Death on a High Floor by Charles Rosenberg Read Free Book Online Page B

Tarza?”
    “Well, until about ten years ago, when my whole collection was stolen from my house. I reported it to the police.”
    “Yes, I know. We have the police report.”
    Jenna made a note and looked up. “Detective, could we get a copy of that?”
    “Sure.” Spritz looked at me again. “Mr. Tarza, would it surprise you to learn that Simon Rafer was murdered with a Holbein dagger?”
    “No.”
    “Why not?”
    “Because there were hundreds of Holbein daggers made in the 1530’s. They were the ‘in’ dagger in Switzerland at the time. There have since been thousands of copies. Maybe tens of thousands. So it’s like asking if I’d be surprised to learn that someone had been shot with a Colt 45.” I felt smug. Superior knowledge always makes me feel that way.
    “Well, would it surprise you to learn that the murder weapon matched almost exactly a particular Holbein dagger stolen from your house some years ago? Or should I say supposedly stolen?”
    Jenna put her hand on my arm. “Don’t answer that.” Then she turned on Spritz. “I thought that we agreed out in the hall that you weren’t going to ask my client what he knows and doesn’t know about this crime.”
    “Sorry, I forgot.”
    “Sorry, I think you should go.”
    Spritz put his hands out in front of him and turned them palms up. “As you wish, Counselor. But too bad, you might have learned even more, huh?”
    “Maybe we can learn whatever it is later,” she said.
    “Yeah, maybe.” Spritz unlimbered himself from the chair.
    I knew I was off message, but I couldn’t stand it any longer. “Detective, what do you know about that hole in the arm of my couch?” I pointed to it.
    He turned slightly and looked casually down at the gap in the fabric. “Oh, there was maybe more blood there,” he said. “One of the officers who checked the floor found it and the criminalists took it to the lab for analysis.”
    Neither Jenna nor I said anything.
    “Good day, then,” Spritz said. And he ambled out.
    Jenna waited until he’d cleared the doorway. “Robert, why the fuck didn’t you tell me you collected daggers?”
    “I want to talk about the blood on the fabric.”
    “He’s just pimping you. It was probably an old wine stain, left over from those dorky wine and cheese parties you used to have in your office on Fridays. I want to talk about your dagger collection. Why don’t I know about it?”
    “Jenna, do you know how old I was when you were born?”
    “What does that have to do with the price of beans?”
    “I was thirty-two. Which means I was forty-three when you graduated from grade school. During those forty-three years, I managed to do quite a few things that you don’t know about. Then another ten years went by before I finally met you.”
    “Huh.” We both laughed at her imitation of Spritz. “Alright, Robert, when we see Quesana at two, we can trace a little more of your collecting habits, maybe.”
    “Maybe.”
    She left too, followed by Gwen coming in.
    “Mr. Tarza, we need to redo your schedule. I cancelled all of your appointments for today. They all understood.”
    “I bet.”
    She ignored my sarcasm. “To remind you, there’s a Hiring Committee meeting tomorrow morning at ten.”
    “Oh, right.”
    “Will you be able to attend?”
    “No. There’s nothing critical happening tomorrow. The others can take care of it.” She made a note on her ever-present notepad.
    “Gwen,” I asked, “do you know anything about the fabric that’s been cut out on the arm of my couch?”
    “Yes. There was yellow tape across your office doorway when I got here this morning. Then someone from the LAPD in a white coat came and cut out the fabric. I asked him why he was doing that, but he wouldn’t say. When he left he took the yellow tape off and handed it to me. It’s in the waste basket. Do you want to see it?”
    “No.”
    “May I ask you something, Robert?”
    “Sure.”
    “Did you kill him?”
    “I did