A Long Line of Dead Men

I arranged to meet Felicia Karp at four o'clock. I got to the house on Stafford Avenue ten minutes early, and at 4:20 I was beginning to worry. Fifteen minutes later I was in the vestibule examining the lock on the door leading up to her second-floor flat and wondering how much trouble it would be to let myself in. The possibility of getting nailed for illegal entry scared me less than the thought of what I might find. She lived, after all, just a fifteen-minute walk from where Helen Watson had drowned in her bath.

I got a flat strip of flexible steel from my wallet and turned to make sure no one was watching me when I took a shot at the door. Across the street, someone was maneuvering a Ford Escort into a tight space. I could have been through the door and up the stairs before the car was parked, but I waited, and Felicia Karp emerged from the car. I put my burglar's tool away and went to meet her.

"I'm sorry," she said. "They sprang a meeting on us literally at the last minute and there was no way to reach you." She gave me her canvas tote bag to hold while she unlocked the door. Inside, she led me to the kitchen and heated two cups of the morning's coffee in the microwave. From the wall, the black cat swung its pendulum tail and rolled its eyes at me.

I showed her Ray Galindez's sketch. She held it at arm's length and asked who it was supposed to be.

"Do you recognize him?"

"He looks familiar. Who is he?"

"He worked as a patrol officer for a private security firm. Back in February he discovered the body of Alan Watson while making his rounds a few blocks the other side of Continental Avenue. Watson had been stabbed, and it wasn't hard for this man to be the first person on the scene."

"You're implying that he killed him."

"Yes."

"Was Alan Watson one of the men my husband had dinner with once a year?" I said that he was. "And this man? Did he kill my husband?"

"I believe so."

"My God," she said, and stared at the sketch, and shuddered. "I knew Fred Karp would never kill himself," she said. "My God."

I said, "You say this man looks familiar."

"I know him."

"Oh?"

"I know I've seen him. Where did he patrol? We don't have private guards around here, although the neighborhood association has been talking about hiring them. You said the other side of Continental Avenue? I wouldn't have seen him there. It's a nice section, upscale compared to this, but I don't have any reason to go there. Anyway, I know his face, and I wouldn't know it from glimpsing it through the window of a patrol car. Why do I know his face? Help me."

"Have you seen him in the neighborhood recently?"

"No."

"Has he come to the house?" She shook her head. "Have you seen him at the school? He could have posed as a parent."

"Why would he do that? Am I in danger?"

"It's possible."

"For God's sake," she said. She studied the picture. "He looks so damn ordinary," she said. "To look at him, you'd think he was too much of a nebbish to be a policeman."

"What could you picture him doing?"

"I don't know. Something menial, something completely pedestrian."

"Close your eyes. He's doing something. What do you see him doing?"

"What's this, some new guided-imaging technique? It's not going to work. I intellectualize too much, that's my problem."

"Try it anyway. What's he doing?"

"I can't see him."

"If you could see him, what would he be doing?"

"I don't-"

"Don't figure it out. Just answer it. What's he doing?"

"Pushing a broom. My God, I don't believe it."

"What?"

"That's it. He was a janitor in the Kashin Building where Fred had his office. He wore a uniform, matching pants and a shirt in greenish gray. How would I remember that?"

"I don't know."

"Sometimes I would meet Fred at his office and we would have dinner and go to a play. And one time I saw this man. I think-"

"Yes?"

"I seem to remember that he was in Fred's office when I got there, and they were talking. He was sweeping the floor and he was emptying a wastebasket."

"What was his name?"

"How would I know?"

"Your husband might have introduced you."

"I'm afraid… John. His name was John!"

"That's very good."

"Nobody introduced him. It was on his shirt." She traced a short horizontal line above her left breast. "Over the pocket, embroidered in white. No! Not white, yellow." She shook her head. "It's just amazing the things you remember."

"And his name was John."

"Yes. I didn't like him."

"Why not?"

"There was something about him. I thought he was sly. In fact I almost said something to Fred, but I let it go."

"What would you have said?"

"I would have warned him."

"You thought the man was dangerous?"

She shook her head. "Not physically dangerous. I thought he would steal something. There was a furtive quality about him. Do you know what I mean?"

"Yes."

"But it wasn't so pronounced that it stayed in my mind. I don't believe I ever gave him another thought from that day to this. And I'm positive I never saw him again."

"If you ever do-"