Ice

8

For some people, it was still St. Valentine’s Day.

Many people do not believe a day ends at midnight. It is still the same day until they go to sleep. When they wake up in the morning, it is the next day. Two people who thought it was still St. Valentine’s Day were Brother Anthony and the Fat Lady. Even though it was 1:00 A.M. on the morning of February 15, they thought of it as still being a day for lovers, especially since they had learned the name of Paco Lopez’s girlfriend. Actually, they had learned her name when it was still St. Valentine’s Day, which they considered a good omen. But it was not until 1:00 A.M. that Brother Anthony knocked on the door of Judite Quadrado’s apartment.

In this neighborhood, a knock on the door at 1:00 A.M. meant only trouble. It meant either the police coming around to ask about a crime that had been committed in the building, or it meant a friend or neighbor coming to tell you that a loved one had either hurt someone or been hurt by someone. Either way, it meant bad news. The people in this neighborhood knew that a knock on the door at 1:00 A.M. did not mean a burglar or an armed robber. Thieves did not knock on doors unless it was going to be a shove-in and in this neighborhood most thieves knew that doors were double-locked and often reinforced as well with a Fox lock, the steel bar hooked into the door and wedged into a floor plate. Brother Anthony knew that someone awakened at 1:00 in the morning would be frightened; that was why he and Emma had waited until that time, even though they’d had their information at 10:00 P.M.

From behind the door, Judite said, “Who is it?”

“Friends,” Brother Anthony said.

“Friends? Who? What friends?”

“Please open the door,” he said.

“Go away,” Judite said.

“It’s important that we speak to you,” Emma said.

“Who are you?”

“Open the door just a little,” Emma said, “and you’ll see for yourself.”

They heard lock tumblers falling. One lock, then another. The door opened just a crack, held by a night chain. In the wedge of the open door, they saw a woman’s pale face. A kitchen light burned behind her.

“Dominus vobiscum,” Brother Anthony said.

“We have money for you,” Emma said.

“Money?”

“From Paco.”

“Paco?”

“He said to make sure we gave it to you if anything happened to him.”

“Paco?” Judite said again. She had not seen Paco for at least two months before he was killed. It was Paco who had scarred her breasts, the rotten bastard. Who was this priest in the hallway? Who was this fat woman claiming they had money for her? Money from Paco? Impossible.

“Go away,” she said again.

Emma took a sheaf of bills from her pocketbook, the money remaining from what Brother Anthony had taken from the pool hustler. In the dim hallway light, she saw Judite’s eyes widen.

“For you,” Emma said. “Open the door.”

“If it’s for me, hand it to me,” Judite said. “I don’t need to open the door.”

“Never mind,” Brother Anthony said, and put his hand on Emma’s arm. “She doesn’t want the money.”

“How much money is it?” Judite asked.

“Four hundred dollars,” Emma said.

“And Paco said he wanted me to have it?”

“For what he did to you,” Emma said, lowering her voice and her eyes.

“Just a minute,” Judite said.

The door closed. They heard nothing. Brother Anthony shrugged. Emma returned the shrug. Had their information been wrong? The man who’d told them about Judite was her cousin. He said she’d been living with Paco Lopez before he was killed. He said Paco had burned her breasts with cigarettes. Which was one of the reasons Brother Anthony had suggested they call on her at 1:00 in the morning. It was Brother Anthony’s opinion that no woman allowed herself to be treated brutally unless she was a very frightened woman. One o’clock in the morning should make her even more frightened. But where was she? Where had she gone? They waited. They heard the night chain being removed. The door opened wide. Judite Quadrado stood in the open doorway with a pistol in her fist.

“Come in,” she said, and gestured with the pistol.

Brother Anthony had not expected the pistol. He looked at Emma. Emma said, “No hay necesidad de la pistola,” which Brother Anthony did not understand. Until that moment, in fact, he hadn’t known Emma could speak Spanish.

“Hasta que yo sepa quien es usted,” Judite said, and again gestured with the gun.

“All right,” Emma answered in English. “But only until you know who we are. I don’t like doing favors for a woman with a gun in her hand.”

They went into the apartment. Judite closed and locked the door behind them. They were in a small kitchen. A refrigerator, sink, and stove were on one wall, below a small window that opened onto an areaway. The window was closed and rimed with ice. A table covered with white oilcloth was against the right-angled wall. Two wooden chairs were at the table.

Brother Anthony did not like the look on Judite’s face. She did not look like a frightened woman. She looked like a woman very much in command of the situation. He was thinking they’d made a mistake coming up here. He was thinking they’d lose what was left of the money he’d taken from the pool hustler. He was thinking maybe the ideas he and Emma hatched weren’t always so hot. Judite was perhaps five feet six inches tall, a slender, dark-haired, brown-eyed girl with a nose just a trifle too large for her narrow face. She was wearing a dark blue robe; Brother Anthony figured that was why she’d left them waiting in the hall so long. So she could go put on the robe. And get the gun from wherever she kept it. He did not like the look of the gun. It was steady in her hand. She had used a gun before; he sensed that intuitively. She would not hesitate to use it now. The situation looked extremely bad.

“So,” she said. “Who are you?”

“I’m Brother Anthony,” he said.

“Emma Forbes,” Emma said.

“How did you know Paco?”

“A shame what happened to him,” Emma said.

“How did you know him?” Judite said again.

“We were friends for a long time,” Brother Anthony said. It kept bothering him that she held the gun so steady in her hand. The gun didn’t look like any of the Saturday-night specials he had seen in the neighborhood. This one was at least a .38. This one could put a very nice hole in his cassock.

“If you’re his friends, how come I don’t know you?” Judite said.

“We’ve been away,” Emma said.

“Then how did you get the money, if you’ve been away?”

“Paco left it for us. At the apartment.”

“What apartment?”

“Where we live.”

“He left it for me?”

“He left it for you,” Emma said. “With a note.”

“Where’s the note?”

“Where’s the note, Bro?” Emma said.

“At the apartment,” Brother Anthony said, assuming an attitude of annoyance. “I didn’t know we’d need a note. I didn’t know you needed a note when you came to deliver four hundred dollars to—”

“Give it to me then,” Judite said, and extended her left hand.

“Put away the gun,” Emma said.

“No. First give me the money.”

“Give her the money,” Brother Anthony said. “It’s hers. Paco wanted her to have it.”

Their eyes met. Judite did not notice the glance that passed between them. Emma went to the table and spread the bills in a fan on the oilcloth. Judite turned to pick up the bills and Brother Anthony stepped into her at the same moment, smashing his bunched fist into her nose. Her nose had not looked particularly lovely beforehand, but now it began spouting blood. Brother Anthony had read somewhere that hitting a person in the nose was very painful and also highly effective. The nose bled easily, and blood frightened people. The blood pouring from Judite’s nose caused her to forget all about the pistol in her hand. Brother Anthony seized her wrist, twisted her arm behind her back, and yanked the pistol away from her.

“Okay,” he said.

Judite was holding her hand to her nose. Blood poured from her nose onto her fingers. Emma took a dish towel from where it was lying on the counter and tossed it to her.

“Wipe yourself,” she said.

Judite was whimpering.

“And stop crying. Nobody’s going to hurt you.”

Judite didn’t exactly believe this. She had already been hurt. She had made a mistake, opening the door at one in the morning, even with the gun. Now the gun was in the priest’s hand, and the fat woman was picking up the money on the table and stuffing it back into her shoulder bag.

“Wh... what do you want?” Judite said. She was holding the towel to her nose now. The towel was turning red. Her nose hurt; she suspected the priest had broken it.

“Sit down,” Brother Anthony said. He was smiling now that the situation was in his own capable hands.

“Sit down,” Emma repeated.

Judite sat at the table.

“Get me some ice,” she said. “You broke my nose.”

“Get her some ice,” Brother Anthony said.

Emma went to the refrigerator. She took out an ice tray and cracked it open into the sink. Judite handed her the bloodstained towel, and Emma wrapped it around a handful of cubes.

“You broke my nose,” Judite said again, and accepted the towel and pressed the ice pack to her nose. On the street outside, she could hear the rise and fall of an ambulance siren. She wondered if she would need an ambulance.

“Who were his customers?” Brother Anthony asked.

“What?” She didn’t know who he meant at first. And then it occurred to her that he was talking about Paco.

“His customers,” Emma said. “Who was he selling to?”

“Paco, do you mean?”

“You know who we mean,” Brother Anthony said. He tucked the gun into the pouchlike pocket at the front of his robe, and gestured to the fat woman. The fat woman reached into her bag again. For a dizzying moment, Judite thought they were going to let her go. The priest had put the gun away, and now the fat woman was reaching into her bag again. They were going to give her the money, after all. They were going to let her go. But when the fat woman’s hand came out of the bag, there was something long and narrow in it. The fat woman’s thumb moved, and a straight razor snapped open out of its case, catching tiny dancing pinpricks of light. Judite was more afraid of the razor than she had been of the gun. She had never in her life been shot, but she’d been cut many, many times, once even by Paco. She bore the scar on her shoulder. It was a less hideous scar than the ones he had burned onto her breasts.

“Who were his customers?” Brother Anthony asked again.

“I hardly even knew him,” Judite said.

“You were living with him,” Emma said.

“That doesn’t mean I knew him,” Judite said, which, in a way, was an awesome truth.

She did not want to tell them who Paco’s customers had been because his customers were now her customers, or at least would be as soon as she got her act together. She had reconstructed from memory a list of an even dozen users, enough to keep her living in a style she thought would be luxurious. Enough to have caused her to buy a gun before she embarked on her enterprise; there were too many bastards like Paco in the world. But the gun was now in the priest’s pocket, and the fat woman was turning the razor slowly in her hand, so that its edge caught glints of light. Judite thought, and this in itself was an awesome truth, that life had a peculiar way of repeating itself. Remembering what Paco had done to her breasts, she pulled the robe instinctively closed over her nightgown, using her free left hand. Brother Anthony caught the motion.

“Who were his customers?” Emma said.

“I don’t know. What customers?”

“For the nose candy,” Emma said, and moved closer to her with the razor.

“I don’t know what that means, nose candy,” Judite said.

“What you sniff, my dear,” Emma said, and brought the razor close to her face. “Through your nose, my dear. Through the nose you won’t have in a minute if you don’t tell us who they were.”

“No, not her face,” Brother Anthony said, almost in a whisper. “Not her face.”

He smiled at Judite. For another dizzying moment, Judite thought he was the one who would let her go. The woman seemed menacing, but surely the priest—

“Take off the robe,” he said.

“What for?” she asked, and clutched the robe closed tighter across her chest.

“Take it off,” Brother Anthony said.

She hesitated. She pulled the towel away from her nose. The flow of blood seemed to be tapering. She put the towel back again. Even the pain seemed to be ebbing now. Perhaps this would not be so bad, after all. Perhaps, if she just went along with them, played along with them — surely the fat woman wasn’t serious about cutting off her nose? Were the names of Paco’s customers really that important to them? Would they risk so much for so little? Anyway, they were her customers now, damn it! She would give them whatever else they wanted, but not the names that were her ticket to what she imagined as freedom. She did not know what kind of freedom. Just freedom. She would never give them the names.

“Why do you want me to take off the robe?” she asked. “What is it you want from me?”

“The customers,” Emma said.

“Do you want to see my body?” she asked. “Is that it?”

“The customers,” Emma said.

“You want me to blow you?” she asked Brother Anthony.

“Take off the robe,” Brother Anthony said.

“Because if you want me to—”

“The robe,” he said.

She looked at him. She tried to read his eyes. Paco had told her she gave better head than most of the hookers he knew. If she could reach the priest—

“Can I stand up?” she asked.

“Stand up,” Emma said, and retreated several steps. The open razor was still in her hand.

Judite put down the towel. Her nose had stopped bleeding entirely. She took off the robe and draped it over the back of the chair. She was wearing only a pale blue baby-doll nightgown. The nightgown ended just an inch below her crotch. She was not wearing the panties that had come with the nightgown when she’d bought it. The nightgown and panties had cost her $26. Money she could easily get back from her new cocaine trade. She saw where the priest’s eyes went.

“So what do you say?” she asked, arching one eyebrow and trying a smile.

“I say take off the nightgown,” Brother Anthony said.

“It’s cold in here,” Judite said, hugging herself. “The heat goes off at ten.” She was being seductive and bantering, she thought. She had captured the priest’s eye — they were all supposed to be celibate, some joke — and now she thought she’d make it a bit more interesting and spicy, tease him along a little, make a big production out of taking off the nightgown. The fat woman would go along with whatever the priest decided; Judite knew women, and that’s the way it was.

“Just take it off,” Brother Anthony said.

“What for?” Judite said, the same light tone in her voice. “You can see what you’re getting, can’t you? I’m practically naked here, you can practically see right through this thing, so why do I have to take it off?”

“Take off the fucking nightgown!” Emma said, and all at once Judite thought she’d made a big error in judgment. The fat woman was moving closer to her again, the razor flashing.

“All right, don’t... just don’t get... I’ll take it off, okay? Just... take it easy, okay? But, really, I don’t know what you’re talking about, Paco’s customers, I swear to God I don’t know what you mean by—”

“You know what we’re talking about,” Brother Anthony said.

She pulled the gown up over her waist, lifted it over her breasts and shoulders, and without turning placed it on the seat of the wooden chair. Gooseflesh erupted immediately on her arms and across her chest and shoulders. She stood naked and trembling in the center of the kitchen, her bare feet on the cold linoleum, the ice-rimed window behind her. She was quite well formed, Brother Anthony thought. Her shoulders were narrow and delicately turned, and there was a gently rounded swell to her belly, and a ripe flare to her hips. Her breasts, too, were large and firm, quite beautiful except for the angry brown burn scars on their sloping tops. Very well formed, he thought. Not as opulent a woman as Emma, but very well formed indeed. He noticed that there was a small knife scar on her left shoulder. She was a woman who’d been abused before, perhaps regularly, a very frightened woman.

“Cut her,” he said.

The thrust of the razor came so swiftly that for a moment Judite didn’t even realize she’d been cut. The slash drew a thin line of blood across her belly, not as frightening as the blood pouring from her nose had been, really just a narrow line of blood oozing from the flesh, nothing so terribly scary. Even the searing aftermath of the razor slash was less painful than the blow to her nose had been. She looked down at her belly in amazement. But somehow, she was less frightened now than she’d been a moment earlier. If this was what it would be like, if this was the worst they would do to her—

“We don’t want to hurt you,” the priest said, and she knew this meant they did want to hurt her, would in fact hurt her more than they already had if she did not give them the names they wanted. Her mind worked quickly, frantically searching for a way to protect her own interests, give them the names of the customers, why not, but withhold the name of the ounce dealer — you could always find new customers if you knew where to get the stuff. Hiding her secret, hiding her fear as well, she calmly gave them all the names they wanted, all of the twelve she had memorized, writing them down at their request, scribbling the names and addresses on a sheet of paper, trying to conceal the shaking of her fist as she wrote. And then, after she had given them all the names, and had even clarified the spelling of some of them, after she thought it was all over, thought they had what they wanted from her now, and would leave her alone with her broken nose and the bleeding slash across her belly, she was surprised to hear the priest ask, “Where did he get the stuff?” and she hesitated before answering, and realized all at once that her hesitation had been another mistake, her hesitation had informed them that she knew the source of Paco’s supply, knew the name of his ounce dealer and wanted it from her now.

“I don’t know where,” she said.

Her teeth were beginning to chatter. She kept looking at the razor in the fat woman’s hand.

“Cut off her nipple,” the priest said, and her hands went instinctively to her scarred breasts as the fat woman approached with the razor again, and suddenly she was more frightened than she’d ever been in her life, and she heard herself telling them the name, heard herself giving away her secret and her freedom, saying the name over and over again, babbling the name, and thought that would truly be the end of it, and was astonished to see the razor flashing out again, shocked beyond belief when she saw blood spurting from the tip of her right breast and knew, Oh dear Jesus, that they were going to hurt her anyway, Oh sweet Mary, maybe kill her, Oh sweet mother of God, the razor glinting and slashing again and again and again until at last she fainted.

In the station house, the squadroom looked exactly the same every day of the week, weekends and holidays included. But on Monday mornings, everyone knew it was Monday, the feel was just different. Like it or not, it was the start of another week. Sameness or not, it was somehow different.

Carella was at his desk at 7:30 A.M., fifteen minutes before he was scheduled to relieve the graveyard shift. The men on the night watch were wrapping it up, winding down over coffee and crullers from an all-night greasy spoon on Crichton, talking softly about the events that had transpired in the empty hours of the night. The shift had been a relatively quiet one. They kidded Carella about coming in fifteen minutes early; was he bucking for detective/1st? Carella was bucking for a conversation with Karl Loeb, the med-student friend Timothy Moore claimed to have telephoned several times on the night Sally Anderson was shot to death.

There were three columns of Loebs in the Isola telephone directory, but only two of the listings were for men named Karl Loeb, and only one of those listed an address on Perry Street, three blocks from Ramsey University. Moore had told Carella that he could be reached at the school during the daytime. Carella didn’t know whether or not Ramsey would be observing a cockamamie holiday like Presidents’ Day, but he didn’t want to take any chances. Besides, if the school was closed today, Loeb might decide to go out for a picnic or something. He wanted to catch him at home, before he left one way or the other. He dialed the number.

“Hello?” a woman said.

“Hello, may I speak to Karl Loeb, please?” Carella said.

“Who’s this, please?” the woman asked.

“Detective Carella of the 87th Squad.”

“What do you mean?” the woman said.

“Police department,” Carella said.

“Is this a joke?” she said.

“No joke.”

“Well... just a sec, okay?”

She put down the phone. He heard her calling to someone, presumably Loeb. When Loeb came onto the line, he sounded puzzled.

“Hello?” he said.

“Mr. Loeb?”

“Yes?”

“This is Detective Carella, 87th Squad.”

“Yes?”

“If you have a few minutes, I’d like to ask you some questions.”

“What about?” Loeb said.

“Do you know a man named Timothy Moore?”

“Yes?”

“Were you at home Friday night, Mr. Loeb?”

“Yes?”

“Did Mr. Moore call you at any time on Friday night? I’m talking now about Friday, February twelfth, this past Friday.”

“Well... can you tell me what this is about, please?”

“Is this an inconvenient time for you, Mr. Loeb?”

“Well, I was shaving,” Loeb said.

“Shall I call you back?”

“No, but... I would like to know what this is about.”

“Did you speak to Mr. Moore at any time this past Friday night?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Do you remember what you discussed?”

“The exam. We have a big exam coming up. In Pathology. Excuse me, Mr. Coppola, but—”

“Carella,” Carella said.

“Carella, excuse me. Can you tell me what this is about, please? I’m not really in the habit of getting mysterious phone calls from the police. In fact, how do I even know you’re a policeman?”

“Would you like to call me back here at the precinct?” Carella said. “The number here—”

“Well, no, I don’t think that’s necessary. But, really—”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Loeb, but I’d rather not tell you what it’s about just yet.”

“Is Timmy in some kind of trouble?”

“No, sir.”

“Then what... I just don’t understand.”

“Mr. Loeb, I’d appreciate your help. Do you remember when Mr. Moore called you?”

“He called me several times.”

“How many times, would you estimate?”

“Five or six? I really couldn’t say. We were swapping information back and forth.”

“Did you call him at any time?”

“Yes, two or three times.”

“So between the two of you—”

“Maybe four times,” Loeb said. “I really couldn’t say. We were sort of studying together on the phone.”

“So you exchanged calls nine or ten times, is that right?”

“Roughly. Maybe a dozen times. I don’t remember.”

“Throughout the night?”

“Well, not all night.”

“When was the first call?”

“Around ten o’clock, I guess.”

“Did you call Mr. Moore, or did—”

“He called me.”

“At ten o’clock.”

“Around ten. I’m not sure of the exact time.”

“And the next call?”

“I called him back about a half hour later.”

“To swap information.”

“To ask him a question, actually.”

“And the next one?”

“I really couldn’t say with any accuracy. We were on the phone together constantly that night.”

“When you made your three or four calls... was Mr. Moore at home?”

“Yes, of course.”

“You called him at his home number?”

“Yes.”

“When was the last time you spoke to him?”

“It must’ve been about two in the morning, I guess.”

“Did you call him? Or did he—”

“I called him.”

“And you got him at home?”

“Yes. Mr. Carella, I would like to—”

“Mr. Loeb, did you exchange any phone calls between eleven o’clock and midnight this past Friday night?”

“With Timmy, do you mean?”

“Yes, with Mr. Moore.”

“Between eleven and midnight?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I believe so, yes.”

“Did he call you, or did you call him?”

“He called me.”

“Can you remember the exact times?”

“Well, no, not the exact times.”

“But you’re certain those calls came between eleven and midnight.”

“Yes, I am.”

“How many calls during that hour?”

“Two, I believe.”

“And Mr. Moore made both those calls?”

“Yes.”

“Can you try to remember the precise times of—”

“I really couldn’t say with any accuracy.”

“Approximately then.”

“I guess he called at... it must’ve been a little past eleven, the first call. The news was just going off. It must’ve been about five past eleven, I guess.”

“The news?”

“On the radio. I was studying with the radio on. So was Timmy. I like to study with background music, do you know? I find it soothing. But the news was on when he called.”

“And you say he was listening to the radio, too?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How do you know that?”

“I could hear it. In fact, he said something about turning it down.”

“I’m sorry, turning it—”

“His radio. He said something like... I really don’t remember exactly... ‘Let me turn this down a minute, Karl,’ something like that.”

“And then he turned down the radio?”

“Yes, sir.”

“The volume on the radio?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you had your conversation.”

“Yes, sir.”

“How long did you talk to him during that call? This was at five after eleven, you say?”

“Yes, sir, approximately. We talked for five or ten minutes, I guess. In fact, when he called back, there were still some things he didn’t understand about—”

“When was that, Mr. Loeb? The next call, I mean.”

“A half hour later? I can’t say exactly.”

“Sometime around eleven thirty-five?”

“Approximately.”

“Was his radio still on?”

“What?”

“His radio. Could you still hear it in the background?”

“Yes, sir, I could,”

“What did you talk about that time?”

“The same thing we’d talked about at eleven. Well, five after eleven, actually. The test is on diseases of the bone marrow. We went over the material on leukemia. How specific do you want me to get?”

“Went over the same material again, is that it?”

“Well, leukemia isn’t quite as simple as it may sound, Mr. Carella.”

“I’m sure it isn’t,” Carella said, feeling reprimanded. “And you say the last time you spoke to him was at two in the morning or thereabouts?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you speak to him at any time between eleven thirty-five and two A.M.?”

“I believe so, yes.”

“Who called who?”

“We called each other.”

“At what time?”

“I don’t remember exactly. I know the phone was busy at one point, but—”

“When you called him?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What time would that have been?”

“I really couldn’t say with any accuracy.”

“Before midnight? After midnight?”

“I’m not sure.”

“But you did speak again after that eleven-thirty-five call?”

“Yes, sir. Several times.”

“Calling back and forth.”

“Yes, sir.”

“To discuss the exam again.”

“Yes, the material that would be on the exam.”

“Was his radio still on?”

“I think so.”

“You could hear the radio?”

“Yes, sir. I could hear music.”

“The same sort of music you’d heard earlier?”

“Yes, sir. He was listening to classical music. I heard it in the background each time he called.”

“And the last time you spoke was at two in the morning.”

“Yes, sir.”

“When you called him.”

“Yes, sir.”

“At home.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Thank you very much, Mr. Loeb, I really appreciate—”

“Well, what is this all about, Mr. Carella? I really—”

“Routine,” Carella said, and hung up.

Blue Monday.

The threatening blue glare of ice. The brilliant robin’s-egg blue of a sky that stretched from horizon to horizon over the city’s towers and peaks, the kind of sky that always came as a surprise in January and February even though — like the snow and the wind and the freezing rain — it was not an unusual occurrence in this city. The darker blue of smoke pouring from the tall stacks of the factories across the river Dix in Calm’s Point. The almost-black blue of the uniforms on the cops who stood outside the tenement on Ainsley Avenue and looked down at the mutilated woman on the icebound sidewalk.

The woman was naked.

A trail of blood led from where she lay on the sidewalk to the front door of the tenement behind her, and into the tenement hallway, bloody palm prints on the inner vestibule door, blood on the stairs and banisters leading to the upper stories.

The woman was still bleeding profusely.

The woman’s breasts had been brutally slashed.

There was a giant bleeding cross on the woman’s belly.

The woman had no nose.

“Jesus!” one of the patrolmen said.

“Help me,” the woman moaned, and blood bubbled from her mouth.

The woman who answered the door to Allan Carter’s apartment was perhaps thirty-five years old, Carella guessed, wearing a brocaded housecoat at 10:00 in the morning, her long black hair sleekly combed and hanging straight on either side of a delicate oval face, her brown eyes slanted enough to give her the same faintly Oriental appearance that caused the cops of the Eight-Seven to kid Carella about being Fujiwara’s cousin. She could have been an older Tina Wong; it always amazed Carella that when a man began cheating on his wife, he often chose a woman who looked somewhat like her.

“Mr. Carella?” she said.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Come in, please, my husband’s expecting you.” She extended her hand. “I’m Melanie Carter.”

“How do you do?” Carella said, and took her hand. It felt extremely warm to the touch, perhaps because his own hand was so icy cold after walking gloveless (and hatless, yes, I know, Uncle Sal) from where he’d parked the police sedan.

Carter came out of what Carella assumed to be a bedroom. He was wearing a Japanese-style kimono over dark blue pajamas. Carella idly wondered if the kimono had been a gift from Tina Wong. He let the thought pass.

“Sorry to bother you so early in the morning,” he said.

“No, no, not at all,” Carter said, and took his hand. “Some coffee? Melanie?” he said. “Could we get some coffee?”

“Yes, certainly,” Melanie said, and went out into the kitchen.

“No partner today?” Carter asked.

“There are only two of us,” Carella said, “and we have a lot of people to see.”

“I’ll bet,” Carter said. “So. What can I do for you?”

“I was hoping we could talk privately,” Carella said.

“Privately?”

“Yes, sir. Just the two of us,” he said, and nodded toward the kitchen.

“My wife can hear anything we have to say,” Carter said.

“I’m not sure of that, sir,” Carella said, and their eyes met and held. Carter said nothing. Melanie came out of the kitchen carrying a silver tray on which there was a silver coffeepot, a silver sugar bowl and creamer, and two cups and saucers. She set the tray down on the coffee table before them, said, “I forgot spoons,” and went out into the kitchen again. Neither of the men said a word. When she came back, she said, “There we are,” and put two spoons onto the tray. “Would you like anything else, Mr. Carella? Some toast?”

“No, thank you, ma’am,” Carella said.

“Melanie,” Carter said, and hesitated. “I’m sure this will bore you to tears. If you have anything you need to do—”

“Of course, dear,” Melanie said. “If you’ll forgive me, Mr. Carella.” She nodded briefly, smiled, and went out into the bedroom, closing the door behind her. Carter rose suddenly and went to the bank of stereo equipment set into a bookcase on the far wall. He knows what we’re going to talk about, Carella thought. He wants a sound cover. The door between the rooms isn’t enough for him. Carter turned on the radio. Music flooded the room. Something classical. Carella could not place it.

“That’s a little loud, isn’t it?” he said.

“You said you wanted to talk privately.”

“Yes, but I don’t want to shout privately.”

“I’ll lower it,” Carter said.

He went to the radio again. Carella remembered that there had been classical music in the background when Loeb had spoken to Moore on the telephone Friday night. There was only one classical music station in this entire cultured city. Apparently it had more listeners than it realized.

Carter came back to where Carella was sitting on the sofa upholstered in the pale green springtime fabric, and took the chair opposite him. The chair was upholstered in a lemon-colored fabric. Outside the windows at the far end of the room, the sky was intensely blue, but the wind howled fiercely.

“This is about Tina, huh?” Carter said at once.

Carella admired him for getting directly to what he surmised was the point, but actually he wasn’t here to talk about Tina Wong. Tina Wong was only his form of official blackmail. Coercion, it might have been called in the Penal Code. Carella was not above a little coercion every now and again.

“Sort of,” he answered.

“So you know,” Carter said. “So what? Actually, my wife could have heard this.”

“Oh?” Carella said.

“She isn’t exactly a nun,” Carter said.

“Oh?” Carella said again.

“She finds ways to busy herself while I’m occupied elsewhere, believe me. Anyway, what does Tina have to do with Sally Anderson?”

“Well, gee,” Carella said, “that’s just what I’d like to know.”

“That was very nicely delivered,” Carter said, unsmiling. “The next time I have a part for a shit-kicking bumpkin, I’ll call you. What are you after, Mr. Carella?”

“I want to know why you thought Sally Anderson was a redhead.”

“Isn’t she?” Carter said.

“Very nicely delivered,” Carella said. “The next time I have a role for a smart-ass liar, I’ll call you.”

“Touché,” Carter said.

“I didn’t come here to fence,” Carella said.

“Why did you come here? So far, I’ve been very patient with you. I’m not without legal resources, you know. I have a lawyer on retainer, and I’m sure he’d like nothing better than to—”

“Go ahead, call him,” Carella said.

Carter sighed. “Let’s cut the crap, okay?” he said.

“Fine,” Carella said.

“Why did I think Sally was a redhead? That was your question, wasn’t it?”

“That was my question.”

“Is it a crime to believe a redhead was a redhead?”

“It’s not even a crime to think a blonde was one.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“Mr. Carter, you know she was a blonde.”

“What makes you think so?”

“Well, for one thing, your choreographer favors blondes, and every white girl in the show is a blonde. It was a nice show, by the way. Thanks for making those tickets available to me.”

“You’re welcome,” Carter said and nodded sourly.

“For another thing, you were present at the final selection of all the dancers—”

“Who told you that?”

“You did. And you had to know there were no redheads in the show, especially since you attended all the run-throughs after the show was put together... which you also told me.”

“So?”

“So I think you were lying when you told me you thought she was a redhead. And when someone is lying, I begin wondering why.”

“I still think she was a redhead.”

“No, you don’t. Her picture’s been in the papers for the past three days. She’s clearly shown as a blonde, and she’s described as such. Even if you thought she was a redhead on the day after she was murdered, you certainly don’t think so now.”

“I haven’t seen the papers,” Carter said.

“How about television? They showed her picture on television, too. In full color. Come on, Mr. Carter. I told you I wasn’t here to fence.”

“Let me hear what you think, Mr. Carella.”

“I think you knew her better than you’re willing to admit. For all I know, you were playing around with her as well as Tina Wong.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Then why’d you lie to me?”

“I didn’t. I thought she was a redhead.”

Carella sighed.

“I did,” Carter said.

“I’ll tell you something, Mr. Carter. Shit-kicking bumpkin that I am, I nonetheless believe that if a man continues lying even after he’s been caught in a lie, then he’s really got something to hide. I don’t know what that something might be. I know that a girl was shot to death last Friday night, and you’re lying about having known her better than you did know her. Now what would you think, Mr. Carter, big-shot producer that you are?”

“I would think you’re way off base.”

“Were you at a party on the Sunday before the murder? A party given by a dancer named Lonnie Cooper? One of the black girls in the cast?”

“I was.”

“Was Sally Anderson there?”

“I don’t remember.”

“She was there, Mr. Carter. Are you telling me you didn’t recognize her then, either? There are only eight female dancers in your show, how could you not know Sally Anderson if you ran into her?”

“If she was there—”

“If she was there — and she was — she sure as hell wasn’t wearing a red wig!” Carella said, and stood up abruptly. “Mr. Carter, I hate to sound like a clichéd detective in a B-movie, but I wouldn’t advise you to go to Philadelphia this Wednesday. I’d suggest, instead, that you stay right here in this city, where we can reach you if we want to ask you any other questions. Thanks for your time, Mr. Carter.”

He was starting for the door when Carter said, “Sit down.”

He turned to look at him.

“Please,” Carter said.

Carella sat.

“Okay, I knew she was a blonde,” Carter said.

“Okay,” Carella said.

“I was simply afraid to say I’d known her, that’s all.”

“Why?”

“Because she was murdered. I didn’t want to get involved, not in any way possible.”

“In what way could you have got involved? You didn’t kill her, did you?”

“Of course not!”

“Were you having an affair with her?”

“No.”

‘Then what were you afraid of?”

“I didn’t want people poking around. I didn’t want anyone to find out about Tina and me.”

“But we have found out, haven’t we? And besides, Mr. Carter, your wife isn’t exactly a nun, remember? So what difference would it have made?”

“People behave strangely when murder is involved,” Carter said, and shrugged.

“Is that a line from the play you’re rehearsing in Philadelphia?”

“It’s a lame excuse, I know—”

“No, it happens to be true,” Carella said. “But usually, the only people who behave strangely are the ones with something to hide. I still think you have something to hide.”

“Nothing, believe me,” Carter said.

“Did you, in fact, see Sally at that party last Sunday night?”

“I did.”

“Did you talk to her?”

“I did.”

“What about?”

“I don’t remember. The show, I suppose. When people are involved in a show—”

“Anything besides the show?”

“No.”

“Were you present when Sally and some other people began snorting cocaine?”

“I was not.”

“Then how do you know they were doing it?”

“What I’m saying is I didn’t see anyone doing anything of the sort. Not while I was there.”

“What time did you leave the party, Mr. Carter?”

“At about midnight.”

“With Tina Wong?”

“Yes, with Tina.”

“Where’d you go from there?”

“To Tina’s place.”

“How long did you stay there?”

“All night long.”

“Tina saw Sally Anderson snorting. Together with a group of other people including Mike Roldan, who’s also in your show. If Tina saw them, how come you didn’t see them?”

“Tina and I are not Siamese twins. We are not joined at the hip.”

“Meaning what?”

“Lonnie has one of these big old rent-controlled apartments on the park. There were sixty or seventy people there that night. It’s entirely possible that Tina was in one part of the apartment while I was in another.”

“Yes, that’s entirely possible,” Carella said. “And I guess Tina would be willing to swear you weren’t with her when she witnessed Sally Anderson using cocaine.”

“I don’t know what Tina would be willing to swear.”

“Do you use cocaine, Mr. Carter?”

“I certainly do not!”

“Do you know who was supplying Sally?”

“I do not.”

“Do you know a man named Paco Lopez?”

“No.”

“Where were you last Friday night between eleven and twelve midnight?”

“I told you. In Philadelphia.”

“Where were you on Tuesday night at about the same time?”

“Philadelphia.”

“I suppose there are any number of people—”

“Any number.”

“What are you trying to hide, Mr. Carter?”

“Nothing,” Carter said.

At St. Jude’s Hospital — familiarly called St. Juke’s by the cops, because of the many knifing victims carted there day and night — Judite Quadrado kept calling for a priest. At least that’s what they thought she wanted. They thought she knew she was dying and wanted a priest to administer the rites of extreme unction. Actually, she was trying to tell them that a priest had come into her apartment together with a fat woman and that the two of them had done this terrible thing to her.

Judite was in the Intensive Care Unit, with tubes coming out of her nose and her mouth, and tubes running from her arms to a galaxy of machines that beeped and glowed with electronic oranges and blues all around her bed. It was difficult to talk around the tube in her mouth. When she tried to say “Brother Anthony,” which was the name the priest had given her, it came out as a scrambled “Branny,” and when she tried to say “Emma Forbes,” which had been the fat woman’s name, it came out only as what sounded like a cross between a mumble and a hum. She went back to saying “priest,” which came out as “preese,” but which at least they seemed to understand.

The priest came into the unit at seven minutes past eleven that Monday morning.

He was a little too late.

Judite Quadrado had died six minutes earlier.

If there is one thing criminals and cops alike share — aside from the symbiotic relationship that makes each of their jobs possible — it is the sense of smell that tells them when someone is frightened. The moment they catch that whiff, cops and criminals alike turn into savage beasts of prey, ready to tear out the throat and devour the entrails. Miguel Roldan and Antonio Asensio were scared witless, and Meyer smelled their fear the instant Roldan, unsolicited, told him that he and Asensio had been living together as man and wife for the past three years. Meyer didn’t care what their persuasion was. The offered information told him only that the two men were frightened. He knew they weren’t afraid they’d be busted as homosexuals; not in this city. So what were they afraid of? Until that moment, he had been calling them, respectively and respectfully, Mr. Roldan and Mr. Asensio. He now switched to “Mike” and “Tony,” an old cop trick designed to place any suspect at a disadvantage, a ploy somewhat similar to the one nurses used in hospitals. “Hello, Jimmy, how are we feeling this morning?” they would say to the chairman of the board of a vast conglomerate, immediately letting him know who was boss around here, and who was privileged to take your rectal temperature. It worked even better with policemen and anyone who came into their purlieu. Calling a man Johnny instead of Mr. Fuller was the same thing as calling him Boy. It put him in his place at once, and instantly made him feel (a) inferior, (b) defensive, and (c) oddly dependent.

“Mike,” Meyer said, “why do you think I’m here?”

They were sitting in the living room of the brownstone Roldan and Asensio shared. The room was pleasantly furnished with antiques Meyer wished he could have afforded. A fire was going on the hearth. The fire crackled and spit into the room.

“You’re here about Sally, of course,” Roldan said.

“Is that what you think, Tony?”

“Yes, of course,” Asensio said.

Meyer wasted no time.

“You know she was using cocaine, don’t you?” he said.

“Well... no,” Roldan said. “How would we know that?”

“Well, come on, Mike,” Meyer said, and smiled knowingly. “You were at a party with her a week ago Sunday, and she was doing cocaine, so you must know she was a user, right?”

Roldan looked at Asensio.

“You were using it that night, too, weren’t you, Mike?”

“Well—”

“I know you were,” Meyer said.

“Well—”

“How about you, Tony? You snort a few lines last Sunday night?”

Asensio looked at Roldan.

“Who were you and Sally getting your stuff from?” Meyer asked.

“Listen,” Roldan said.

“I’m listening.”

“We had nothing to do with her murder.”

“Didn’t you?” Meyer said.

“We didn’t,” Asensio said, shaking his head, and then looking at Roldan. Meyer wondered which of them was the wife and which was the husband. They both seemed very demure. He tried to reconcile this with the fact that the homosexual murders in the precinct were among the most vicious and brutal the cops investigated.

“Do you know who might have killed her?” he asked.

“No, we don’t,” Roldan said.

“We don’t,” Asensio agreed.

“So who do you get your stuff from?” Meyer asked again.

“Why is that important?” Roldan asked.

“That’s assuming we’re users,” Asensio said quickly.

“Yes,” Roldan said, “If we’re users—”

“You are,” Meyer said, and again smiled knowingly.

“Well, if we are, what does it matter who we were getting it from?”

“Were?” Meyer asked at once.

“Are,” Roldan said, correcting himself.

“Assuming we’re users, that is,” Asensio said.

“Did something happen to your dealer?” Meyer asked.

“No, no,” Roldan said.

“That’s assuming we even needed a dealer,” Asensio said.

“Needed?” Meyer said.

“Need, I mean,” Asensio said, and looked at Roldan.

“Well, Tony,” Meyer said, “Mike... assuming you are users, and assuming you do have a dealer, or did have a dealer, who is the dealer? Or was the dealer, as the case may be.”

“Cocaine isn’t habit-forming,” Roldan said.

“A sniff every now and then never hurt anybody,” Asensio said.

“Ah, I know,” Meyer said. “It’s a shame it’s against the law, but what can you do? Who are you getting it from?”

The two men looked at each other.

“Something did happen to your dealer, huh?” Meyer said.

Neither of them answered.

“Were you getting it from Sally Anderson?” Meyer asked, taking a wild stab in the dark, and surprised when both men nodded simultaneously. “From Sally?” he said. The men nodded again. “Sally was dealing cocaine?”

“Well, not what you’d call dealing,” Roldan said. “Would you call it dealing, Tony?”

“No, I wouldn’t call it dealing,” Asensio said. “Besides, the coke had nothing to do with her murder.”

“How do you know?” Meyer said.

“Well, it wasn’t that big a deal.”

“How big a deal was it?”

“I mean, she wasn’t making any money from it, if that’s what you think,” Roldan said.

“What was she doing?” Meyer asked.

“Just bringing in a few grams a week, that’s all.”

“How many grams?”

“Oh, I don’t know. How many grams, Tony?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Asensio said.

“By bringing it in—”

“To the theater. For whichever of the kids needed it.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say needed it,” Roldan said. “Cocaine isn’t habit-forming, you know.”

“Whoever wanted it, I should have said,” Asensio agreed, nodding.

“How many people wanted it?” Meyer asked.

“Well... Tony and I,” Roldan said. “And some of the other kids.”

“How many other kids?”

“Not many,” Asensio said. “Six or seven? Would you say six or seven, Mike?”

“I’d say six or seven,” Roldan said. “Not including Sally herself.”

“So what are we talking about here?” Meyer said. “A dozen grams a week, something like that?”

“Something like that. Maybe two dozen.”

“Two dozen grams,” Meyer said, nodding. “What was she charging?”

“The going street price. I mean, Sally wasn’t making anything on the deal, believe me. She just picked up our stuff when she was getting her own. She may have even got a discount for a bulk purchase, who knows?”

“I think, in fact,” Roldan said to Asensio, “that we were getting it cheaper than the going street price.”

“Maybe so,” Asensio said.

“How much were you paying?” Meyer said.

“Eighty-five dollars a gram.”

Meyer nodded. A gram of cocaine was the approximate equivalent of one twenty-eighth of an ounce. The going street price ranged from a hundred to a hundred and a quarter a gram, depending on the purity of the cocaine.

“Who was she getting it from?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Roldan said.

“I don’t know,” Asensio said.

“Who’s Paco Lopez?” Meyer asked.

“Who is he?” Roldan said.

Asensio shrugged.

“Are we supposed to know him?” Roldan said.

“You don’t know him, huh?”

“Never heard of him.”

“How about you, Tony?”

“Never heard of him,” Asensio said.

“Is he a dancer?” Roldan asked.

“Is he gay?” Asensio asked.

“He’s dead,” Meyer said.

Rebecca Edelman was a woman in her late forties, splendidly tanned and monumentally grief stricken. The detectives had called her early this morning, eager to talk to her after her flight back from Antigua the night before, but they had been advised by a daughter-in-law that Marvin Edelman’s funeral would be taking place at 11:00 that morning, in keeping with the Jewish tradition of burying a person within twenty-four hours after his death. As it was, the funeral and burial had been delayed, anyway, by the mandatory autopsy required in any cases of traumatic death.

Neither Kling nor Brown had ever witnessed a family sitting shiva before. The windows in the Edelman living room faced the river Harb. The sky beyond was still intensely blue, the light less golden than it might have been in that it was partially reflected from the icebound water below. There was a knife-edged clarity to the atmosphere that afternoon; Brown could make out in the sharpest detail the high-rises that perched atop the cliffs on the shore opposite, in the next state. Farther uptown, he could see the graceful curves of the Hamilton Bridge, its lacy outlines etched against the brilliant blue of the sky. In the living room, the family and friends of Marvin Edelman sat on wooden boxes and talked to each other in hushed voices.

She led them into a small room she obviously used as a sewing room, a machine in one corner, a basket of brightly colored fabrics sitting left of the treadle. She sat in the chair before the machine. They sat on a small sofa facing her. Her brown eyes were moist in her tanned face. She kept wringing her hands as she spoke. The sun had not been kind to her. Her face was wrinkled, her hands were wrinkled, her lips looked parched without lipstick. She directed her entire conversation to Kling, even though Brown asked most of the questions. Brown was used to this; sometimes even the blacks turned to the white cop, as though he himself were invisible.

“I told him he should come with me,” Mrs. Edelman said. “I told him he could use the vacation, he should be good to himself, am I right? But no, he said he had too much work to do just now, planning for his trip to Europe next month. He told me he’d take a vacation when he got back, in April sometime. Who needs a vacation in April? In April, we have flowers, even here in the city. So he wouldn’t come. Now he’ll never have another vacation, never,” she said, and turned her head away because tears were beginning to form in her eyes again.

“What sort of work did he do, ma’am?” Brown asked. “Was he in the jewelry business?”

“Not what you would call a regular jeweler,” Mrs. Edelman said, and took a paper tissue from her bag and dabbed at her eyes with it.

“Because he was wearing this vest—” Brown started.

“Yes,” Mrs. Edelman said. “He bought and sold gems. That’s what he did for a living.”

“Diamonds?”

“Not only diamonds. He dealt in all kinds of precious gems. Emeralds, rubies, sapphires — diamonds, of course. Precious gems. But he neglected the most precious thing of all. His life. If he’d come with me...” She shook her head. “A stubborn man,” she said. “God forgive me, but he was a stubborn man.”

“Was there any special reason he wanted to stay here in the city?” Brown asked. “Instead of going with you to Antigua.” He pronounced the word “An-tee-gwa.”

“It’s a hard g,” Mrs. Edelman said.

“What?”

“It’s the British pronunciation they use. An-tee-ga.”

“Oh,” Brown said. He looked at Kling. Kling said nothing. “But in any event,” Brown said, “was there?”

“Only the usual. Nothing he couldn’t have left for a week. So look what happens,” she said, and again dabbed at her eyes.

“By the usual—” Brown said.

“His usual business. Buying and selling, selling and buying.” She was still directing all of her conversation to Kling. Brown cleared his throat, to remind her he was here, too. It had no effect.

Perhaps prompted by her steady gaze, Kling said, “Did he go very often to Europe?”

“Well, when he had to. That’s the diamond center of the world, you know. Amsterdam. For emeralds, he went to South America. He could run all over the world for his business, am I right?” she said. “But when it comes to flying only four, five hours away, for a week in the sun, this he can’t do. He has to stay here instead. So someone can shoot him.”

“Do you have any idea who might have—”

“No,” Mrs. Edelman said.

“No enemies you can think of?” Brown said.

“None.”

“Any employees he might have—”

“He worked alone, my husband. That’s why he could never take any time off. All he wanted to do was make money. He told me he wouldn’t be happy till he was a multimillionaire.”

“Did the possibility exist in his business?” Brown said. “Making millions of dollars, I mean?”

“Who knows? I suppose. We lived comfortably. He was always a good earner, my husband.”

“But when you’re talking about millions of dollars—”

“Yes, it was possible to make such money,” Mrs. Edelman said. “He had a very sharp eye for quality gems. He turned a very good profit on almost anything he bought. He knew what he was buying, and he drove very hard bargains. Such a dope,” she said. “If only he’d come with me, like I wanted him to.”

Her eyes were misting with tears again. She dabbed at them with her crumpled tissue, and then reached into her bag for a fresh one.

“Mrs. Edelman,” Kling said, “where was your husband’s place of business, can you tell us?”

“Downtown. On North Greenfield, just off Hall Avenue. What they call the Diamond Mart, the street there.”

“And he worked alone there, you said?”

“All alone.”

“In a street-level shop?”

“No, on the second floor.”

“Was he ever held up, Mrs. Edelman?”

She looked at him in surprise.

“Yes,” she said. “How did you know that?”

“Well, being a diamond merchant—”

“Yes, last year,” she said.

“When last year?” Brown asked.

“August, I think it was. The end of July, the beginning of August, sometime in there.”

“Was the perpetrator apprehended?” Brown asked.

“What?” Mrs. Edelman said.

“Did they catch the man who did it?”

“Yes.”

“They did?”

“Yes, two days later. He tried to pawn the gems in a shop three doors down from my husband’s, can you believe it?”

“Would you remember the man’s name?”

“No, I wouldn’t. He was a black man,” she said, and — for the first time during their visit — turned to look at Brown, but only fleetingly. Immediately, she turned her attention back to Kling again.

“Can you be more exact about that date?” Kling asked. He had taken out his pad and was beginning to write.

“Why? Do you think it was the same person? They told me nothing was stolen. He had diamonds in his vest, nobody touched them. So how could it be anybody who wanted to rob him?”

“Well, we don’t know, really,” Kling said, “but we’d like to follow up on that robbery if you can give us a few more details.”

“All I know is he was working late one night, and this black man came in with a gun and took everything from the work table. He didn’t bother with the safe, he just told my husband to dump everything from the work table into this little sack he had. The good stuff was in the safe, my husband was tickled to dea—”

She cut herself short before she could finish the word. The tears began again. She busied herself with searching for another tissue in her bag. The detectives waited.

“You say it was sometime toward the end of July, the beginning of August,” Kling said at last.

“Yes.”

“The last week in July, would that have been? The first week in August?”

“I can’t say for sure. I think so.”

“We can track it from the address,” Brown said to Kling. “It’ll be on the computer.”

“Could we have the address, please?” Kling said.

“621 North Greenfield,” Mrs. Edelman said. “Room 207.”

“Was the man convicted, would you know?” Brown asked.

“I think so, I don’t remember. My husband had to go to court to identify him, but I don’t know whether he was sent to jail or not.”

“We can check with Corrections,” Brown said to Kling. “Mrs. Edelman, had you spoken to your husband at any time since you left for Antigua?” This time, he pronounced it correctly.

“No. Do you mean, did we call each other? No. Antigua’s not around the corner, you know.”

“Before you left, did he mention anything that might have been disturbing him? Threatening telephone calls or letters, quarrels with customers, anything like that? Was anything at all troubling him, that you know of?”

“Yes,” Mrs. Edelman said.

“What?” Brown asked.

“How he could make his millions of dollars,” Mrs. Edelman said to Kling.

This time, the call came from Dorfsman himself.

It came at twenty minutes past 4:00 that Monday, the day after Valentine’s Day, but Dorfsman apparently was still enjoying the influence of the brief lovers’ holiday. The first thing he said to Carella was, “Roses are red, violets are blue, wait’ll you hear what I’ve got for you!”

Carella thought Dorfsman had lost his marbles; it happened often enough in the police department, but he had never heard of it happening to anyone in Ballistics.

“What have you got for me?” he asked warily.

“Another one,” Dorfsman said.

“Another what?”

“Another corpse.”

Carella waited. Dorfsman sounded as if he was enjoying himself immensely. Carella did not want to spoil his fun. A corpse on the day of the observance of Washington’s Birthday, even if it was a week before Washington’s Birthday, was certainly amusing.

“I haven’t even called Kling yet,” Dorfsman said. “You’re the first one I’m calling.”

“Kling?” Carella said.

“Kling,” Dorfsman said. “Don’t you guys ever talk to each other up there? Kling caught the squeal Saturday night. Sunday morning, actually. Two o’clock Sunday morning.”

“What are you talking about?” Carella asked.

“A homicide on Silvermine Oval. Guy named Marvin Edelman, two slugs pumped into his head.” Dorfsman still sounded as if he was smiling. “I’m calling you first, Steve,” he said.

“So I gather. How come?”

“Same gun as the other two,” Dorfsman said cheerfully.

It was beginning to look like they had a crazy on their hands.