Doll

Chapter 7

Dennis Sachs seemed to be about forty years old. He was tall and deeply tanned, with massive shoulders and an athlete’s easy stance. He opened the door of his room at the Hotel Capistan, and said, ‘Detective Kling? Come in, won’t you?’

‘Thank you,’ Kling said. He studied Sachs’s face. The eyes were blue, with deep ridges radiating from the edges, starkly white against the bronzed skin. He had a large nose, an almost feminine mouth, a cleft chin. He needed a shave. His hair was brown.

The little girl, Anna, was sitting on a couch at the far end of the large living room. She had a doll across her lap, and she was watching television when Kling came in. She glanced up at him briefly, and then turned her attention back to the screen. A give-away program was in progress, the m.c. unveiling a huge motor launch to the delighted shrieks of the studio audience. The couch was upholstered in a lush green fabric against which the child’s blonde hair shone lustrously. The place was oppressively over-furnished, undoubtedly part of a suite, with two doors leading from the living room to the adjoining bedrooms. A small cooking alcove was tucked discreetly into a comer near the entrance door, a screen drawn across it. The dominant colors of the suite were pale yellows and deep greens, the mgs were thick, the furniture was exquisitely carved. Kling suddenly wondered how much all this was costing Sachs per day, and then tried to remember where he’d picked up the notion that archaeologists were poverty-stricken.

‘Sit down,’ Sachs said. ‘Can I get you a drink?’

‘I’m on duty,’ Kling said.

‘Oh, sorry. Something soft then? A Coke? Seven-Up? I think we’ve got some in the refrigerator.’

‘Thank you, no.’ Kling said.

The men sat. From his wing chair, Kling could see through the large windows and out over the park to where the skyscrapers lined the city. The sky behind the buildings was a vibrant blue. Sachs sat facing him, limned with the light flowing through the windows.

‘The people at the Children’s Shelter told me you got to the city late Monday, Mr Sachs. May I ask where in Arizona you were?’

‘Well, part of the time I was in the desert, and the rest of the time I was staying in a little town called Rainfield, have you ever heard of it?’

‘No.’

‘Yes. Well, I’m not surprised,’ Sachs said. ‘It’s on the edge of the desert. Just a single hotel, a depot, a general store, and that’s it.’

‘What were you doing in the desert?’

‘We’re on a dig, I thought you knew that. I’m part of an archaeological team headed by Dr Oliver Tarsmith. We’re trying to trace the route of the Hohokam in Arizona.’

The Hohokam?’

‘Yes, that’s a Pima Indian word meaning “those who have vanished.” The Hohokam were a tribe once living in Arizona, haven’t you ever heard of them?’

‘No, I’m afraid I haven’t.’

‘Yes, well. In any case, they seem to have had their origins in Old Mexico. In fact, archaeologists like myself have found copper bells and other objects that definitely link the Hohokam to the Old Mexican civilization. And, of course, we’ve excavated ball courts — an especially large one at Snaketown — that are definitely Mexican or Mayan in origin. At one site, we found a rubber ball buried in a jar, and it’s our belief that it must have been traded through tribes all the way from southern Mexico. That’s where the wild rubber grows, you know.’

‘No, I didn’t know that.’

‘Yes, well. The point is that we archaeologists don’t know what route the Hohokam traveled from Mexico to Arizona and then to Snaketown. Dr Tarsmith’s theory is that their point of entry was the desert just outside Rainfield. We are now excavating for archaeological evidence to support this theory.’

‘I see. That sounds like interesting work.’

Sachs shrugged.

‘Isn’t it?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘You don’t sound very enthusiastic.’

‘Well, we haven’t had too much luck so far. We’ve been out there for close to a year, and we’ve uncovered only the flimsiest sort of evidence, and… well, frankly, it’s getting a bit tedious. We spend four days a week out on the desert, you see, and then come back into Rainfield late Thursday night. There’s nothing much in Rainfield, and the nearest big town is a hundred miles from there. It can get pretty monotonous.’

‘Why only four days in the desert?’

‘Instead of five, do you mean? We usually spend Fridays making out our reports. There’s a lot of paperwork involved, and it’s easier to do at the hotel.’

‘When did you learn of your wife’s death, Mr Sachs?’

‘Monday morning.’

‘You had not been informed up to that time?’

‘Well, as it turned out, a telegram was waiting for me in Rainfield. I guess it was delivered to the hotel on Saturday, but I wasn’t there to take it.’

‘Where were you?’

‘In Phoenix.’

‘What were you doing there?’

‘Drinking, seeing some shows. You can get very sick of Rainfield, you know.’

‘Did anyone go with you?’

‘No.’

‘How did you get to Phoenix?’

‘By train.’

‘Where did you stay in Phoenix?’

‘At the Royal Sands.’

‘From when to when?’

‘Well, I left Rainfield late Thursday night. I asked Oliver — Dr Tarsmith — if he thought he’d need me on Friday, and he said he wouldn’t. I guess he realized I was stretched a little thin. He’s a very perceptive man that way.’

‘I see. In effect, then, he gave you Friday off.’

‘That’s right.’

‘No reports to write?’

‘I took those with me to Phoenix. It’s only a matter of organizing one’s notes, typing them up, and so on.’

‘Did you manage to get them done in Phoenix?’

‘Yes, I did.’

‘Now, Let me understand this, Mr Sachs…’

‘Yes?’

‘You left Rainfield sometime late Thursday night…’

‘Yes, I caught the last train out.’

‘What time did you arrive in Phoenix?’

‘Sometime after midnight. I had called ahead to the Sands for a reservation.’

‘I see. When did you leave Phoenix?’

‘Mr Kling,’ Sachs said suddenly, ‘are you just making small talk, or is there some reason for your wanting to know all this?’

‘I was simply curious, Mr Sachs. I know Homicide had sent a wire off to you, and I was wondering why you didn’t receive it until Monday morning.’

‘Oh. Well, I just explained that. I didn’t get back to Rainfield until then.’

‘You left Phoenix Monday morning?’

‘Yes. I caught a train at about six a.m. I didn’t want to miss the jeep.’ Sachs paused. ‘The expedition’s jeep. We usually head out to the desert pretty early, to get some heavy work in before the sun gets too hot.’

‘I see. But when you got back to the hotel, you found the telegram.’

‘That’s right.’

‘What did you do then?’

‘I immediately called the airport in Phoenix to find out what flights I could get back here.’

‘And what did they tell you?’

‘There was a TWA flight leaving at eight in the morning, which would get here at four-twenty in the afternoon — there’s a two-hour time difference, you know.’

‘Yes, I know that. Is that the flight you took?’

‘No, I didn’t. It was close to six-thirty when I called the airport. I might have been able to make it to Phoenix in time, but it would have been a very tight squeeze, and I’d have had to borrow a car. The trains out of Rainfield aren’t that frequent, you see.’

‘So what did you do?’

‘Well, I caught American’s eight-thirty flight, instead. Not a through flight; we made a stop at Chicago. I didn’t get here until almost five o’clock that night’

‘That was Monday night?’

‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘When did you pick up your daughter?’

‘Yesterday morning. Today is Wednesday, isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

‘You lose track of time when you fly cross-country,’ Sachs said.

‘I suppose you do.’

The television m.c. was giving away a fourteen-cubic-foot refrigerator with a big, big one-hundred-and-sixty-pound freezer. The studio audience was applauding. Anna sat with her eyes fastened to the screen.

‘Mr Sachs, I wonder if we could talk about your wife.’

‘Yes, please.’

‘The child…’

‘I think she’s absorbed in the program.’ He glanced at her, and then said, ‘Would you prefer we discussed it in one of the other rooms?’

‘I thought that might be better, yes,’ Kling said.

‘Yes, you’re right. Of course,’ Sachs said. He rose and led Kling toward the larger bedroom. His valise, partially unpacked, was open on the stand alongside the bed. ‘I’m afraid everything’s a mess,’ he said. ‘It’s been hurry up, hurry up from the moment I arrived.’

‘I can imagine,’ Kling said. He sat in an easy chair near the bed. Sachs sat on the edge of the bed and leaned over intently, waiting for him to begin. ‘Mr Sachs, how long had you and your wife been divorced?’

‘Three years. And we separated a year before that.’

‘The child is how old?’

‘Anna? She’s five.’

‘Is there another child?’

‘No.’

‘The way you said “Anna,” I thought—’

‘No, there’s only the one child. Anna. That’s all.’

‘As I understand it, then, you and your wife separated the year after she was born.’

‘That’s right, yes. Actually, it was fourteen months. She was fourteen months old when we separated.’

‘Why was that, Mr Sachs?’

‘Why was what?’

‘Why did you separate?’

‘Well, you know.’ Sachs shrugged.

‘No, I don’t.’

‘Well, that’s personal. I’m afraid.’

The room was very silent. Kling could hear the m.c. in the living room leading the audience in a round of applause for one of the contestants.

‘I can understand that divorce is a personal matter, Mr Sachs, but—’

‘Yes, it is.’

‘Yes, I understand that.’

‘I’d rather not discuss it, Mr Kling. Really, I’d rather not. I don’t see how it would help you in solving… in solving my wife’s murder. Really.’

‘I’m afraid I’ll have to decide what would help us, Mr Sachs.’

‘We had a personal problem, let’s leave it at that.’

‘What sort of a personal problem?’

‘I’d rather not say. We simply couldn’t live together any longer, that’s all.’

‘Was there another man involved?’

‘Certainly not!’

‘Forgive me, but I think you can see how another man might be important in a murder case.’

‘I’m sorry. Yes. Of course. Yes, it would be important. But it wasn’t anything like that. There was no one else involved. There was simply a… a personal problem between the two of us and we… we couldn’t find a way to resolve it, so… so we thought it best to split up. That’s all there was to it.’

‘What was the personal problem?’

‘Nothing that would interest you.’

Try me.’

‘My wife is dead,’ Sachs said.

‘I know that.’

‘Any problem she might have had is certainly—’

‘Oh, it was her problem then, is that right? Not yours?’

‘It was our problem,’ Sachs said. ‘Mr Kling, I’m not going to answer any other questions along these lines. If you insist that I do, you’ll have to arrest me. and I’ll get a lawyer, and we’ll see about it. In the meantime, I’ll just have to refuse to co-operate if that’s the tack you’re going to follow. I’m sorry.’

‘All right, Mr Sachs, perhaps you can tell me whether or not you mutually agreed to the divorce.’

‘Yes, we did.’

‘Whose idea was it? Yours or hers?’

‘Mine.’

‘Why?’

‘I can’t answer that.’

‘You know, of course, that adultery is the only grounds for divorce in this state.’

‘Yes, I know that. There was no adultery involved. Tinka went to Nevada for the divorce.’

‘Did you go with her?’

‘No. She knew people in Nevada. She’s from the West Coast originally. She was bom in Los Angeles.’

‘Did she take the child with her?’

‘No. Anna stayed here with me while she was gone.’

‘Have you kept in touch since the divorce, Mr Sachs?’

‘Yes.’

‘How?’

‘Well, I see Anna, you know. We share the child. We agreed to that before the divorce. Stuck out in Arizona there, I didn’t have much chance to see her this past year. But usually, I see quite a bit of her. And I talked to Tinka on the phone, I used to talk to her on the phone, and I also wrote to her. We kept in touch, yes.’

‘Would you have described your relationship as a friendly one?’

‘I loved her,’ Sachs said flatly.

‘I see.’

Again, the room was silent. Sachs turned his head away.

‘Do you have any idea who might have killed her?’ Kling asked.

‘No.’

‘None whatever?’

‘None whatever.’

‘When did you communicate with her last?’

‘We wrote to each other almost every week.’

‘Did she mention anything that was troubling her?’

‘No.’

‘Did she mention any of her friends who might have reason to…?’

‘No.’

‘When did you write to her last?’

‘Last week sometime.’

‘Would you remember exactly when?’

‘I think it was… the fifth or the sixth, I’m not sure.’

‘Did you send the letter by air?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then it should have arrived here before her death.’

‘Yes, I imagine it would have.’

‘Did she usually save your letters?’

‘I don’t know. Why?’

‘We couldn’t find any of them in the apartment.’

‘Then I guess she didn’t save them.’

‘Did you save her letters?’

‘Yes.’

‘Mr Sachs, would you know one of your wife’s friends who answers this description: Six feet two or three inches tall, heavily built, in his late thirties or early forties, with straight blond hair and—’

‘I don’t know who Tinka saw after we were divorced. We led separate lives.’

‘But you still loved her.’

‘Yes.’

‘Then why did you divorce her?’ Kling asked again, and Sachs did not answer. ‘Mr Sachs, this may be very important to us…’

‘It isn’t.’

‘Was your wife a dyke?’

‘No.’

‘Are you a homosexual?’

‘No.’

‘Mr Sachs, whatever it was, believe me, it won’t be something new to us. Believe me, Mr Sachs, and please trust me.’

‘I’m sorry. It’s none of your business. It has nothing to do with anything but Tinka and me.’

‘Okay,’ Kling said.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Think about it. I know you’re upset at the moment, but—’

‘There’s nothing to think about. There are some things I will never discuss with anyone, Mr Kling. I’m sorry, but I owe at least that much to Tinka’s memory.’

‘I understand,’ Kling said, and rose. ‘Thank you for your time. I’ll leave my card, in case you remember anything that might be helpful to us.’

‘All right,’ Sachs said.

‘When will you be going back to Arizona?’

‘I’m not sure. There’s so much to be arranged. Tinka’s lawyer advised me to stay for a while, at least to the end of the month, until the estate can be settled, and plans made for Anna… there’s so much to do.’

‘Is there an estate?’ Kling asked.

‘Yes.’

‘A sizable one?’

‘I wouldn’t imagine so.’

‘I see.’ Kling paused, seemed about to say something, and then abruptly extended his hand. ‘Thank you again, Mr Sachs,’ he said. ‘I’ll be in touch with you.’

Sachs saw him to the door. Anna, her doll in her lap, was still watching television when he went out.

At the squadroom, Kling sat down with a pencil and pad, and then made a call to the airport, requesting a list of all scheduled flights to and from Phoenix, Arizona. It took him twenty minutes to get all the information, and another ten minutes to type it up in chronological order. He pulled the single sheet from his machine and studied it:

It seemed entirely possible to him that Dennis Sachs could have taken either the twelve twenty-five flight from Phoenix late Thursday night, or any one of three flights early Friday morning, and still have been here in the city in time to arrive at Tinka’s apartment by nine or nine-thirty p.m. He could certainly have killed his wife and caught an early flight back the next morning. Or any one of four flights on Sunday, all of which — because of the time difference — would have put him back in Phoenix that same night and in Rainfield by Monday to pick up the telegram waiting there for him. It was a possibility — remote, but a possibility nonetheless. The brown hair, of course, was a problem. Cyclops had said the man’s hair was blond. But a commercial dye or bleach—

One thing at a time, Kling thought. Wearily, he pulled the telephone directory to him and began a methodical check of the two airlines flying to Phoenix. He told them he wanted to know if a man named Dennis Sachs, or any man with the initials D.S., had flown here from Phoenix last Thursday night or Friday morning, and whether or not he had made the return flight any time during the weekend. The airlines were helpful and patient. They checked their flight lists. Something we don’t ordinarily do, sir, is this a case involving a missing person? No, Kling said, this is a case involving a murder. Oh, well in that case, sir, but we don’t ordinarily do this, sir, even for the police, our flight lists you see… Yes, well I appreciate your help, Kling said.

Neither of the airlines had any record of either a Dennis Sachs or a D.S. taking a trip from or to Phoenix at any time before Monday, April 12th. American Airlines had him listed as a passenger on Flight 68, which had left Phoenix at eight-thirty a.m. Monday morning, and had arrived here at four-fifty-three p.m. that afternoon. American reported that Mr Sachs had not as yet booked return passage.

Kling thanked American and hung up. There was still the possibility that Sachs had flown here and back before Monday, using an assumed name. But there was no way of checking that — and the only man who could make any sort of a positive identification had been missing since Monday night.

The meeting took place in Lieutenant Byrnes’s office at five o’clock that afternoon. There were five detectives present in addition to Byrnes himself. Miscolo had brought in coffee for most of the men, but they sipped at it only distractedly, listening intently to Byrnes as he conducted the most unorthodox interrogation any of them had ever attended.

‘We’re here to talk about Monday afternoon,’ Byrnes said. His tone was matter-of-fact, his face expressed no emotion. ‘I have the duty chart for Monday, April twelfth, and it shows Kling, Meyer and Carella on from eight to four, with Meyer catching. The relieving team is listed as Hawes, Willis and Brown, with Brown catching. Is that the way it was?’

The men nodded.

‘What time did you get here, Cotton?’

Hawes, leaning against the lieutenant’s filing cabinet, the only one of the detectives drinking tea, looked up and said, ‘It must’ve been about five.’

‘Was Steve still here?’

‘No.’

‘What about you, Hal?’

‘I got here a little early, Pete,’ Willis said. ‘I had some calls to make.’

‘What time?’

‘Four-thirty.’

‘Was Steve still here?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you talk to him?’

‘Yes.’

‘What about?’

‘He said he was going to a movie with Teddy that night.’

‘Anything else?’

‘That was about it.’

‘I talked to him, too, Pete,’ Brown said. He was the only Negro cop in the room. He was sitting in the wooden chair to the right of Byrnes’s desk, a coffee container clasped in his huge hands.

‘What’d he say to you, Art?’

‘He told me he had to make a stop on the way home.’

‘Did he say where?’

‘No.’

‘All right, now let’s get this straight. Of the relieving team, only two of you saw him, and he said nothing about where he might have been headed. Is that right?’

That’s right,’ Willis said.

‘Were you in the office when he left, Meyer?’

‘Yes. I was making out a report.’

‘Did he say anything to you?’

‘He said good night, and he made some joke about bucking for a promotion, you know, because I was hanging around after I’d been relieved.’

‘What else?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Did he say anything to you at any time during the afternoon? About where he might be going later on?’

‘Nothing.’

‘How about you, Kling?’

‘No, he didn’t say anything to me, either.’

‘Were you here when he left?’

‘No.’

‘Where were you?’

‘I was on my way home.’

‘What time did you leave?’

‘About three o’clock.’

‘Why so early?’

There was a silence in the room.

‘Why so early?’ Byrnes said again.

‘We had a fight.’

‘What about?’

‘A personal matter.’

‘The man is dead,’ Byrnes said flatly. ‘There are no personal matters any more.’

‘He sent me back to the office because he didn’t like the way I was behaving during an interview. I got sore.’ Kling paused. ‘That’s what we argued about.’

‘So you left here at three o’clock?’

‘Yes.’

‘Even though you were supposed to be working with Carella on the Tinka Sachs case, is that right?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you know where he was going when he left here?’

‘No, sir’

‘Did he mention anything about wanting to question anyone, or about wanting to see anyone again?’

‘Only the elevator operator. He thought it would be a good idea to check him again.’

‘What for?’

‘To verify a time he’d given us.’

‘Do you think that’s where he went?’

‘I don’t know, sir.’

‘Have you talked to this elevator operator?’

‘No, sir, I can’t locate him.’

‘He’s been missing since Monday night,’ Meyer said. ‘According to Bert’s report, he was expecting a visit from a man who said he was Carella.’

‘Is that right?’ Byrnes asked.

‘Yes,’ Kling said. ‘But I don’t think it was Carella.’

‘Why not?’

‘It’s all in my report, sir.’

‘You’ve read this, Meyer?’

‘Yes.’

‘What’s your impression?’

‘I agree with Bert.’

Byrnes moved away from his desk. He walked to the window and stood with his hands clasped behind his back, looking at the street below. ‘He found something, that’s for sure,’ he said, almost to himself. ‘He found something or somebody, and he was killed for it.’ He turned abruptly. ‘And not a single goddamn one of you knows where he was going. Not even the man who was allegedly working this case with him.’ He walked back to his desk. ‘Kling, you stay. The rest of you can leave.’

The men shuffled out of the room. Kling stood uncomfortably before the lieutenant’s desk. The lieutenant sat in his swivel chair, and turned it so that he was not looking directly at Kling. Kling did not know where he was looking. His eyes seemed unfocused.

‘I guess you know that Steve Carella was a good friend of mine,’ Byrnes said.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘A good friend,’ Byrnes repeated. He paused for a moment, still looking off somewhere past Kling, his eyes unfocused, and then said, ‘Why’d you let him go out alone, Kling?’

‘I told you, sir. We had an argument.’

‘So you left here at three o’clock, when you knew goddamn well you weren’t going to be relieved until four-forty-five. Now what the hell do you call that, Kling?’

Kling did not answer.

‘I’m kicking you off this goddamn squad,’ Byrnes said. ‘I should have done it long ago. I’m asking for your transfer, now get the hell out of here.’

Kling turned and started for the door.

‘No, wait a minute,’ Byrnes said. He turned directly to Kling now, and there was a terrible look on his face, as though he wanted to cry, but the tears were being checked by intense anger.

‘I guess you know. Kling, that I don’t have the power to suspend you. I guess you know that The power rests with the commissioner and his deputies, and they’re civilians. But a man can be suspended if he’s violated the rules and regulations or if he’s committed a crime. The way I look at it, Kling, you’ve done both those things. You violated the rules and regulations by leaving this squadroom and heading home when you were supposed to be on duty, and you committed a crime by allowing Carella to go out there alone and get killed.’

‘Lieutenant, I—’

‘If I could personally take away your gun and your shield, I’d do it, Kling, believe me. Unfortunately, I can’t. But I’m going to call the Chief of Detectives the minute you leave this office. I’m going to tell him I’d like you suspended pending a complete investigation, and I’m going to ask that he recommend that to the commissioner. I’m going to get that suspension, Kling, if I have to go to the mayor for it. I’ll get departmental charges filed, and a departmental trial, and I’ll get you dismissed from the force. I’m promising you. Now get the hell out of my sight.’

Kling walked to the door silently, opened it, and stepped into the squadroom. He sat at his desk silently for several moments, staring into space. He heard the buzzer sound on Meyer’s phone, heard Meyer lifting the instrument to his ear. ‘Yeah?’ Meyer said. ‘Yeah, Pete. Right. Right. Okay, I’ll tell him.’ He heard Meyer putting the phone back onto its cradle. Meyer rose and came to his desk. ‘That was the lieutenant,’ he said. ‘He wants me to take over the Tinka Sachs case.’