I said, “Here we are. Adam Breit,” and spelled it. I’d been looking for Bright, as in bright as day, because no one had told me how he spelled it, and why would they? Neither Kristin nor Helen Watling had seen the name written down.
I was in T J’s hotel room, where we were going through the phone books, I the White Pages and he the Yellow. I’d had no luck in the residential section, but I’d found a business listing for Breit, Adam, with a 255-number and no address.
I dialed the number, and a recorded voice told me it was no longer in service.
I called information, and did what you had to do to talk to a living human being. I’d have done as well with a recording. I identified myself as a police officer, invented a name and a shield number to go with it, and told her I needed an unpublished address. I gave her the name and phone number, and she put me briefly on hold and came back with the news that the number was no longer in service.
I said I knew that, but that I needed to know the address where it had been in service, once upon a time. She said she didn’t have that information. I asked if there was a new listing for that name, Adam Breit, published or unpublished, and she checked and told me there wasn’t.
I hung up, and T J said, “Ain’t that a crime, Sime? Sayin’ you a cop when you ain’t?”
“It is,” I agreed, “and by using criminal methods I’m revealing myself as no better than Adam Breit.”
“Adam Breit, Arden Brill,” he said. “Subtle pattern here?”
“Maybe. If we could find him we could ask him.”
“You want to make some more calls,” he said, “use this.” He handed me his cell phone and did something with his computer, and it made that weird sound they make when they hook up somewhere in space with all the other computers in the world. Then a friendly voice told him he had mail, and he said, “Yeah, well, it’ll have to wait,” and set about tapping keys and frowning and making nerdlike clucking noises with his tongue.
I picked up a Classic Comic version of A Tale of Two Cities—required reading for his French Revolution course, no doubt—and was getting reintroduced to Madame Defarge and her knitting needles when he said, “Seven twenty-four Broadway.”
“What about it?”
“Goes with that phone number.”
“What have you got there, a reverse directory?”
“Sort of an everything directory,” he said. “An’ I didn’t have to lie to no operator.”
“She said he had an office on Broadway,” I remembered. “Down below Fourteenth Street. That sounds about right.”
“Just a minute,” he said, and came back with the information that 724 Broadway would be somewhere around Waverly Place. I asked if he could find anybody else at the same address, and he wanted to know who we were looking for. Anybody who might know where Adam Breit had gone, I told him.
I wound up with a dozen phone numbers. Five went unanswered when I called, and the others were about as useful; four of the people I reached had never heard of Adam Breit, two recalled the name vaguely, and one said he’d moved, but couldn’t say when or where to.
I said, “You’re near Waverly Place, right?”
“Between Waverly and Washington,” he said, “but I’m on my way out, pal, so there’s no point coming over.”
“That’s all right,” I said. “I’ve got no further use for you.”
“Well, the hell with you too,” he said, and hung up.
T J had some other ideas of how to find Breit, so he stayed at his computer while I caught a subway downtown. I came up to the surface at Broadway and Astor Place and walked a block and a half to a narrow building with a cast-iron front. Most of its eight stories of commercial loft space had been turned into residential units. All the mailboxes had names on them, and Breit was not among them, but that was no surprise.
A sign directed me two doors south to the super, and I managed to find him in the basement, a light-skinned black man with a long oval face, a pencil-line mustache, and just a trace of the West Indies in his speech. I said I was looking for a man named Adam Breit, and he laughed as if that was the funniest thing he’d heard in days.
“It would be very helpful if he left a forwarding address,” I said.
“Oh,” he said, “that would be helpful for everyone, wouldn’t it? When he left here Mr. Breit had the better part of two years to go on his lease, and he was a full three months behind in his rent. The landlord would be very happy to know where he is, and so would Mr. Edison and Mrs. Bell.”
“Mr. Edison and—”
“Mr. Conrad Edison,” he said, enjoying himself, “and Mrs. Alexander Graham Bell, best known as Ma. He didn’t pay the light bill or the phone bill.”
“When did he move out?”
“Now there’s a question. It seems to me it was sometime after the first of the year when his absence became evident, but as to when he quit the premises, I don’t really know. The landlord was after him about the rent, and finally brought a locksmith over to open the door, and it was Old Mother Hubbard all over again.”
“How’s that?”
“When she got there, the cupboard was bare. He took his clothes, left his furniture, and lit out for the Territories.”
“Just like Old Mother Hubbard.”
“Exactly.”
“Furniture worth anything?”
“He owed money on it, and it must have been worth something, because the firm that sold it to him sent people to fetch it back. What’s your business with him, if I may be so bold?”
“That’s a good question,” I said. “Speaking of business, was he running one here?”
“Speaking of business,” he said, “I was busy minding my own, so I’d be hard put to say. He lived here, and people came to see him during business hours, and during nonbusiness hours as well, but who’s to say what a man’s hours of business may be?”
“Who indeed?”
“I don’t think he was trafficking in illegal substances, if that was going to be your next question.”
“It wasn’t.”
“And you never answered my question, now that I think about it, aside from declaring it a good one. Did our Mr. Breit owe you money, too?”
“No,” I said, and I could have let it go at that, but something about this gentleman made me want to say more. “I can’t be a hundred percent sure,” I said, “but it looks as though he killed five people.”
“Oh, my,” the man said. “Five, you say?”
“It looks that way.”
“Well, that’s just terrible,” he said. “Why on earth would he want to go and do something like that?”
I went back the way I’d come, on the subway, and when I got to the Northwestern T J was downstairs, in what passes for the lobby. He said, “Thought I’d save you a trip upstairs. I been all over the Internet, and the man don’t exist.”
“Adam Breit.”
He nodded. “Spelled either way, E-I-T or I-G-H-T. He a psychiatrist, a psychoanalyst, a psychologist, any damn kind of a shrink, he gotta be listed somewhere.”
“You couldn’t find a thing?”
“Oh, I found all kind of things,” he said. “Broader you make your search, more useless shit you turn up. Put in ‘Adam Bright’ an’ you get some news story, some politician predictin’ ‘a damn bright future for the farmers of Schuyler County.’ You narrow it down enough to be useful, ain’t no Adam Breit to be found.”
“Well, he’s not at Broadway and Waverly,” I said, and told how Breit had pulled up stakes and disappeared.
T J said, “Maybe he did light out for the Territories. Or he was the first person killed.”
“The man we’re looking for killed Adam Breit and took his identity.”
“You don’t like that?”
“Not a whole lot,” I said, “since you’ve just established he didn’t have an identity to take.”
“Slipped my mind.”
“And he’s still around, because Peter Meredith and his friends are still seeing him. I gather he’s some kind of guru, the spiritual leader of their little commune.”
“The Buddha of Bushwick,” he said. “You want to find him, you start right there.”
“On Meserole Street? I don’t know. If they think he’s the closest thing to God, how much are they going to give out about him? All we’d do is run into a brick wall.”
“An exposed brick wall,” he said.
We needed a place to start, and I didn’t think Meserole Street was it. I thought for a minute and said, “Seymour Nadler.”
“You think him an’ Breit the same person? He sets up this other identity, goes down an’ lives on Broadway an’ Waverly an’ meets with Peter Meredith an’ the rest of them, an’ then—” He stopped, shook his head. “That don’t make no sense,” he said.
“That’s not where I was going.”
“Good thing, too.”
I said, “The burglary. When we figured Nadler was our guy, there were two possibilities. He faked the whole burglary, or it was legit and a day or two later he made a false report about a missing gun.”
“One or the other.”
“But if Nadler’s in the clear—”
“Then the burglary was legit, an’ the burglar took the gun.”
“Right. And how did Adam Breit wind up with it?”
“He was the burglar.”
“Right again,” I said, “which would explain the similar MO in both burglaries. They were similar because one man committed both of them.”
“Now that we know that,” he said, “what do we know? The burglar did it, but are we any closer to finding him?”
“Think about it.”
He thought about it. “He did it to get the gun.”
“That’s my guess.”
“How’d he even know the gun was there?”
“There you go,” I said.
Some years ago, back when I lived in the room that is now T J’s, a couple of computer hackers, David King and Jimmy Hong, spent an evening on my behalf deep in the innards of the phone company’s computer system, digging out records that were supposed to be unobtainable. They’ve gone on to bigger and better—and far more legitimate—things, but one legacy they left me was a lifetime of free long-distance calls. I don’t know exactly what they did or how they did it, but out-of-state calls made from that telephone never showed up on a bill.
I suppose stealing is stealing, whether it’s the phone company or a blind newsboy you’re ripping off, and I’m sure moral relativism is philosophically unsustainable, but what the hell, nobody’s perfect. If I had to call all over Martha’s Vineyard looking for Seymour Nadler, I was just as happy to do it from T J’s room, secure in the knowledge that nobody was ever going to have to pay for it.
When I finally got him I said, “Dr. Nadler? I’m sorry to disturb you. I believe you spoke yesterday with Detective Ira Wentworth?”
“Yes?”
“I have a follow-up to that interview, Doctor. I wonder what you can tell me about any connection you might have had to a man named Adam Breit.”
“I can’t talk about patients,” he said. “I’m sure you’re familiar with the principle of doctor-patient confidentiality, and—”
“As I understand it,” I said, “that would only apply if Adam Breit were a patient.”
“If he’s not a patient,” Nadler said, “then why are you calling me?”
“We thought he might be a colleague.”
“A colleague.”
“A psychiatrist, or therapist of some sort, and—”
“Breit!”
“You know him, then?”
“Adam Breit,” he said. “He’s not a close friend, we never worked together, never studied together. But yes, I know him. Not well, but I know him.”
“How do you—”
“In the most casual way, yes, I know him. Adam Breit. A pleasant enough young man. What about him?”
“How did you happen to know him?”
“Didn’t I just tell you that? Casually, very casually. I smile, he smiles. I say hello, he says hello. One day we get to talking, and I say, ‘Breit, you’re a good fellow. You must come over for drinks. Bring your wife.’ ‘I don’t have a wife,’ he says. ‘So bring somebody else’s wife,’ I say, which is of course intended as a joke, and he laughs, showing he has a sense of humor.”
“And he came over for drinks?”
“Yes, and by himself, needless to say. Very personable fellow, told some wonderful stories. I don’t know what exactly his field is, but I suppose you would class it as reality-oriented therapy. He told about a patient of his, oh, it was a charming story, how she was allergic to dogs so he had her switch to stuffed animals instead, with perfectly satisfactory results.” He chuckled. “I suppose a traditionalist like myself would want to know first why she was allergic, but Breit seems to have found an effective and humane solution.”
“That’s interesting,” I said. “But I must have missed something. I don’t think I understand how the two of you happened to meet.”
“We bumped into each other.”
“At a conference or—”
“In the lobby. The lobby of our building.”
“You live in the same building?”
“Well, where did you think we lived? Breit moved in, oh, sometime around Christmas. You know Harold Fischer? The paleontologist?”
“I don’t believe so.”
“Brilliant man. He’s on sabbatical, a full year in France, poking around in caves. Breit’s subletting his apartment.”
“He lives in the same building.”
“Didn’t I just say this?”
“Yes, of course. Was he at your apartment only the one time?”
“Maybe twice. No more than that. He was pleasant company, but we didn’t have that much in common.”
“Did he know about the gun?”
“The gun? What gun are we talking about?”
“The one taken in the burglary.”
“This was before the burglary,” he said, “so how could he know about it?”
“Did he know the gun existed, Dr. Nadler?”
“Oh,” he said. “Oh, now I see what you mean,” and laughed heartily. “Oh, have you got the wrong number, Detective.”
“How do you mean?”
“He was afraid to touch it.”
“You showed him the gun?”
“I tried to show him the gun. I took it out of the drawer, I held it out to him, you’d have thought I was trying to hand him a coral snake. It wasn’t loaded, he knew it wasn’t loaded, and still he wouldn’t touch it.”
“How did you happen to show him the gun?”
“I don’t know. The subject came up. Is there anything else? Because we have guests, and I’d like to get back to them.”