If the latter was what happened, they were gone forever. If the cops had them, they were still gone, for all the good it would do him. They might spend the next twenty years in an evidence locker somewhere, while heat and humidity and vermin and air pollution did their work, and the chances that theyd ever find their way back into Kellers possession, even if by some miracle somebody in Des Moines broke down and confessed to everything, including having framed Keller even if all of that happened, in spite of the fact that he knew it never would or could, hed still never see the stamps again.
They were gone. Well, all right. So was Dot. That had been entirely unexpected, hed expected to have her as a friend for the rest of his life. So it had stunned and saddened him, and he was still sad about it, and would very likely feel that way for a long time. But he hadnt responded to her death by curling up in a ball. Hed gone on, because that was what you did, what you had to do. You had to go on.
The stamps didnt constitute a death, but they were certainly a loss, and having allowed for the possibility didnt do anything to lessen its impact. But they were gone, period, end of report. He wasnt going to be able to get them back, any more than he was going to be able to revive Dot. Dead was dead, when all was said and done, and gone was gone.
Now what?
His computer was gone, too. The cops would have taken that without having to think twice, and even now some technicians were sure to be poring over his hard drive, trying to coax out of it information it did not in fact possess. It was a laptop, a MacBook, quick and responsive and user-friendly, but as far as he could make out there was nothing incriminating on it, and all it would take to replace it was money.
His telephone answering machine was in pieces on the floor, which explained why it hadnt answered his phone. He wondered what it had done to upset anyone. Maybe someone had started to steal it, decided it wasnt worth the trouble, and bounced it off the wall in anger. Well, so what? He wouldnt have to replace it, because he didnt have a phone for it to answer, or anyone whod want to leave him a message.
The answering machine wasnt the only thing on the floor. Theyd been through his drawers and closets, and the contents of several dresser drawers had been dumped out, but as far as he could make out his clothes were all there. He picked out a few things, shirts and socks and underwear, a pair of sneakers, things he might find a use for on the way to wherever he would go next. Now, he thought, stamps or no stamps, hed finally find a use for that fucking duffel bag, and he went to the closet where he kept it and the damn thing was gone.
Well, of course, he thought. The bastards had needed something to hold the stamp albums, and they wouldnt have known to bring anything because theyd only have found out about the stamp collection when they saw it. So they kept hunting until they found the duffel.
Hed have been unable to fill it, anyway. A shopping bag held what little he felt like taking.
He set the bag down and found a small screwdriver in the hardware drawer in the kitchen, used it to remove the switch plate on the bedroom wall. Years ago, before Keller moved into the apartment, there must have been a ceiling fixture in the bedroom, but a previous tenant had remodeled it out of existence. The wall switch remained, but didnt do anything, a fact Keller demonstrated repeatedly early on by forgetting and flicking the thing to no purpose.
When he bought the apartment and became a property owner instead of a tenant, it
seemed to him that some sort of home improvement was in order to mark the occasion, and he took the switch plate off, intending to stuff the cavity with steel wool, spackle over it, and paint it to match the surrounding wall. But once he opened it up he recognized it for the ideal hiding place it was, and it had held his emergency cash fund ever since.
The money was still there, just over twelve hundred dollars. He replaced the switch plate, wondering why he was wasting time on it. He would never be coming back to this apartment.
He didnt waste further time replacing the dresser drawers, or straightening the mess his visitors had left. Nor did he wipe away his fingerprints. It was his apartment, hed lived in it for years, and his prints were all over it, and what difference did it make? What difference did anything make?
When Keller got to the lobby, Neil was standing on the sidewalk to the left of the entrance, his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes aimed somewhere around the seventh floor of the building across the street. Keller looked, and the only lighted windows had their shades drawn, so it was hard to guess what was over there to hold such interest for the doorman. Keller decided it wasnt what he was seeing, it was what he was taking care not to look at, which in this case was Keller.
Sure, Officer, and I never set eyes on the man.
The mans stance didnt invite speech, so Keller passed him without a word, carrying his shopping bag in one hand, feeling the pressure of the SIG Sauer in the small of his back. He walked to the corner and put on his Homer Simpson cap even as he disappeared forever from Neils field of vision.