Even the Wicked

I shook my head. "I don't imagine he suddenly blossomed as a thrill killer. But I think he found it satisfying."

"Satisfying."

"I think so, yes."

"Killing people who had it coming, making the world a better place for it. That what you mean?"

"Something like that."

"I suppose it could be satisfying," he said. "Especially for a man who's under a death sentence himself.

'What can I do to improve the world before I leave it? Well, I can take that son of a bitch off the boards.

There, I may not live forever, but at least I outlived you, you bastard.' "

"That's the idea. The first one's Richie. The second one's because he wants to do it again, so he picks someone else the law can't lay a finger on. He's had some exposure to Patsy Salerno, enough to form a strong negative opinion of the man."

"And after that?"

"I would think the motives thinned out as he went along. Numbers three and four were similarly untouchable. Roswell Berry had clearly incited acts that led to the deaths of physicians performing abortions, and the law couldn't lay a glove on him. I don't suppose there was a personal element in it, unless Adrian knew one of the doctors or had strong feelings on the subject of abortion rights."

"His sister," Ray said suddenly.

"His sister? I didn't think he had any brothers and sisters."

"He told me about her once," he said. "A long time ago, back when he used to put away a lot more than one drink a day. He liked those single-malt scotches even then, though I couldn't tell you the brand." He grinned suddenly. "I can remember the taste, though. Isn't that a surprise? We were both about half lit and he told me about his sister. She was two or three years older than Adrian. She was away at college when she died, and Adrian was in his last year of high school."

I thought I knew the answer, but I asked the question anyway.

"What did she die of?"

"Blood poisoning," he said. "One of those infections that goes through you like wildfire. That was all they told him at the time. It was years later before he got the whole story from his mother. She wouldn't tell him until after his father died, and of course you can figure it out now."

"Yes."

"Septicemia following a back-street abortion. Did it transform Adrian into a crusader for abortion rights?

Not that you'd notice. Maybe he wrote out a check once in a while, or voted for or against a candidate because of his stand on the issue, but he didn't sign a lot of petitions and open letters, and I never saw him out on Fifth Avenue picketing St. Patrick's."

"But when it came time to draw up a little list—" He nodded.

"Sure. Why not? 'This one's for you, Sis.' "

He stifled a yawn. "Funny," he said. "I never got tired when I drank. It was always the easiest thing in the world to talk the night away."

"I'll go home and let you get some sleep."

"Sit down," he said. "We're not through yet. Anyway, all we need is a little more coffee."

* * *

"You don't even begin to have what you could call proof," Ray Gruliow said. "It's far too little for an indictment, let alone a conviction."

"I realize that."

"All of which is moot, admittedly, given that the defendant is no longer among the living." He settled back in his seat. "And you weren't trying to sell it to a jury anyway, were you? I'm the guy you want to buy it."

"And?"

"And I suppose I'm sold."

"You could turn up enough evidence," I said, "once you had a ton of guys with badges looking for it.

Print up a few dozen photos of Adrian and show them to people at airports and hotels and you'll find someone who remembers him. Pull NYNEX's records of local calls made from his home and office phones.

He probably made most of his calls from pay phones, but there may be some calls that tie in with some of Will's activities. Go through his apartment and his office with the kind of detailed search I didn't have the time or authority for and who knows what kind of hard evidence you'll find."

"So what's the question?"

"The question is what do I do with this sleeping dog."

"Traditionally, you're supposed to let them lie."

"I know."

"Adrian's dead, and Will's officially retired. He said so in his last letter. What did he do, drop that in the mail on his way out of the courtroom?"

"It looks like it."

"Wrote the letter, put a stamp on it, carried it around with him.

Then his trial's wrapped up, with his client conveniently copping a plea, and it's time to throw in the towel. So he mails the letter and goes home and plays out the last scene."

"Calls me first," I said.

"Calls you first and says he wishes he had more time. Then goes out and makes sure his bodyguard's watching when he takes his last drink and kisses the carpet. That business about the wrong zip code on the letter to the News. You think that was to delay the letter?"

I shook my head. "I don't think so. You couldn't know it would work. With the volume of mail the paper gets, there's ample opportunity for some clerk somewhere along the way to spot the letter and redirect it into the right slot. I just think he got the zip wrong."