Carrion Comfort

  Gentry took the subway down to the Village and got off near St. Vincent’s. He flipped through his small notebook during the ride, reviewing all the notes he had taken: Saul’s address, Natalie’s comment that Saul had mentioned a house keeper named Tema, his extension at Columbia, the dean’s number that Gentry had called almost two weeks ago, the late Nina Drayton’s number. Not much, he thought. He called Columbia and confirmed that no one would be in the psychology department offices until next Monday.

  Saul’s neighborhood did not fit Gentry’s preconceptions about the lifestyle of a New York psychiatrist. The sheriff reminded himself that Saul was more of a professor than a psychiatrist and then the neighborhood seemed more appropriate. The buildings were mostly four-and five-story tenements, restaurants and delis were to be found on most corners, and there was a sense of small town in the compactness of it all. A few couples hurried by— one of them a pair of males holding hands— but Gentry knew that most of the local inhabitants were uptown, ensconced in publishing houses, brokerages, bookstores, agencies, and other steel and glass cages, each floating somewhere between secretary and vice-president, earning the necessary thousands to lease their two or three rooms in the Village and waiting for the big move, the breakthrough, the inevitable rise to the higher floor, the bigger office, the corner windows, and the short cab ride home to the Central Park West brownstone. The wind gusted. Gentry clutched his topcoat tighter and hurried on.

  Dr. Saul Laski was not home. Gentry was not surprised. He knocked again and stood awhile on the narrow landing, listening to the muted garble of tele visions and children’s wails, smelling the corned beef and cabbage echo of decades gone by. Then he removed a credit card from his wallet and slipped the lock. Gentry shook his head; Saul Laski was a nationally recognized expert on violence, a survivor of the death camp, but his home security left a lot to be desired.

  It was a large apartment by Village standards— a comfortable living room, small kitchen, smaller bedroom, and a large study. Every room— even the bathroom— had books in it. The study was laden with notebooks, files, shelves of carefully labeled abstracts, and hundreds of books— many in German or Polish. Gentry checked each room, paused a minute to glance through a manuscript stacked near the IBM typewriter, and prepared to leave. He felt like an intruder. The apartment smelled as if it had not been lived in for a week or two, the kitchen was spotless, the refrigerator almost empty, but there was no dust, no stack of accumulated mail, nor other outward signs of absence. Gentry made sure there were no messages near the phone, walked through each room quickly to make sure that he had missed no clues to Saul’s whereabouts, and quietly let himself out.

  He had gone down a flight when he passed an old woman, graying hair done up in a bun. Gentry stopped after she passed and then tipped his cloth cap and said, “Excuse me, ma’am. Might you be Tema?”

  The woman stopped and squinted suspiciously at him. Her voice held a thick accent of Eastern Eu rope. “I don’t know you.”

  “No, ma’am,” said Gentry and removed his cap. “And I’m sorry for using your first name, but Saul didn’t mention your last name.”

  “Mrs. Walisjezlski,” said the old woman. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Sheriff Bobby Gentry,” he said. “I’m a friend of Saul’s and I’m trying to find him.”

  “Dr. Laski never mentioned any Sheriff Gentry.” She gave his name a hard G.

  “No, ma’am, I don’t suppose he did. We just met a couple of weeks ago when he came down to Charleston. That’s South Carolina. Maybe he mentioned that he was comin’ down there for a visit?”

  “Dr. Laski just said he had business,” snapped the woman. She snorted. “As if the plane tickets weren’t right there for a blind person to see! Two days, he said. Maybe three. Mrs. W, he says, if you will be so kind as to water the plants. Ten days later, his plants would be dead if I did not faithfully come.”

  “Mrs. Walisjezlski, have you seen Dr. Laski in the past week?” asked Gentry.

  The woman tugged her sweater tighter and said nothing. “We had an appointment,” said Gentry. “Saul said that he’d call when he got back . . . probably last Saturday. But I haven’t heard from him.”

  “He has no sense of time,” said the woman. “His own nephew calls me from Washington last week. ‘Is Uncle Saul all right?’ he says. ‘He was supposed to come to dinner Saturday,’ he says. Knowing Dr. Laski, he just forgot . . . went off to a seminar somewhere. Am I to tell his nephew that? His only family in America?”

  “Is that the nephew that works in Washington?” said Gentry. “Which one else?”

  Gentry nodded, noticed from the woman’s posture and tone that she was uneasy talking, ready to move on. “Saul said I could contact him at his nephew’s, but I lost the number. It’s right in Washington, isn’t it?”

  “No, no,” said Mrs. Walisjezlski. “That is the embassy. Dr. Laski says they live way out in the country now.”

  “Could Saul be at the Polish Embassy?”

  She squinted at him. “Why would Dr. Laski be at the Polish Embassy? Aaron works at the Israeli Embassy, but he does not live there. You say you are a sheriff ? What business does the doctor have with a sheriff?”

  “I’m an admirer of his book,” said Gentry. He clicked a ballpoint pen and scribbled on the back of one of his poorly printed business cards. “Here is where I’m staying to night. The other number is my home phone in Charleston. As soon as Saul gets back, have him call me. It is very important.” He started down the stairs. “Oh, by the way,” he called up to her, “when I call the embassy, does Saul’s nephew spell his last name with one ‘e’ in it or two?”

  “How could there be two e’s in Eshkol?” clucked Mrs. Walisjezlski. “How indeed?” said Gentry and clumped downstairs.

  Natalie did not call. Gentry waited until after ten, called Charleston, and was rewarded by nothing but her original message and his own tirade. At ten after eleven he phoned again. Still nothing new. At one-fifteen A.M. he gave it up and tried to sleep. The noise through the thin wall sounded like half a dozen Iranians arguing. At three A.M. Gentry called Charleston again. Still nothing new. He left another message apologizing for his cursing and emphasizing the importance of her not wandering around Philadelphia alone.

  Early the next morning, Gentry tried his answering machine again, left the name of the Washington hotel where he had booked a room, and caught the 8:15 shuttle. The flight was too brief for him to do any serious thinking, but he removed his notebook and a file from his briefcase and studied them.

  Natalie had read about the December 20 bombing at the Senate Office Building and had been concerned that Saul might have been involved. Gentry had pointed out that not every murder, accident, and terrorist attack in America could be traced back to Laski’s aging Oberst. He reminded her that the television news had suggested that Puerto Rican nationalists had been behind the explosion that had killed six people. He pointed out that the attack on the Senate Office Building had occurred only a few hours after Saul would have arrived in the city, that his name had not been listed among the dead— although the terrorist himself had not been identified, and that she was getting paranoid. Natalie had been reassured. Gentry still had his doubts.

  It was after eleven by the time Gentry arrived at the FBI building. He had no idea if anyone would be working on a Saturday. A receptionist confirmed that Special Agent Richard Haines was in and then kept Gentry waiting several minutes before buzzing the busy man. She announced that Special Agent Haines would see him. Gentry contained his glee. A young man with an expensive suit and an unsuccessful mustache, a sort of Jimmy Olsen version of a Junior G-man, led Gentry to a security area where they took his photograph, recorded pertinent data, passed him through a metal detector, and gave him a laminated visitor’s pass. Gentry was glad that he had left the Ruger in the suitcase at the hotel. The young man wordlessly led Gentry down corridors, into an elevator, through an area of three-sided cubicles, down another corridor, and then
knocked on a door clearly marked Special Agent Richard Haines. When Haines’s voice called “Come on in,” the youth nodded and turned on his heel. Gentry stifled the urge to call him back to give him a tip.

  Richard Haines’s office was as large and tastefully decorated as Gentry’s was small and cluttered. Photographs hung on the walls. Gentry caught a glimpse of a joweled and pig-eyed man who might have been the late J. Edgar Hoover shaking hands with a somewhat less gray-haired Richard Haines, and then he was being waved to his seat. Haines did not stand up or offer to shake hands.

  “What brings you up to Washington, Sheriff Gentry?” Haines asked in his smooth baritone.

  Gentry shifted his bulk in the small chair to get more comfortable, decided that the thing had been designed to keep people from getting comfortable, and cleared his throat. “Just on vacation, Dick, an’ thought I’d drop in to say hello.”

  Haines raised an eyebrow. He did not stop shuffling papers. “That’s nice of you, Sheriff, but it’s sort of hectic around here this weekend. If it’s about the Mansard House murders, I don’t have anything new that I haven’t sent to you through Terry and the Atlanta office.”

  Gentry crossed his legs and shrugged. “I was just in the neighborhood and thought I’d drop in. Real impressive setup you boys got here, Dick.”

  Haines grunted. “Hey,” said Gentry, “what happened to your chin? Looks like someone clipped you a good one there. Have trouble makin’ an arrest?”

  Haines touched his chin where the butterfly ban dage was visible against a broad, yellowish bruise. Flesh-colored makeup failed to conceal it. He smiled ruefully. “No purple heart for this one, Sheriff. I slipped getting out of the tub on Christmas Day and slammed my chin against a towel rack. Lucky I didn’t kill myself.”

  “Yeah, they say most accidents happen in the home,” drawled Gentry. Haines nodded and glanced at his wristwatch. “Say,” said Gentry, “did you get the picture we sent you?”

  “Picture?” said Haines. “Oh, the one of the missing woman. Mrs. Fuller. Yes, thanks, Sheriff. It’s gone out to all of our agents in the field.”

  “Good, good,” said Gentry. “Haven’t heard anymore about where she might be, have you?”

  “The Fuller woman? No. I still think she’s dead. My guess is that we’ll never find the body.”

  “Probably right,” agreed Gentry. “Say, Dick, I passed the Capitol on the bus comin’ over here, and right catty-corner across the street was this big building with some police barricades outside and a second-story window being worked on. Is that the whatchamacallit . . .”

  “Senate Office Building,” said Haines. “Yeah, isn’t that where the terrorists blew up the senator about a week ago?”

  “Terrorist,” said Haines. “Just one. And the senator from Maine wasn’t even in town when it happened. His po liti cal adviser— fairly important guy in the G.O.P. by the name of Trask— was killed. Nobody else who was important.”

  “I imagine you’re involved in that case, huh?”

  Haines sighed and put down his papers. “It’s a pretty large office here, Sheriff. Quite a few agents.”

  “Yeah,” said Gentry. “Sure are. They say that the terrorist was a Puerto Rican fellow. That right?”

  “Sorry, Sheriff. We can’t comment on ongoing investigations.”

  “Sure,” said Gentry. “Say, remember that New York psychiatrist, Dr. Laski?”

  “Saul Laski,” said Haines. “Teaches at Columbia. Yes, we checked on his whereabouts during the weekend of the thirteenth. He was on that panel, just as your sources suggested. He probably came down to Charleston to get some publicity for his next book.”

  “Could be,” said Gentry. “Thing is, though, he was gonna send me some information on this mass murder stuff and now I can’t get hold of him anywhere. You haven’t kept track of him, have you?”

  “No,” said Haines and glanced at his watch again. “Why should we have?”

  “No reason. But I think Laski was coming here to Washington. Last Saturday, I think it was. Same day you had that terrorist thing over to the Senate Office Building.”

  “So?” said Haines.

  Gentry shrugged. “Just had a feeling this fella was trying to solve things on his own. Thought he might’ve showed up here.”

  “He didn’t,” said Haines. “Sheriff, I’d like to chat with you, but I’ve got another appointment in a couple of minutes.”

  “Sure, sure,” said Gentry, rising and tugging on his cap. “You ought to have somebody see to that.”

  “What’s that?” asked Haines. “Your chin,” said Gentry. “That’s a real nasty bruise.”

  Gentry wandered down Ninth Street toward the mall, crossing Pennsylvania Avenue and passing the Department of Justice. He went right on Constitution, up Tenth past the I.R.S. building, left on Pennsylvania again, and jogged up to the steps of the Old Post Office. No one seemed to be following him. He continued on up Pennsylvania Avenue to Pershing Park and peered across the street at the roof of the White House. He wondered if Jimmy Carter was in there now, brooding about the hostages and blaming the Iranians for his defeat.

  Gentry sat on a park bench and took his notebook out of his pocket. He flipped through the pages with their tightly scrawled script, closed the notebook, and sighed.

  Dead end.

  What if Saul was a fraud? A paranoid nutso?

  No.

  Why not?

  Just no.

  Okay, then where the hell is he? Walk over to the Congressional library and check the last week’s papers, death notices, accident reports. Call the hospitals.

  And what if he’s in the morgue under a Puerto Rican John Doe?

  Doesn’t make sense. What does the Oberst have to do with a senator’s adviser?

  What did he have to do with Kennedy and Ruby?

  Gentry rubbed his eyes. The thing had almost made sense back in Charleston when he was sitting at Natalie Preston’s kitchen table listening to Saul’s story. Things had clicked into place; the apparently random murders becoming a series of feints and thrusts from two or three old opponents with truly incredible powers. But now nothing made any sense. Unless . . .

  Unless there were more of them.

  Gentry sat straight up. Saul had to talk to someone here in Washington. Despite all of the recently shared confidences, he would not reveal who he was meeting. Family. For what reason? Gentry remembered the pain with which Saul had discussed the disappearance of his hired detective— Francis Harrington. So maybe Saul had asked for help. From a nephew in the Israeli Embassy? But maybe someone else also got involved. Who? The government? Saul could think of no reason the federal government would be in the business of protecting an aging ex-Nazi. But what if there were more like the Oberst, Fuller, and Drayton?

  The sheriff shivered and pulled his coat tighter. It was a clear, bright day. The temperature was in the thirties. Weak winter light added a golden tint to the brown and brittle grass in the park.

  He found a pay phone on the corner near the Washington Hotel and used his credit card to call Charleston. There still was no message from Natalie. Gentry found the number he had copied from his hotel room directory and called the Israeli Embassy. He wondered if anyone would be there on their Sabbath day.

  A woman answered. “Hello,” said Gentry, stifling the sudden urge to say “Shalom.”

  “Could I speak to Aaron Eshkol.”

  There was a brief hesitation and the woman said, “Who is calling, please?”

  “This is Sheriff Robert Gentry.”

  “One second please.”

  The second was more like two minutes. Gentry stood cradling the phone and stared at the Treasury building across the street.

  If there were more people . . . mind vampires . . . like the Oberst, it might explain a lot. Such as why the Oberst felt it necessary to fake his own death. And why the Charleston County Sheriff had been followed for a week and a half. And why everything a certain FBI agent said made Gentry want to smash his
teeth in. And what happened to a certain scrap-book of grisly newspaper clippings last seen at the scene of a murder . . .

  “Hello.”

  “Oh, hi, Mr. Eshkol, this is Sheriff Bobby Gentry . . .”

  “No, this is Jack Cohen speaking.”

  “Oh. Well, Mr. Cohen, I’m calling for Aaron Eshkol.”

  “I am the supervisor of Mr. Eshkol’s department. Please tell me your business, Sheriff.”

  “Actually, Mr. Cohen, this is sort of a personal call.”

  “Are you a friend of Aaron’s, Sheriff Gentry?”

  Gentry knew something was wrong, but could not put his finger on what it was. “No, sir,” he said. “I’m more a friend of Aaron’s uncle, Saul Laski. I need to speak to Aaron.”

  There was a brief silence. “It would be best if you were to come here in person, Sheriff.”

  Gentry glanced at his watch. “I’m not sure if I’ll have time, Mr. Cohen. If you could put me in touch with Aaron, I’ll see if it’s necessary.”

  “Very well. Where are you calling from, Sheriff? Here in Washington?”

  “Yeah,” said Gentry. “A pay phone.”

  “Are you in the city itself? Someone can give you directions to the embassy.”

  Gentry tried to control his rising anger. “I’m right near the Washington Hotel,” he said. “Just put Aaron Eshkol on or give me his home phone number. If I need to see him at the embassy, I’ll grab a cab.”

  “Very well, Sheriff. Please call back in ten minutes.” Cohen hung up before Gentry could protest.

  He paced back and forth in front of the hotel, irritated, tempted to pick up his stuff at the hotel and fly straight to Philadelphia. This was ridiculous. He knew how hard it was to find a missing person in Charleston, where he had six deputies and ten times that many contacts. This was absurd.