the last couple of days?”

  “Yes.”

  “Altered them how?”

  “The new numbers,” Tidmarsh said, “support Mencelli’s hypothesis better than the old ones did.”

  Powder sighed heavily and rubbed his face. “So Jules is holed up somewhere, rigging his data.”

  “So it would seem.”

  “I wash my hands of him,” Powder said. “If you can’t trust his numbers now, you couldn’t trust them before. The whole thing is a con. The guy’s crazy.”

  Fleetwood and Tidmarsh said nothing as Powder absorbed the new information.

  Powder said, “You understand, don’t you? We’ll never know now whether it’s happening. Or rather, we’ll have to wait seven more years, to get honest data.”

  “Except,” Fleetwood said,“we’ve got a lead on this guy Baldine.”

  Powder pounded the tabletop in anger. His own coffee cup tipped over and flooded the table. He ignored it. “So if goddamned Ace was so upset when you told him he couldn’t get time on your computer, where’s he gone to fake these numbers?”

  “That I couldn’t tell you, Powder,” Tidmarsh said. “But it wouldn’t be easy for him.”

  “Nice goddamned friends you’ve got,” Powder said angrily to Fleetwood.

  “At least it means he’s alive.”
>
  Powder scowled in fury. “So,” he asked Tidmarsh, “how do you stand on these hypothetical mass murders? Are they happening?”

  “If Mencelli’s original data was honest, then we’re no surer and no more doubtful.”

  “I hate cripples!” Powder said.

  Alone in the elevator Powder took Fleetwood’s hand. He gazed into her eyes. “Carollee,” he said,“I’ve got a rather personal request to make of you.”

  She looked at him, surprise evident.

  “I would like to catch a couple of hours’ sleep at your house. Just till it becomes a more civilized hour and I can get to work.”

  “At my house? What’s wrong with yours?”

  “Would you believe,” Powder said, “that if I go home I’m afraid the cops will pick me up about a murder they think I’m a material witness for?”

  She looked at him as if he were crazy.

  “I only said ‘house.’ ”

  “You know damn well I only have the one bed.”

  “We’ll just have to make do,” he said.

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  Powder woke up and lay thinking for several minutes. Then, decisively, he cleared his throat and turned to kiss her.

  He watched her watching him as he did it.

  “What brings that on?” she asked.

  “I’m feeling better. Almost frisky.”

  She said nothing.

  “I’m also hungry. Any chance of a bite to eat?”

  She remained motionless, watching.

  He shrugged. “I’ve come off the fence, that’s all.”

  She looked at him. “Do you know what you’re doing?”

  “ ‘What,’ yes,” he said. “But whether I am right or not . . . That I couldn’t tell you with conviction.”

  At ten-thirty. Powder went to Biddle Street and pounded the iron knocker on Peggy Zertz’s door.

  It was Ricky Powder in his underwear who answered the insistent poundings.

  The father pushed past the son, slapping him on the shoulder as he did so. “Hey, kid, how you doing?”

  Peggy Zertz lay sprawled on one of the black couches, naked except for a home-rolled cigarette hanging from her lips. The air was hazy and pungent.

  “Leeeroy,” Zertz said. “Hello, man! Hello, Leeeeeeroy.” She made an effort to sit up. She didn’t seem to have her heart in it. She failed.

  Powder went to her and shook her hand. “Pleased to meet you again. Miss Zertz,” he said. “God, are you guys at it absolutely all the time?”

  A sullen Ricky followed his father into the living room. “What do you want now?”

  “Sorry, but I can’t stay,” Powder said. “Not even for a cup of Peggy’s coffee.” He grinned manically.

  “So what the fuck do you want?” Ricky insisted.

  “You know,” Powder said folksily, “my old mother, your grammaw, gave me some good advice when I was young. She said, ‘Son, never trust a head.’ But I’m going to ignore that advice. I’m going to trust you guys. I’m going to ask how you guys feel about doing me a favor.”

  At the second attempt Peggy pushed herself into a more nearly upright position. “Sure, Leeeeroy. Anything you like.”

  “Don’t make an idiot of yourself,” Ricky said sourly.

  Powder acted oblivious. “You guys did such a good job at my house, when I realized I might be doing a spot of burglary myself and would need some backup, I thought why not go see my buddies Ricky and Peg. Sound them out about it. See if they’re willing to help.”

  Then Powder went back to Fleetwood’s.

  He rang the bell and when she opened it he said, “I feel like I’ve been standing outside front doors my whole goddamned life.”

  She said, “While you’re standing there deciding whether to come in, why don’t you tell me why I’m getting telephone calls from an inspector called Claude Mountjoy, who wants to know if I know where the hell you are?”

  “I told you the cops were looking for me,” Powder said.

  “I didn’t take you seriously.”

  He rubbed his eyes. “What with everything else that’s been happening, I’d kind of forgotten about it myself,” he said. “But I’ll get it sorted out.” He nodded. “I’m going to sort things out today.”

  “Come on. Powder. Tell me.”

  Later she said, “I am pretty well adjusted to life in this chair. But right now I’m truly depressed not to be more mobile.”

  At one o’clock Powder was ringing the bell outside another door, this time on the landing of a recently built small apartment building.

  When the door opened. Powder saw clearly the surprise on the face of Noble Perkins.

  “Nobe, old buddy,” Powder said as he walked in. “I’m really glad you’re to home.”

  “Why’s that. Lieutenant?”

  “What you doing, Nobe?”

  “I . . . was doing some . . . work,” Perkins said.

  Powder saw a television screen in a corner of the room. It was filled with numbers and funny words, a computer program.

  “Great,” Powder said. “What is it?”

  Perkins seemed embarrassed. He said, “A game.”

  “A game, huh? What kind of game?”

  “I don’t know whether . . .”

  “Look, kid, I promise I won’t tell anybody you spend your Sunday afternoons playing computer games.”

  “Not playing,” he said sharply. “I’m writing a game.”

  “I see, I see. Going to make you rich and famous?”

  “I don’t care so much about famous,” Perkins said.

  “OK, so what kind of game?” Powder asked.

  “A police game.”

  “Hey, great! How’s it go? You get cases to solve and you see whether you can keep from getting killed long enough to draw your pension?”

  “Well . . . there is a danger element, of course, but there is always the chance of promotion.”

  Powder took a deep breath. “I can’t wait to play.”

  “It’s not finished yet. It will take another month and then some debugging, but I hope it will be real good.”

  “A month, huh?” Powder said. “So you wouldn’t miss maybe one afternoon along the way?”

  “What do you mean. Lieutenant?”

  “I’ve got something needs doing. Noble, but at the same time a different case is breaking open, so I can’t do the work myself. I’ve come up to ask if you’ll help me out.”

  “Gee, Lieutenant, I guess I’ll do whatever I can.”

  “It means coming into the office and going through all the files that you can lay your electronic hands on. There is some kind of connection between two people, I’m certain of it, but I don’t know what it is.”

  “What people?”

  “They’re called Painter and Miles. Have you got one of those old-fashioned word processors among all this computer junk? The wooden ones with graphite in the middle. And a piece of paper to write on?”

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  At two-thirty Powder drove to the address given on John F. Baldine’s personnel file and parked in front of the house next door. The address on Franklin Place was a small, rectangular one-story frame house set in a plot bordered with head-high evergreens. There was a break in the shrubbery where a path led in from the sidewalk.

  Powder stood by the opening and studied the front of the property. The house itself was painted a yellowy-white with brown trim. It looked well maintained. There was a small front yard, some grass surrounding a circular flower bed in which a few petunias sought the sun. The two windows to the left of the front door both had screens and both showed curtains drawn open. Everything Powder could see about the house was anonymous and comfortably modest.

  He returned to his car and drove on to the end of the block, where he turned the corner and found an alley. He parked again and walked along the alley, passing more than one family outside making the best of a hazily bright afternoon.

  There was no activity evident at the back o
f Baldine’s house. Patchy grass covered most of the area. There were a few rambling roses on a trellis at the right of a kitchen door. More evergreens like those at the front of the house bordered the property on all sides. They clearly defined lines between Baldine and his neighbors, although along the alley the shrubs were thinner, as if they hadn’t needed to grow so well on the service side of the property.

  A rusty trash can stood at the end of a short driveway. The single garage seemed in poor repair. Its wooden door showed signs of rot along the bottom.

  Powder stepped up and tried the door, but the lock was sound and he could not tell whether there was a car inside.

  Powder returned to the alley and looked again at the back of Baldine’s house through a gap in the hedge. What interested him most was an extension to the main building, on the back wall on the side opposite the trellis.

  It was an addition to the house that was totally out of keeping, a flat-roofed, brick, windowless tumor about the size of a single garage. It might have been a garage, but no access led to it.

  Powder stood by the hedge for a considerable time. Then he suddenly turned and finished his walk of the length of the alley. He continued back to Franklin Place. He passed in front of the house again. Farther down the road he stopped on the sidewalk by a small tree and waited.

  At five minutes to three an old black Plymouth turned the corner onto Franklin Place and drove slowly down the street. Powder bent to tie his shoelaces as the Plymouth drew level with him. The car speeded up and turned at the corner.

  A minute later it reentered Franklin Place, having driven around the block. It slowed to a parking place just in front of Baldine’s house.

  When the car had stopped. Powder walked toward the house and turned into the path that led from the sidewalk.

  He mounted the concrete porch before the front door. He stood. He rubbed his face with both hands.

  He rang the bell.

  Nothing happened.

  He rang again.

  He waited.

  After two minutes he stepped off the porch on the side of the two windows. Cautiously he studied what he could see through each of them: a large living room.

  When he had satisfied himself that the room was empty, Powder took a carpet knife from a jacket pocket. He cut the screen from the frame of the window farther from the door.