Act of God

course, I can only say about the last two months.”
    “What did you think of Abraham Rivkind?”
    “The salt of the earth, and gentle as a spring rain. The last man you’d hope would depart this world on the wrong end of violence.”
    Not exactly the question I’d asked. “How about his relationship with the staff?”
    “The staff? He was an easy man to work for, if that’s what you mean. No airs, very natural.”
    I had the feeling I’d get less from Quill than I had from Swindell on that count. “How about Darbra Proft?”
    “Darbra? Well now, I wouldn’t be seeing much of her would I?”
    “You tell me.”
    “She was a secretary on the fourth floor, John. Not much need for me to be up there, and almost none for her to be wandering the store where I’d be.”
    The past tense from Quill, too. “Do you think there was anything between Mr. Rivkind and Ms. Proft beyond boss and secretary?”
    “It’s not good to think about such things, John. Like the priests and the nuns used to tell us.”
    We reached the first floor and came through the padded doors back into the store. As we moved toward the front entrance, Quill said, “Will that be all, then?”
    “Maybe one more thing. Is there a way to tell if the fire doors had been opened?”
    “The alarm tells you that.”
    “I mean, if the alarm was set off by one of the doors, is there a way to tell whether a particular other door was opened?”
    Quill stopped. “Well now, that’s a good question, isn’t it? I don’t know. But I don’t see that it matters very much.”
    “Why is that?”
    “Well, I opened that downstairs door, didn’t I, when I went out after what I took to be vandals. And Mrs. Swindell opened the fourth floor door to call for me, she said, and I surely opened it to go to Mr. Rivkind. So one way or the other, both the doors you care about got themselves sprung by people with a right to be inside the store.”
    Finian Quill flashed the big smile at me, but I somehow didn’t find it very warming.

14

    On my way out of Value Furniture, Karen gave me simple directions to Grgo’s. It was only around the corner from the store, but without her specifics, I would have walked right on by.
    The door to the restaurant was six steps below street level, the name on the jamb in calligraphy so small it could have fit on a three-by-five index card. The door was locked, so I knocked.
    It was answered by a wiry little man wearing a white shirt, black tie, and black pants. Shrugging into a black Eisenhower jacket and opening the door, he said, “No dinner before five, please.”
    “I’m here to see the owner.”
    A brief nod. “Come in, please.”
    I did, the man locking the door behind me. “You wait, please, I bring him.”
    The man hurried through an empty dining room with tables for two and four, all covered with heavy white cloths. The tables were positioned for privacy, cutting down on the number of people who could be served, surprising in downtown. On top of each cloth were silver place settings; a delicate, spiraled vase with one bloom in it, all tulips; and a candle with burgundy wax. The walls were painted the color of the candles and held portraits of medieval knights and aristocrats in dull golden frames. The largest frame held a flag, horizontally striped in red, white, and blue with a crest of red and white checkerboard centered in the upper halt There was a sense of being in a foreign land that you’ve never visited and know little about.
    My greeter appeared from what I took to be the kitchen with a portly man in a double-breasted gray suit and silk tie. This one had black and gray hair worn thick and full, with a matching beard that was either just coming in or had been freshly trimmed. The portly man dismissed the other with a pat on the arm and came toward me.
    “I can help you?”
    Up close, his irises were almost black, with dark smudges under the eyes and on the hooded lids above them. “Are you Grgo?”
    “It is my pleasure owning this establishment. And you?”
    “John Cuddy.” I showed him my identification. “I’m here to ask about a couple of your customers.”
    “Which of these?”
    “Abraham Rivkind and Darbra Proft.”
    He pursed his lips. “This will need some time, yes?”
    “Probably.”
    “Come.”
    I followed him to a square table for four in a corner, him pulling back a chair for me, then pushing it in under me and taking the one to my right. Unlike the other tables, this one had no