Read The Hollow-Eyed Angel for Free Online Page B

flower arrangements too. He also studied a photograph of a Cavendish suite: a complete apartment— air-conditioning, every luxury provided. "You can watch nice movies."
    Australian movies, the commissaris thought. He had read de Gier's report, specifying what Jo Termeer liked. The commissaris didn't care for action movies himself but liked simple drama. He remembered an Aussie film featuring a drunken party. Each guest had to bring his own pornographic object. One guest brought an attractive woman, who set out to seduce the host. The party didn't end well. There were arguments and disappointments. Sunrise found the host watching his car being driven into a tree by guests.
    She pointed out furniture to him: a four-poster bed, Chippendale couches. Yes, he would be able to lie down there.
    "And a view of Central Park. You'll be looking down on all your suspects."
    He looked at the rates. "But so much money, Katrien."
    "Aunt Koba's present."
    The inheritance, of course, he thought.
    "And you won't stay long, will you?"
    Not at those prices.
    "Kiss me," she said.
    They embraced.
    Later that Sunday the commissaris walked in the rear garden of his house at Queens Avenue, between three-foot-tall weeds. His pet turtle, waiting for lettuce leaves, made swaying movements on his private rock.
    "Let's hope we face no evil out there," the commis-saris told Turtle. "Katrien is probably right. A showdown in Central Park could be bloody. Hooliganism, gang-t related. And I would be alone. This Detective Hurrell doesn't appear very alert."
    Turtle chewed more lettuce.
    "Never mind?" the commissaris asked. "Jo Termeer insists that God is Good and Justice will be Achieved and who am I to argue with Positive Thinking?"
    Turtle, sarcastically, closed one eye.
    "I'm doing this because I am getting very feeble now?" the commissaris asked. "My last chance to win medals?"
    Turtle started one of his slow dances.
    "Katrien is right?" the commissaris asked. "Realizing I am entering my Final Agony now I plan a last fling? I will be all set to lose my life there spectacularly after setting things right?"
    Turtle gummed more lettuce.
    "I don't have any teeth either," the commissaris said, baring his long dentures, fair enough copies of what had once been real, craftily shaded a pale ivory hue. "Pure plastic, my dear."
    Turtle swallowed, looked up expectantly.
    "Or is this one of these instances that calls for detachment?" The commissaris winked. "We do this for Nothing? We don't walk the way that can be called a way? No, Turtle, we surrender." The commissaris smiled down on the reptile. "We are merely aware, we meditate, we gain ultimate insight."
    Turtle heightened the rhythm of his dancing feet and shaking shield.
    "Too Zen for me perhaps," the commissaris said. "Even now, when my working life is almost over. Who am I fooling? Career does matter to me. I'm in this to win. I insist on being admired." He bent down to the dancing reptile. "We're Dutch, my dear. The Dutch are basic traders. Nothing is for free. And there has to be some profit."
    Turtle slipped down his rock and waddled underneath a thorn bush.
    "Not that I would mind being free of all that," the commissaris told the moving bush.
    "And what was the oracle's advice today?" Katrien asked when the commissaris limped back into her kitchen.
    The commissaris grinned. "I think he's holding out for more lettuce."

Chapter 4
                                            New York received the commissaris pleasantly enough, after a first-class ride on the roomy top deck of a large airplane. He had eaten, dozed and dreamed about the hollow-eyed tram driver/angel. The dream was probably caused by the stewardess who served him, a tall woman with blond hair. There were many of these in Holland now: a new archetype.
    Immigration and Customs waved him through. He didn't have to join the long line for cabs; a large burly man in a red waistcoat guided the commissaris to a