The Remake by Stephen Humphrey Bogart Page A

the elevator with the cart. Turns the corner—Hey. Some asshole opened up the hall window. It’s nicking freezing in here. So the waiter leaves the cart—the food might get cold, huh?—goes down the hall, maybe forty feet. Shuts the window, comes back to the cart, delivers it, goes back downstairs.”
    “The waiter checks out?”
    Angelo nodded. “Cleaner than the Pope’s ring finger. He’s been working there twenty-six years. Deacon of his church, six kids—like they wrote the part for some old Perry Mason or something.”
    “All right,” R.J. said. “Then it has to be the window.”
    “Bingo,” said Bertelli. “So I get out there and I poke around on the fire escape. It’s a tough climb, but it’s doable. But there’s no footprints. No bloody glove, no white Bronco, nothing. But he doesn’t have to come in that way, it could be just a distraction. Whatever. I would bet the ranch that whoever it was came in, opened the window, went back down the hall, and hid around the corner. He waits for the waiter to go close the window, dumps in the poison, and he’s outta there.”
    “What did he dump it in?”
    “Plate of prosciutto.”
    R.J. frowned. “There were two other people in the suite—Janine Wright and her daughter, Mary.”
    “Yeah, I know. But Belcher ordered the prosciutto. Wright and the kid weren’t even eating.”
    “But the killer wouldn’t have to know that. He might have just been watching for a chance.”
    “And hoping he got the right one?”
    “Maybe not caring which one he got.”
    Angelo made a face. “Sorry, R.J. I can’t buy it. Poison is usually pretty personal.”
    “Sure. Like that stuff in the Tylenol bottles a few years back.”
    Angelo smiled. “That was some nut getting off on killing strangers. This is different.”
    “It’s always different, Angelo. What else can you tell me?”
    “I shouldn’t have told you that much, R.J. Except you plied me with liquor.” He drained his beer glass and set it down. “I’ll tell you this, though. First, there ain’t much more to tell. And second—” He smiled again and his teeth shone in the candlelight. “—Kates wants you for this so bad he can taste it. Watch your ass, R.J.”
    And that was all R.J. could get out of him. They had their excellent dinner and talked about other things—the Knicks, local politics—but that was it. A small piece of R.J.’s mind stayed on the poisoning of Murray Belcher, and he went home full of marinara sauce and dissatisfaction.
    Monday morning R.J. was not feeling a whole lot better, but at least he was starting to get used to feeling bad. He woke up early and as he stared into the shaving mirror, he told himself it was time to get a grip on himself. The face that looked back at him was slack, puffy, doughy-looking.
    R.J. was no yuppie, but he hated to get soft. So he did his whole series of exercises—sit-ups, push-ups, crunches—and then ran a mile downtown and back again.
    As always, getting his blood going like that made him feel alive, smart, ready for anything. He almost caught himself singing in the shower.
    R.J. had a quick breakfast of a bagel and orange juice and headed for his office. For once he beat Wanda there by a good quarter of an hour. She came in a few minutes before nine and almost jumped out of her skin when she saw him.
    “Jesus, boss,” she said. “I thought you were a mugger.”
    “I may try that if business doesn’t pick up,” he told her. He set a cup of coffee on her desk. “Here you go.”
    Wanda eyed him suspiciously. “What’s this?”
    “It’s coffee.”
    She still seemed scared to touch the mug. “You never make coffee.”
    “This morning I made coffee. Go ahead, drink the stuff.”
    She picked up the mug and took a careful sip, making a face right away. “My God, boss. Now I know why you never make coffee.”
    R.J. gave her a hurt look. “It’s from imported beans,” he said.
    “If anybody on Ellis Island tasted this stuff, they’d