Chapter Five

Bill spent the first part of the day letting Carlisle know how the case was progressing, actually getting a positive comment or two, and a "Be careful, Bill" from his cranky boss as a result. Not too bad for a Friday. Writing up the case so far took another hour or so.

He next spoke to family members of the deceased on the phone, asking them if they knew about Alpha Alpha Omega. One of them admitted knowing of the Fraternity and her husband's old participation in it as an under-graduate.

"Did he continue staying in contact with any members of the organization?" Bill asked.

"I don't know. Maybe," the wife had answered.

"What do you mean, 'maybe', ma'am?"

"Well, I came home early from my bridge club and I remember Arnold having an argument with a man in the study. I didn't go in but could easily hear them from behind the doors. I caught the tale end of it, with Arnold saying something like 'I don't want anything to do with it. The hell with Alpha Alpha Omega.'" She paused, as if embarrassed. "He very rarely cursed. He was a kind man. I became a little frightened. I'm quite timid, you see. The man left then. He didn't see me as I hid around the corner. Arnold wouldn't talk about the fight at all and told me to forget all about it. He was…killed…two weeks later."

Bill heard the woman's sniffles and her shaky voice as she tried to contain her emotions. Keeping his professional demeanor in tact he asked, "Who was he? The man your husband argued with. Do you know?"

"I think so. I went with a friend to an art gallery once, and remembered meeting the owner; it looked just like the same man. A 'Mr. Felipe Culdero'?"

"Which art gallery was that, ma'am?"

"Oh, it was in Century City…Fantago's." She sniffled once more. "Do you think he anything to do with my husband's death?"

"I don't know, ma'am, but please be assured I'm going to find out."

Quick calls to the other family members let to further reports of their husbands being unusually silent and withdrawn the week or two before their deaths. One woman reported her husband discussing with her the possibility of him making a police report about someone he knew, and then shrugging it off. No one else specifically mentioned Culdero.

Bill hung up the phone, his agile tongue dancing around the corners of his mouth as his mind raced. If Culdero had had an unexpected argument at a home with his first victim Popolopokis, with the possibility of wives and children around, it made sense that his meetings with the other businessmen would have been more private and relatives would have no knowledge of it. No need to have witnesses around seeing his face.

Bill's interest in seeing Culdero had grown immeasurably.

He relayed all this to Ralph after picking him up at the school. Ralph had already changed so that his suit was under his clothes.

"Gee, Bill, you're doing all the work on your own. You trying to impress me?" Ralph asked, a little sulky, feeling that he and his suit were hardly contributing to the cause.

"What are you talking about? It was your holographing on the symbol that cracked the case wide open. And I have a feeling an avalanche is heading down the hill soon."

They arrived at the art gallery a little after 4:00. It was one of those galleries containing high end modern art, $2000 for "psychodelic junk a toddler could paint with melted crayons" as Bill described the paintings he saw in a quick circumference of the gallery contents. They were approached by the only sales person in the gallery, a 30-something effete man in an expensive suit, wearing cologne and diamond cufflinks.

"I'm Gerard. May I help you?", he asked, his French accent unmistakable.

Bill took out his identification and flashed it at the surprised man. "Hello, Gerard. My name is Maxwell. I'm with the FBI. He's Ralph Hinkley." Maxwell put his badge back in his inside jacket pocket, as Ralph said "Hey, Pam might like that," and wandered away looking at the artwork. Egghead culture lover, Maxwell thought, as he began his enquiries. "Is Felipe Culdero here?"

"No. He's at home."

"Does he often work from home?"

"He's preparing for a party to be held there soon. He is very…precise…in his preparations. Who's that?" he asked, looking at Ralph.

"Friend of the family. What's Culdero's address?"

"Oh, let me check with him to make sure it's acceptable for you to visit." Gerard went to a desk in the corner, dialed a number and spoke on the phone for a minute or two, his eyes staying planted on Ralph's movements. Hanging up he then wrote out the address, coming back and handing it to Maxwell. "He says he'll see you if the visit is short. He has many things to take care of before the party."

"Thanks." Bill said. He turned and walked over to a pedestal, where Ralph was studying a little foot high bronze of a man and woman uniquely intertwined. "Is that possible in real life?" Bill asked.

Ralph continued to study the piece of art. "Not without dislocating your shoulder….or her shoulder…"

"Probably came from the Coma Sutra," Bill said, bowing down next to Ralph, also ensnared in the amazingly co-joined sculpted bodies. "Look, he's got to be choking off her air flow."

"Boy," Ralph added, "you'd sure have to be super-limber. Probably only a pair of gymnasts could do this, or some yoga fanatics."

Gerard came up to them, standing next to Ralph. "We have one by the same artist of two men together," he said, pointing at another bronze on a pedestal across the gallery. "It's over there."

Bill and Ralph opened their eyes widely and stood up, quickly stepping away from each other.

Bill shook his head like a wet cat removing water from its fur, clearing his mind of all bronze statue postures. "Ralph, let's go."

He got no disagreement from his friend, who walked outside next to Bill asking, "Why would he say that--?"

"Wishful thinking. He was eyeing you like a wolf stalking a deer," Bill answered with a smile.

"But, but, I'm married!" He held up his ring finger, the gold band around it shining brightly.

"It's those blond curls and your scrawny body. Perfect fodder for "those" kind of fellows, I guess."

Ralph stood still too disconcerted to keep walking as Bill opened his car door with a giggle, and got inside. Finally, Ralph's less than rapid wit kicked in and he yelled, "I'm not scrawny!"

Bill leaned out the window. "Ralph, would you get in? Gerard is starting to drool."

Ralph looked back and Gerard indeed was leering at him from the window. He dove into the car, his arms crossed, a heavy cloud over his head, while Bill kept his mile wide, closed mouth smile on his face for almost the whole ride to Culdero's.

The drive to Culdero's address took a good thirty minutes. It was in a very nice residential district, mostly all condos. They had to park the car down the street from Culdero's building as parking was tight.

Culdero's condo was on the second floor. They approached the door and Bill was going to knock when they read what appeared to be a hastily written note taped by the lion-headed knocker.

Ralph ripped the note down. "Agent Maxwell. Please go inside. I had to leave to visit the florist for a minute. I should be back by 5:00 p.m."

Ralph's eyes began glazing over a little and he undid his tie and first couple of shirt buttons. "Bill, I'm getting a vibe on the note." He stared at the writing, "Bill, look at this." He put his arm on Bill's shoulder, and Bill scrunched his face together as his vision freakishly filled with a picture of something that wasn't right there. God, he hated seeing holographs. But then, he opened his eyes a bit and watched. He saw a white haired male senior, around sixty years old, with a thin mustache, building a bomb, intricately attaching wires to plastic explosives.

"This must be our guy, Ralph. He's gotta have his next target planned. But, geez, shouldn't he be playing shuffleboards or canasta, not blowing people up? Seems kind of old."

Ralph didn't like the man. His energy was distorted, ugly, mean. "Why don't we go inside and look around while he's gone? Maybe we can find enough evidence to arrest him when he returns."

"Yeah, okay, good idea." Bill turned the doorknob and it was indeed unlocked. He opened the door and, his gut feeling acting up a little, he put his hand on Ralph's chest and said, "Let's be careful."

They entered into the condo entranceway, a wide square hallway. There was a study to the left, a living room and dining room in front of them, kitchen off the dining room, another bedroom to the right, and a den around the corner from the living room. Everything was open, spacious and very rich: fine art, gaudily framed paintings, Berger carpeting, lushly upholstered furniture.

"I'll start in the study," Ralph said, beginning to undress down to his suit. "Looks like he's been working in there."

Bill nodded and continued in the condo. Checking out each room, he found it to be empty of people and any clues he could find. He wandered over to the windows looking out into the street below.

"Nothing in the study," Ralph said, joining Bill in the living room area. "Wait a second, there's something here…" He put his hand on the marble fireplace mantle.

Bill asked, "What are you seeing?"

"It's an apartment or something. Purple and green furniture, a picture of some Italian village, number 203…wait a second…"

Bill noticed the purple and green furniture and the picture of the Italian village in the den, around the corner from where Ralph stood, so out of his immediate vision. Culdero's condo was #203. He sighed. "Ralph, we've done this skit before at the Counselor's law firm. You're holographing the condo we're in."

Ralph took his hands off the wall, his eyes wide in fear. "Then the bomb is in here, in this condo—"

Bill's face opened equally in shock. "What? Here?" And then it all came together; the whole set up, bringing him and Ralph here, the empty condo, the unlocked door, the booby-trap, and how he had fallen for it, like the newest, greenest rookie.

"Here! Bill--!" Ralph ran to his partner, lifting his cape to try to protect him, when the bomb went off like a crack of thunder sent by Thor himself.