Poisonous Kiss (26 page)

     "Martin has traced the virus. It does exist. So one day the antiserum will be discovered as well."

     "Only because your genius of a husband finds it."

     "Yes, exactly. My genius of a husband
will
find it," she echoed my phrases, but while my words were dripping with acid her voice rang with conviction. I was jealous as hell, and it was made even worse by the fact that she was here with me and her naked body was covered only with my robe.

     Not for long. She started dressing. She flung her clothes on in the fashion offended women always have. I watched the pathetic anti-striptease helplessly. I couldn't stop her. She was going home to her genius. I was supposed to be thankful for having her for a few hours. I gulped down my whiskey and slammed my hand down on the arm of the chair. The polished wood protested with a loud creak.

     Celia stopped in front of me. She had already put on her suit, her elegant leather bag dangled from her hand. She was towering above me and I felt vulnerable and numb because of my nakedness. My anger had evaporated, all I felt was numbing sadness. I was facing a stranger.

     "You must know that I love you," the stranger said and I have the premonition about an emphatic "but" coming. I don't have to wait for long. "But Martin is my husband. He is a good man and a great scientist." That's all the strange woman wanted to tell me. I sat in the armchair looking up in her face and I didn't have the power to reach up and touch her. Touching her might prove she is not a stranger after all.

     "If you are interested in Q-virus why don't you come and visit the laboratory?" She was about to leave, but I raised my head and look her in the eyes.

     "The laboratory where your husband is more than eager to welcome me," I snapped back at her.

     She looked back on me with a pitying smile on her face.

     "Yes," she nods, "Martin would welcome you."

     When I was alone at last, the memories of the day started crowding me immediately. I was rushed by the images of Delacroix's corpse, the detectives questioning me. The memory of anger and shock still haunted me. The cops wanted to know why I had fired three times. Alone in my shabby armchair in an empty apartment I started sobbing. I called out for Celia and when I heard some noise outside I was convinced for a moment that she was back. I straightened up and made ineffectual dabs at my eyes, then I realized that it was only my neighbor the musician, who was back after his night shift. Oh, God, was it really that late?

     I won't let you go, I said to myself. You can't walk out of my life as if you were some angry stranger. And yes, oh, yes, I'll get the truth about Q-virus. I'll go visit the lab tomorrow and if Baruch doesn't like it that's his shit. I toddled back to the kitchen and put some more whiskey into my glass. I wouldn't drink out of Celia's unused glass.

"Fifty million dollars!" Ericsson slams his hand on the table and looks at the others as triumphantly as if all this money were his. The others make satisfactory noises, only Arany remains silent and aloof. Immersed in his private thoughts he looks absent-mindedly at the tiny gallows-model on the captain's desk.

     "The boy helped himself to fifty million, and if we hadn't caught him he'd be spending it right now somewhere in Buenos Aires." He glances in the direction of Arany, but the young detective is preoccupied with a different image. Arany can clearly see the bloody corpse, just the way it was in the hallway. The distorted features half hidden by bloodied locks of hair. Why did he shoot three times? The investigators didn't want to let go of this question. As if it mattered. What really mattered was that he shot at all. So then why three times? Did he want to make sure Delacroix was dead? Or was it his fear that made him pull the trigger three times? Or did simply he want to kill?

     Ericsson has called this meeting to discuss the operation. Although it's an official meeting, it seems like it might turn into old man's solo performance. So what if he just wants to bask in the glory once more before retiring?

     The two stupid punks broke into the bank. They knocked one of the security guards down. After a few shots were fired, the other guard surrendered because they threatened to kill one of the employees. Everyone was told to lie face down on the floor. One of the bank robbers kept an eye on the hostages, the other one had some valuable passwords obtained through a serious breach in bank security. He went to the main office, logged onto the computer, and started to sending money from hundreds of accounts into about a dozen other accounts.

     Most of the faces around the table appear skeptical. They are all tired and frustrated cops. They chase thieves, robbers and mass murderers, and they have to make order out of these people's chaotic crimes. They have developed a hatred for incomprehensible events.

     Ericsson understands. He has everything under control. He's just left the commissioner, who, together with ten other experts, spent several hours analyzing the whole crime.

     "They must have been sure the bank wouldn't notice these transactions for a while, so they'd be fine as long as they could make bail in a week or so."

     The faces are silent, none of them finds this explanation satisfactory. Arany feels their eyes turning slowly toward him, as if they expected him to say something enlightening. He is trying to get away from the memory of Delacroix's corpse, Celia and her genius of a husband with his damn Q-virus. He is exhausted—he couldn't sleep all night. He feels like shouting out in his frustration, telling them all to leave him alone, but he knows he can't do that. He shrugs his shoulders.

     "Delacroix double-crossed them. Does it really matter how he did it?"

     "Yes," one of the faces pipes up. Arany turns in that direction and tells himself to relax and keep his cool.

     "All right," he starts with a nod. "Suppose everything went according to the scenario the captain has just outlined, and they were sure they'd make bail. They didn't hurt anyone. OK, the poor guard got smacked in the head, but it was nothing serious. He'll be fine. They didn't do serious harm or take any money. A good lawyer would get them released in a couple of hours."

     "But how could someone capable of handling this amount of money be so naive?" someone murmurs.

     With a condescending smile on his face, Arany waits till the murmur abates and glances are directed at him again, as if he had all the answers.

     "None of the hostages saw the boy enter the main office. All of them were lying face down on the floor, remember? And who would think of bank robbers
not
taking any money out of the building with them? Chances are they could have pulled it off if they hadn't been so clever, but they out-smarted themselves. The boy working on the computer should have just left it running. He tried to hide his tracks by logging off of the secure program, but he didn't follow the usual protocol. The next time someone tried to log in, it was obvious that the computer had been tampered with."

     He feels for a cigarette in his pocket. Nothing. He'd smoked them all during the long night last night. He'll have to watch himself. A few more bouts like that and he'll turn into a heavy smoker. He's grateful for the proffered packet and takes out a cigarette.

     "It is also possible that Delacroix gave them some song and dance about getting them out of prison." He continues, inhaling the smoke with some annoyance. The cigarette doesn't taste good. Arany is angry with himself for not resisting a smoke. He's angry with the others for their stupidity. Why does he have to explain things that are self-evident? He knows he is right, period.

     "Why can't you see that the boys were stupid, criminally stupid. What did you expect? Criminal masterminds? The crime of the century?"

     Yes, now he sees that this is exactly what they've been hoping for—something amazing, some kind of payback for all those years of backbreaking, tedious service.

     "This isn't a movie," he sighs. "Do you really think that kid was a damn genius because he knew how to work a computer? He was just some wise-ass punk."

     He glances around the table, then decides to say nothing further. The blank faces and benevolent, but utterly stupid eyes justify his own pet theory: That even a moron can still survive in a tough job.

     "Anyway, Delacroix somehow got them to do the dirty work for him, and when it was over he simply leaned out of the office window and shot them. We can only guess why. He must have wanted the money for himself. Or maybe he was afraid that we'd eventually get the truth out of these kids."

     Ericsson is ready to take over now. He feels safer explaining this part. One of his hands is in a cast—the bone splintered when Arany pushed him aside in the passageway. His face is more haggard than normal, but his eyes are enthusiastic.

     "Most of the cops believed it was one of our own who shot the kids. Delacroix must have been counting on this. He wanted to make his getaway in the commotion. All he had to do was go through the passage and disappear through the entrance of the other building. By the time the police searched the houses in the neighborhood he would have been long gone. And by the time we got our warrants, got into the office that Delacroix was using and found the gun on the windowsill he would have been out of the country. He would have had it made if we hadn't been there."

     "What about the money?" someone asks. Oh, yes, that is the most interesting feature of the case. The fact that Arany killed someone is of minor importance. He's expected to go to the lab where Celia and her husband will tell him about the benefits of Q-virus. Arany is getting immersed in his private thoughts again.

     It's as if he's been running around in circles. The same places, the same faces again and again. He's chasing after Frost, but why? To kill him, to get killed, or will he just try to bring him in alive? He's chasing after answers for his behavior in that staircase. Why didn't he shoot then? If it happens again, will he shoot? Why is he still doing police work? He seems to have got stuck in some kind of merry-go-round. He's always attacking someone, or being attacked, or going to boring meetings. He hates the work, but something always draws him back. Meanwhile, he's supposed to go to the lab to see Celia, which he's looking forward to about as much as another detective's meeting. He has to face the fact that he doesn't want to meet Baruch. He doesn't want to shake hands with him and smile, all the time knowing that he is the lover of this man's wife. To make things worse Baruch is apparently aware of their relationship. He knows about it and puts up with it, not because he believes in open marriage but because he loves his wife and he is a good man. Damn all good men!

     He pushes the door open and enters the hallway. He feels as if he left this place only a minute ago. Everything seems exactly the same: The cool, elegant hallway, the air-conditioning, the steps echoing in the long empty corridors. The small table next to the elevator hasn't changed, and neither has the security guard. The woman with the cold glance might turn up any minute, she'll walk along the hall in her stiletto heels and look at him disapprovingly. They've spent money on this building—enough to try to look elegant, but not enough to succeed.

     The familiarity of the place has an almost soothing effect on him. At least there is something constant in his life, he thinks—aside from human stupidity of course. The guard looks up and grins.

     "Hey! Congratulations! I saw you on TV."

     "Thanks. Thanks a lot."

     Patricia Simmons is at home. The guard promises not to buzz her. Fame has its perks. Arany glances into the mirror that hangs on the fake mahogany paneling in the elevator. He decides he's a slim, good-looking man, but then he remembers the real dandy, Victor Delacroix, and decides he should concentrate on the sign that flashes the numbers of the floors as he passes each one by. The sign changes quickly, almost too quickly to suit his taste. He doesn't want to meet Patricia, he has just realized it, but it's too late, the doors are opening, like the two wings of the curtain in the theater. The umpteenth act begins.

     Patricia Simmons wears a sleeveless, very short T-shirt with a plunging neckline and impossibly small pants. On her face is a look of contempt.

     "Scumbag!" She greets Arany. "You fucking bastard!"

     She stands at the door but she doesn't block Arany's way. She lets him enter. The door closes slowly. The girl folds her arms and leans against it. Her eyes are red and puffy, her lips swollen. She was carefully made up when they met at the agent's office, but now she is much more attractive. Still, Arany feels only disgust and contempt when he looks at her. This woman is in mourning for Delacroix, the man who tried to shoot him but missed. The man who forced him to kill. This woman hates Arany and doesn't care at all about the circumstances of Delacroix's death. This woman belongs to a different world. Her human body and their common mother tongue serve only as camouflage. Her world is alien, cruel and hostile toward Arany.

     He looks around, his eyes take in the relics of this world, the pink bed with the lacy head board, the soft, cuddly toys, the postcards and other superfluous knickknacks exhibited on metal and glass shelves.

     Felonious Barbie: There's a great idea for a new toy, Arany thinks. Could be a real hit. He recalls that some time ago he used to find other people's personal effects oddly touching. Old photos, a doll, a trophy of a long-past basketball tournament were all opening up a window, which offered him an approach to the world of the people who lived in these homes. A peephole providing him with information about people, often people he was going to arrest.