Frears stopped and took a bream. There was a noise behind him and he glanced over his shoulder. Coe and the quartet were returning to the stage. They began a slow, Patricia Barberish rendition of "Inchworm."
Frears looked back at Kurtz, who had clicked on the safety of the.40 Smith & Wesson, left it in his pocket and brought both hands up onto the table. He did not lift the photograph of the girl or look at it.
"One weekend," continued Frears, "James B. Hansen picked up Crystal saying that Denise was sick with a cold but that it was his turn to drive and he wanted to do so. But instead of driving her to the stable, he took her to a forest preserve on the outskirts of Chicago, raped our daughter, tortured her, killed her, and left her naked body to be found by hikers."
Frears's tone had remained cool and level, as if reciting a story that meant nothing to him, but now he paused for a minute. When he resumed, there was an undercurrent if not a quaver, in his voice. "You may wonder, Mr. Kurtz, how we know for sure that James B. Hansen was the perpetrator of this crime. Well, he called me, Mr. Kurtz. After killing Crystal, he called me from a pay phonethis was before cell phones were commonand told me what he had done. And he told me that he was going home to kill his wife and daughter."
The Coe Pierce Quartet shifted from the wandering «Inchworm» to a stylized "Flamenco Sketches" that would feature the young black trumpeter, Billy Eversol.
"I called the police, of course," said Frears. "They rushed to Hansen's home in Oak Park. He had arrived there first. His Range Rover was parked outside. The house was on fire. When the flames were extinguished, they found the bodies of Mrs. Hansen and Denisethey had each been shot in the back of the head by a large-caliber pistoland the charred body of James. B. Hansen. They identified his body via dental records. The police determined that he had used the same pistol on himself."
Kurtz sipped his beer, set the glass down and said, "Twenty years ago."
"Next month."
"But your James B. Hansen isn't really dead."
John Wellington Frears blinked behind his round Armanis. "How did you know that?"
"Why would you need an investigator if he was?"
"Ah, precisely," said Frears. He licked his lips and took another bream. Kurtz realized that the man was in painnot just existential or emotional pain, but serious physical pain, as if from a disease that made it hard for him to breathe. "He is not dead. I saw him ten days
ago."
"Where?"
"Here in Buffalo."
"Where?"
"At the airport, Concourse Two to be precise. I was leaving BuffaloI had performed twice at Kleinhan's Music Halland was catching a flight to LaGuardia. I live in Manhattan. I had just passed through that metal-detector device when I saw him on the other side of the security area. He was carrying an expensive tan-leather satchel and heading for the doors. I cried outI called his nameI tried to give chase, but the security people stopped me. I could not go through the metal detectors in the direction I had to in order to catch him. By the time the security people allowed me to go on, he was long gone."
"And you're sure it was Hansen?" said Kurtz. "He looked the same?"
"Not at all the same," said Frears. "He was twenty years older and thirty pounds heavier. Hansen was always a big man, he had played football back in Nebraska when he was in college, but now he seemed even larger, stronger. His hair had been long and he had worn a beard in Chicagoit was the early eighties, after alland now he had short gray hair, a military sort of crew cut, and was clean-shaven. No, he looked nothing like the James B. Hansen of Chicago twenty years ago."
"But you're sure it was him?"
"Absolutely," said Frears.
"You contacted the Buffalo police?"
"Of course. I spent days talking with different people here. I think that one of the detectives actually believed me. But there is no James Hansen in any Buffalo-area directory. No Hansen or anyone fitting his description on the faculty of any of the local universities. No psychologists with that name in Buffalo. And my daughter's case file is officially closed. There was nothing they could do."
"And what did you want me to do?" said Kurtz, his voice low.
"Well, I want you to"
"Kill him," said Kurtz.
John Wellington Frears blinked and his head snapped back as if he had been slapped. "Kill him? Good God, no. Why would you say that, Mr. Kurtz?"
"He raped and killed your daughter. You're a professional violinist, obviously well off. You could afford to hire any legitimate private investigatorhire an entire agency if you want. Why else would you come to me unless you wanted the man killed?"
Frears's mouth opened and then closed again. "No, Mr. Kurtz, you misunderstand. Dr. Frederick is the one person I know well in Buffaloobviously he has fallen on hard times, but his sagacity abides beneath the sad circumstancesand he recommended you highly as an investigator who could find Hansen for me. And you are correct about my financial status. I will reward you very generously, Mr. Kurtz. Very generously indeed."