DeKok and Murder by Melody Page 7
bragging or whining. If you look in your records, you’ll find I’ve been accused of theft, corruption, unethical business practices … even plagiarism.”
DeKok grinned broadly.
“Plagiarism of music?”
The impresario nodded slowly.
“Recently, some ape took a shot at me with a rifle. I was lucky. He missed by a few inches, or I wouldn’t be here today.”
“Do you know who that was?”
“No.”
DeKok gave his visitor a searching look.
“Perhaps someone who fancied you had stolen his music?”
“Possibly.”
“The police found nothing?”
“I don’t think so. I never heard about it again.”
DeKok leaned forward again. Some of his distaste for the man had disappeared.
“Again, why did you come here tonight?”
Haarveld did not answer.
DeKok penetrated further into the cloud of perfume. The light green eyes of the promoter came closer.
“Mr. Haarveld, why did you come here tonight?”
The repetition was polite but insistent.
The impresario swallowed hard.
“My fear drove me … I’m afraid for my life.”
With shaking hands he felt around in an inside pocket of the aubergine jacket. He took out an envelope and gave it to DeKok.
“I found this, I found this in my letter box earlier this week.”
DeKok took the letter out of the envelope and folded it open. He read out loud: “Keep your filthy hands off Mr. Melody’s divine music. The second shot won’t miss.”
8
When the pimped-out impresario had left, Vledder regarded his colleague with amazement.
“Who could have written that letter?”
DeKok leaned back in his chair and placed his feet on the desk. He was tired. Sleep deprivation took over, making him bone weary. He waved vaguely in Vledder’s direction.
“Think about it. What conditions must the letter writer satisfy?”
“I don’t understand.”
DeKok raised the fingers of his right hand in the air and counted demonstratively.
“One, he must know Mr. Melody exists; which implies he knows Jean-Paul Stappert, or has known him. Two, he has to know Jean-Paul is known for his head full of melodies. Three, the letter writer is familiar with the music and identifies it as ‘divine.’ Four, he knows Jean-Paul, as ‘Mr. Melody,’ has been in contact with Haarveld. Five, he knows the impresario by reputation and knows about the recent shooting.”
Vledder was full of admiration.
“What a summation,” he exclaimed, “how did you manage to explain it all as clearly as you have? You must not be as brain dead as I am at this moment.”
DeKok took his legs off the desk and ambled over to the peg to get his raincoat and his hat. He placed the hat on his head and bundled the raincoat under an arm. Near the door he turned around.
“See you in the morning.”
It almost sounded like a threat.
A glorious new day broke. The friendly summer sun caressed the Damrak and made Central Station look like a fairy palace. The flags on the docks waved gaily in the slight breeze, announcing tour boats and water taxis. They added a festive look for crowds waiting to see Amsterdam from the water.
DeKok enjoyed himself. Despite his city’s many dark sides, he loved Amsterdam. It was a deep and abiding love that had strengthened over years. Amsterdam remained, for him, a place where everything was possible and anything could start. A Calvinist to his core he found it never reconciled Amsterdam’s extremes with her beauty. Change kept him young, and serving in criminal investigation kept his mental processes from the atrophy of age.
Whistling cheerfully he entered the station house.
Much to his surprise he found Vledder already at his desk. The young inspector sat listlessly in his chair, his expression, annoyed. DeKok approached.
“What’s the matter? Sleep badly?”
Vledder shook his head.
“The commissaris has been here several times already and was asking for you. He wanted to know where you were.”
“And?”
“I told him we were here rather late last night, as well as the previous night, so you were a little later than usual.”
DeKok looked at the clock.
“It’s barely ten o’clock,” he said, surprised. “What does the man want?”
“He wants to talk to you. He was agitated—wanted to know if we had filed any reports regarding the two murders.”
DeKok shook his head.
“Other than the original contact report stating we’ve found the bodies, we’ve made no reports. You know that. We haven’t had the time.”
Vledder looked embarrassed.
“That’s what I told him. He ripped into me, started to curse me and called us bunglers.”
“What?”
Vledder nodded.
“That’s what he said.”
Something seemed to snap inside DeKok. He turned on his heel and stomped out of the room. Vledder came from behind his desk and ran after him. He was too late. As he reached the corridor, DeKok had already entered the room of the commissaris.
Startled, Commissaris Buitendam looked up from the papers on his desk when DeKok suddenly appeared at the other side of the desk. The expression on DeKok’s face portended no good. Buitendam knew well the signs of barely contained anger.
The commissaris coughed importantly and tried to project dignity and authority.
“I don’t think I heard you knock.”
DeKok grinned broadly. The berserk rage that had momentarily seized him slipped into the background.
“I take serious exception to the word ‘bungling,’ as it relates to our efforts.” It still sounded sharp and emotional. “I demand an explanation.”
Commissaris Buitendam nodded. There was a sorrowful look on his face.
“That was unjust and insulting,” he said softly. “My temper got the upper hand—it was out of control.” He looked up at DeKok and sighed, “The thing is, DeKok, could you not keep me apprised of developments? In my position this results in some painfully embarrassing exchanges.”
“Two young men have been murdered,” answered DeKok evenly. “One was strangled in a boardinghouse on Prince Henry Quay, the second near Emperor’s Canal. The facts have been reported and an APB with all the known facts of the original contact has been forwarded. Everything known about the cases was reported. There is no more to be said at this time.”
The commissaris took a deep breath.
“But that was two days ago. I want further details.”
DeKok’s answer was curt.
“There are no further details.”
Buitendam’s pale face regained some color.
“Mr. Schaap, the judge-advocate in this case, demands details. He’s the instructing magistrate in this matter. The father of one of the victims, a Mr. Bavel, has approached him. Bavel wants information and demands that the case be solved forthwith.”
Despairing, DeKok gripped his head with both hands.
“Mr. Bavel,” he said with a grimace. “While he was alive, Mr. Bavel never even bothered about his son Erik … practically abandoned him. So what does he want after his death?”
The commissaris waved an elegant, slender hand in dismissal.
“Those are matters that do not concern us,” he said casually. “If Mr. Bavel demands to know the circumstances surrounding his son’s death, then we must respond to his request.”
DeKok obstinately shook his head.
“The rich and, no doubt, influential Mr. Bavel will hear no details from me, not a moment before I have determined a motive and identified his son’s killer.”
Buitendam’s anger returned. There was a determined look in his eyes.
“You don’t decide that,” he almost screamed. “If Mr. Schaap wants to furnish information, he will. He is the judici
al leader of this investigation. He is entitled.”
DeKok grinned mischievously.
“Leader of the investigation,” he blurted. “Maybe we could send the great jurist back to the Boy Scouts.” He rubbed his nose thoughtfully. “Perhaps they can train him to be assistant patrol leader.”
The commissaris suddenly came out of his chair. His eyes flashed and his nostrils quivered. With an enraged gesture he pointed at the door.
“OUT!”
DeKok left.
Vledder gave his mentor a searching look.
“Is he still alive?”
“Who?”
Vledder thumbed over his shoulder.
“The commissaris, of course. When you stomped out of the room, I thought you were going to kill him. Really, I even tried to stop you.”
DeKok laughed.
“No, I bungled it,” He couldn’t resist.
Vledder smiled.
“I know you too well to be telling you about his antics. I should never have told you.” He shook his head. “But what did he want, actually?”
“Apparently rich Pa Bavel has friends in high places. Through the judge-advocate he seeks particulars about the death of his son and demands the case be solved at once.”
“Our boss got nervous?”
“First his boss got nervous.”
“And?”
“What?”
“Did he get the details?”
DeKok shook his head with determination.
“You know,” said Vledder, “I can whip up a series of reports from the last few days in no time at all.”
DeKok nodded. He knew that all pertinent information was kept in Vledder’s computer. He also knew that Vledder had programmed his computer to spit out a report on almost any subject by merely merging standard language with new factoids. He’d programmed the system to make even a coffee break seem an important event. Vledder knew all the tricks and requirements of the large police bureaucracy. He knew how to play the game. But DeKok would have nothing of it. He kept relying on tried and proven methods developed before the computer age. When DeKok delivered his final report, it was stripped of all extraneous matter and almost always resulted in a conviction.
“I won’t even consider it,” he said after short pause. “They have what they have and that’s all they get until I have more concrete information.”
Vledder raised a finger.
“You are such a diplomat.”
DeKok ignored the remark.
“I told Buitendam that I had no further details … told him all I knew was contained in the original report and the APB.”
“And he swallowed that?”
DeKok grinned.
“He had no choice. Besides, I really have no idea in which direction to look for the killer.”
“Ramon Bavel?”
For a moment DeKok looked puzzled.
“Who?”
Vledder nodded with emphasis.
“Ramon Bavel … he’s taking music lessons.”
With a derisive snort DeKok sat down in his chair.
“It’s part of a liberal education. Somehow I’m not surprised to learn that Ramon is taking music lessons.”
Vledder smiled secretly.
“Perhaps I can supply the surprise. Do you know who his teacher is?”
“Well?”
“Alex Waardenburg.”
DeKok leaned forward.
“Now that is a surprise. How did you find that out?”
Vledder smiled smugly.
“I’ve been interested in Ramon Bavel since his mother told us about him.”
DeKok reflected.
“Oh, yes, he’s the heir now, to the Bavel fortune.”
Vledder nodded.
“Exactly. As far as I’m concerned, Ramon is a potential killer. I called the local police in Heemstede this morning. I have a colleague there who went to the academy with me. I asked him what they knew about the Bavel family.”
“And?”
Vledder punched up a screen on his computer.
“There’s quite bit,” he said, one eye on the computer and the other on his written notes. Apparently Erik and Ricky caused a lot of trouble for the local police while they were addicted. They committed thefts, breaking and entering, even an aggravated robbery. It was always Ma Bavel who defended her sons. Pa Bavel treated the two more like stepsons. He started turning his back while they were little.”
“And Ramon?”
Vledder shook his head.
“Ramon has no police record. If he did anything wrong, he was under the radar.”
DeKok reflected in silence.
“But how,” he asked after a long pause, “did your colleague know Ramon is taking music lessons in Amsterdam?”
Vledder laughed. There was a sense of triumph in his voice.
“My friend and Ramon are members of the same tennis club.”
“Tennis?”
Vledder nodded with a broad grin.
“Tennis, that’s right.”
9
Vledder was getting enthusiastic.
“Shall we pick him up?”
“Who?”
“Ramon Bavel. If we play it just right with Heemstede, we can pick him up—no problem.”
DeKok slowly shook his head.
“I’d leave it, for the time being. He’d walk in a few hours, regardless. That is, if we could even get an arrest warrant with what we have.”
Vledder looked exasperated.
“He plays tennis,” he exclaimed. “Dr. Koning said it …
strong hands … someone who has developed a strong grip.”
Again DeKok shook his head.
“It’s not enough. Knowing our esteemed judge-advocate, he wouldn’t even entertain it. If it came up later, he’d develop amnesia.”
Vledder stood up and came over to DeKok’s desk.
“Ramon has a motive,” he groaned. “Based on the size of the Bavel estate, times three, it’s a helluva motive. The whole addiction test scenario indicates he wanted Erik and Ricky incapacitated or dead. Now he’s not just top dog, he’s the lone heir.”
DeKok sighed.
“You’re right, Dick,” he said wearily. “Everything points to Ramon. But we have no proof. Without judicial proof, something that will stand up in court, we don’t stand a chance. Think for a moment about his father’s influence.”
Vledder sat down on the corner of DeKok’s desk.
“But that’s it exactly,” he pleaded. “Pa Bavel never showed any interest in his younger sons, even when they were too young to get into serious scrapes. Now, suddenly, he turns the heat on the big wigs. Small wonder our commissaris gets nervous. To what end?” He grinned crookedly, “Old man Bavel sees a cloud hanging over his favorite, Ramon.” The young inspector leaned closer over the desk. “It’s as clear as crystal. Even the mother stops just short of saying she knows Ramon had something to do with the murder of his brother Erik.”
DeKok smiled.
“You sound very convincing,” he admitted. “And there are some elements of truth in what you say, but—”
Vledder interrupted sharply.
“No, it’s all true. Believe me. If we don’t take steps immediately, Ramon will have vanished. Or he’ll have an army of lawyers who will help him to build a wall of lies.” He sputtered, swept up in his own emotions. “That … that … we can’t allow that to happen. No, we have to do something.”
DeKok rubbed his neck. Some of the fire in Vledder’s argument lit a spark in his own thinking. If he did what he felt deep down, he’d be on the way to Heemstede at this very moment to arrest Ramon. But an inner voice told him to wait. He did not have the entire picture. A vital piece of the puzzle was missing. Loose ends disquieted him. He could not reconcile the crime, the perpetrator, and the motive with the facts—these elements lacked unity. Until he could grasp the connection between cause and effect, an arrest would be precipitous. In this job the facts had to come first. They absolutely had
to proceed in an orderly manner.
He looked up at Vledder. Vledder’s face was tense and intent. DeKok closed his eyes for a moment.
“Justice, my boy,” he said in a gentle, almost fatherly tone of voice, “is an illusion. You’ll never find it, no matter how long you look. We don’t serve justice with a capital ‘J’ but with set rules and regulations that we call ‘the law.’ That’s the distinction. For now we have to keep hands off Ramon.” He smiled wanly. “Meanwhile Bavel and his son may soon commit a blunder that will give us a better grip. But as it stands—”
DeKok did not finish the sentence. From the corner of his eye he noticed a tall young man being ushered to his desk by one of the other detectives. The young visitor was in his mid-twenties and athletic looking. He wore a dark-blue blazer and grey flannel trousers. The neon light made his blond hair shine.
“Would you speak with me,” he said softly. “About Jean-Paul … Jean-Paul Stappert.”
DeKok nodded encouragingly and invited the young man to seat himself. Vledder discreetly moved to his own desk.
The young man sat down, placing his long, slender hands on his knees.
“I had to work up the courage to come here,” he said.
“Why is that?”
He looked contrite.
“Warmoes Street has a very tough reputation.”
DeKok waved that away.
“That reputation is not justified. We’re the most friendly, accommodating officers you can imagine. We’re all ‘Uncle’ Police here.” The he caught himself. “I’m sorry, I haven’t introduced myself.” It sounded sincere. “My name is DeKok … DeKok with kay-oh-kay.” He hesitated a moment and then added: “And with whom do I have the pleasure?”
The young man extended a hand.
“Kiliaan … Kiliaan Waardenburg.”
“Are you related to Alex Waardenburg?”
The young man nodded.
“My father.”
DeKok and Vledder gave the young man a second look.
“Your father,” said DeKok, “was here yesterday.”
“I know that, yes. He told me about his visit.”