The Facades: A Novel Read Online Free PDF

for a
multitude of long, lonely years
.
    M C C READY RELIT HIS pipe. “Well?”
    “I’m a little unclear on the significance of this,” I said.
    McCready glanced at the Oracle, who nodded over his glinting shades.
    “The code,” McCready said.
    “Pardon?”
    “The encoded name in the confession,” said McCready impatiently. He removed his horn rims and scrubbed them with the tail
     of his shirt. “‘Many other little leaks, yes.’ ‘Many other long-legged youths.’”
    “‘My organ,’” the Oracle quoted, “‘is large—’”
    “Yes. Must we spell it out for you, Norberg?”
    “Molly,” I said. I reread the underlined portions of the confession with a chill. For a long, superstitious moment, I was
     convinced.
    “This is clearly the work of a devious mind,” mused McCready. “This banal confession of tenniphilia, if you’ll permit the
     coinage, may mask a subtext of true guilt. As we read and reread the confession, I thought, ‘I remember that sad little fellow
     who used to come in here every night, looking for his wife.’”
    “I have been reading your wife’s file very closely,” the Oracle said, pressing his fingers to his temple. “Her name is very
     much on my mind.”
    “As we discussed your wife,” McCready continued, dragging a wispy wraith of smoke around the room, almost as if he were dancing
     with it, “my colleague recalled that he had seen her in a production of
Don Giovanni
, which Jimenez references in his confession.”
    With McCready’s pipe and the Oracle’s cigarillo going full blaze, I decided to light a cigarette myself. Amid the thick smoke,
     we were like three neophytes at a séance. I contemplated the text in my hands. “Aren’t we reading too much into this?” I asked.
    McCready pulled on his pipe, nonplussed. The Oracle wheeled over.
    “After all,” I said, “Jimenez is a man who draws a distinction between ‘females’ and ‘virgins.’ The so-called code couldbe accidental—or it might mean something entirely different than you’ve supposed. As for the Mozart reference, that’s a mistake.
     He clearly means to say ‘Don Juan’ there.”
    The Oracle leaned back. “We find it profitable,” he said, “to treat mistakes as buried intentions.”
    “Where is Jimenez?” I asked. “Have you questioned him?”
    The two detectives shared a pained look. McCready said, “You may have heard about the new mayor’s passion for budget cutting.
     We’ve lost some of our best officers. Regrettably, Jimenez escaped. Do let us know if you run into him.”
    “But how would I recognize him?”
    There was a pause, the heavy silence of the Oracle in thought. “You would know him,” the Oracle said finally, “by his manner
     of speaking.”
    McCready stroked his beard. “Norberg may have a point,” he conceded. “Perhaps our methods have become too refined. Perhaps
     we have misunderstood this confession of Jimenez.”
    I turned to the Oracle. His hands lay like unsent letters in his lap. His preternatural calm unnerved me. “You saw my wife
     in
Don Giovanni
?”
    He took a patient pull on his cigarillo, savored its gradual burn. He was in no hurry to speak as McCready paced the room
     and I tapped my foot nervously.
    “Indeed. I was privileged to hear her famous performance in the tenor role of Don Ottavio.”
    I was woozy with smoke. Molly had never told me about this feat. Though with her incredible range, I did not doubt her ability
     to sing a male part. The words of Jimenez atomized, scattered characters trembling on the page before me.
    “When was this?”
    “The last performance of last season,” the Oracle said. “You mean, you didn’t know? You didn’t read the reviews? Martin Breeze
     called it, I believe, the most impressive vocal feat—”
    “No,” I interrupted. “I tried to avoid Molly’s reviews. ‘The sumptuous Molly Norberg.’ ‘The fetching Molly Norberg.’ They
     always made me jealous.” I handed McCready the