Kiss

5.

The Property Clerk's Office occupied the entire basement of the new Headquarters Building on High Street downtown. This was a vast improvement over the cubbyhole that until recent years had served as a repository for recovered stolen goods or confiscated narcotics or clothing and jewelry removed from a victim or, in many instances, huge quantities of cash seized as evidence in an arrest. But despite its size and its enlarged staff-six police clerks where there used to be only two-the drafty basement room was crammed to overflowing, and the clerks seemed adrift on an ocean of flotsam and jetsam.

The filing system was now computerized, and so it was a relatively simple matter to punch up TILLY, ROGER TURNER and pull out the list of goods that had been bagged in his name at the morgue. It was quite another thing, however, to find all these things. The storage arrangement seemed to make sense when the clerk explained it to them ...

"Clothes are on the open shelves, jewelry and such in the locked mesh cages, cash in the steel, double-key lock boxes, like a bank has ...”

... but once he'd unlocked the grilled inner door and let them into that vast warehouse, it became almost immediately clear that locating Tilly's worldly goods would be akin to zeroing in on Rosebud deep in the caverns of Xanadu.

"There's a system, believe me," the clerk kept telling them.

The name on his little plastic tag was J. DI LUCA. He also kept telling them he wasn't too familiar with the system because he was just filling in for one of the regulars who was out sick. Where he normally worked was in the Identification Section upstairs. Up there, it was easy to find things because it was all paperwork. Even the fingerprints were paperwork. Down here in the basement, it was things, you follow? All these fuckin things.

Meyer had been at the crime scene almost all day, canvassing tenants and shopkeepers, trying to get a lead on what anyone might have seen or heard on the day of Tilly's murder. Carella had come here directly from the courthouse, leaving just as Lowell was beginning his recross. It was now almost four o'clock, and both men were bone-weary, but they were nonetheless eager to see all the miscellaneous papers and cards found in Tilly's wallet. His shoes and socks, his Jockey shorts, they could do without. Ditto the other articles of clothing and jewelry. But those miscellaneous papers and cards sounded like something they should look at.

"How does this work?" Meyer asked. "Do you take the money out of the wallet and put it in one of the lock boxes? Or do you ...?was "You're askin' me?" the clerk said. "I just started here this morning. And I'll be glad to get out of here, I'm tellin' you.”

"'Cause what we'd like to take a look at," Carella said, "is the wallet.”

"But not the cash, huh?”

"No, we're not particularly interested in the cash.”

"They got lock boxes down here with millions of dollars in cash in them, would you believe it?”

"I believe it," Carella said.

"From dope raids," Di Luca said.

"Somebody wants to get smart, he should hold up this joint, he'd get more than he would in a bank heist.”

"It's been done," Meyer said.

"Everything's been done," Di Luca said sadly. "Let me see if I can find somebody knows what the fuck is goin' on here.”

He came back some five minutes later with another clerk in blue uniform. This one knew the system. He told them he'd been working for the Property Clerk's Office for fifteen years, and, if they wanted to know, he liked the old one better than this one, however crowded and cramped it might have been. His name tag read: R.

BALDINI.

"They call me The Great Baldini," he said, "'cause I'm the only one in this office can find anything. So what is it you're interested in? The man's billfold?”

"Actually, the papers that were in it," Carella said.

"What we do," Baldini said, "there are thieves in the Police Department, I guess you know that. Plenty of them.”

"You better believe it," Di Luca said.

"So what we do, we got the mesh cages for jewelry and such, and the lock boxes for cash. Because of all the sticky fingers we get down here. But usually, we don't separate cash that's in a person's wallet or handbag. Because that's like a package, you understand? We don't break up the package.”

"Uh-huh," Carella said.

"So what we have to do is go back to the computer again, and get the index number for this guy's shit.

It's the index number we follow all the way through. It's like the Dewey Decimal System, you familiar with the Dewey Decimal System?”

"No," Carella said.

"No," Meyer said.

"No," Di Luca said.

"I used to be a lib'arian," Baldini said.

"What we used was the Dewey Decimal System. It works the same here, only we got what we call these index numbers. All the guy's shit will be under the same index number.

Whether it's clothes, jewelry, money, whatever, it'll have the same index number in different locations here. You understand what I'm saying?”

"No," Di Luca said.

"You must do great up there in the I.S.,”

Baldini said dryly, and led them back to the computer again. Once again, they punched up TILLY, ROGER TURNER. But this time Baldini showed them a letter-and-number sequence somewhat to the right of and slightly above the name: RLD 34-21-679.

"I'll be damned," Di Luca said.

Baldini led them back through the rows and rows of open shelves, indicating the index numbers that defined each folded pile of clothing, showing them similar identifying numbers on the locked mesh cages with their little gray plastic trays of wristwatches and wallets, necklaces and rings, bracelets and earrings, all separately identified inside the cages, stopping at last before a cage marked RLD 34-21 and on a separate line below that 650-680. From a - ring hanging on his belt, Baldini found the key he wanted, and unlocked the cage.

"It may be in here," he said, "or it may be in one of the boxes. Depends how much money was in the wallet.”

"According to the list, four hundred and thirty-five bucks," Meyer said.

"Usually, we'll put five-hundred or over in the boxes.”

In a gray plastic tray tagged with the sequence RLD 34-21-679, they found Tilly's watch, ring, tie tack, and pen, an open package of Marlboro cigarettes, a matchbook, a plastic bag with three subway tokens, two quarters, four dimes, one nickel, and three pennies in it, an open package of Wrigley Spearmint chewing gum, and a brown leather wallet.

"Okay to look through the wallet?" Carella asked.

"Take the whole tray with you, if you like,”

Baldini said. "There's a room back there you can sit in, make yourself comfortable. No smoking, please. When you're done, take the tray back to the counter, and we'll check the inventory against the computer list.”

"Thanks," Carella said.

They carried the tray to the door Baldini had indicated, and went into a windowless room behind it.

There was a long wooden table with a dozen or more wooden chairs around it and a row of cheerless fluorescent lights above it. Two men in suits were sitting at the far end of the table, poring over the contents of another gray plastic tray.

Carella recognized one of them as a detective from the Tenth. He nodded hello, and then he and Meyer took off their coats, draped them over one of the chairs, and sat down to look through Tilly's wallet.

All of the cash was still there. Just so that no one could later accuse them of dipping into the cookie jar, they counted out the bills and made a list of the serial numbers on them. Four hundred and thirty-five dollars exactly, in hundreds, fifties, twenties, tens, and singles. In this city, that seemed like a lot of cash to be carrying around.

His chauffeur's license was made out to Roger Turner Tilly and it gave his date of birth as 10-15 ... "Birthdate of great men," Carella said, but did not amplify.

... and the license expiration date on the same day and month three years from now. They calculated that Tilly would have been only twenty-seven years old when he was shot and killed. He had given his address as 178 St. Paul's Avenue in Isola, smack in the heart of L'Infierno, the city's most densely populated Hispanic sector. The blue field behind his photograph indicated to any policeman that he was licensed to drive a motor vehicle only while wearing corrective lenses. The inventory list of his possessions had not included eyeglasses, but perhaps he'd been wearing contacts.

The miscellaneous papers and cards included a laminated card from a video rental store called Videodrome, bearing the serial number MRL 06732 and the name Roger Tilly hand-lettered in blue ink; a slip of paper with the name Arthur written on it, and below that 64 Charlesgate East, Boston 02215, and below that Sweater -Large, Shirt 16-32, Belt 32; and similar little scraps of paper listing addresses and sizes for another male named Frank and two females respectively named Paquita and Gerry. All of the little notes were written in the same bold hand, presumably Tilly's. There was also a booklet of first-class postage stamps and a card that gave the address and telephone number of a gypsy cab company.

There was only one other business card in the wallet.

For an investment firm called Laub, Kramer, Steele and Worth at 3301 Steinway Street.

In the lower right-hand corner of the card was the name Martin Bowles.

There was the certain knowledge that death had been to this place.

The police padlock on the door, yes, and the yellow plastic crime-scene tapes, and the black-and-white sign tacked to the wall, advising that the area was closed to all but Police Department personnel, all these, yes. But more.

They unlocked the door, and Meyer flicked the light switch on the wall to the right, and the two men went down the steep staircase into the - basement where a naked light bulb dangled at the bottom of the steps, everything dark beyond its circle of illumination. Now there was the lingering chilling sense that death had passed this way and left behind its sullen shadow.

They were experienced detectives, these two, they knew the feel of a place where death had visited, they had shared together on far too many occasions the exact feeling they shared now. They stood in the circle of light like two stunned vaudeville performers spotlighted from the balcony, forgetting the lines to their comic routine, forgetting the steps to their soft-shoe dance. Coats open, mufflers hanging loose, breaths pluming on the cellar's dank air, they peered into the darkness waiting for a cue, stared into the gloom that death had left behind, one trying to see what was to the left, the other studying the grayish void to the right -was there another light switch?

Neither of them said a word.

Meyer fanned out to the right, feeling along the wall for a switch. Carella was already moving to the left, groping along the wall there. Sudden light spilled into the basement room behind him. He turned. Meyer had found a wall switch. And now, with the room lighted somewhat better than it had been, Carella found yet another switch in the area he was searching, and he snapped the toggle and more light flooded the room, a stage coming to life, the performers on it moving toward each other now to survey what their efforts had revealed.

Doors stretched along the entire wall that faced the stairs. Padlocks on all of the doors. Each door marked with an apartment number. 01 for the super on the ground-level floor, then 11, 12, and 13, for the first floor, on up to the fifth floor, three apartments on each floor for a total of sixteen in the building, sixteen doors locked with padlocks, sixteen narrow storage cubicles on a wall some sixty-five or seventy feet wide. The width of the building, more or less.

The padlocks hung open on the hasp eyes; this was the scene of a crime, and no one needed a court order to search for a weapon here; a man had been killed, an investigation was under way. The Crime Scene Unit had already been through the place with a fine-tooth comb. Now it was the turn of the detectives handling the case.

In this city, any murder case normally belonged to the detective team catching the squeal. Homicide Division consulted and supervised, but that was it. The two men rummaging through this musty, damp, death-reeking basement should have been DetectivestSecond Grade Jasper Loop and his partner, Fat Ollie Weeks.

Instead, operating on the First Man Up rule- sometimes known as the First Man Up Your Ass rule, because of the many inequities it fostered- Meyer and Carella were the lucky cops sifting through all this dusty shit in these crowded little storage cubicles. Looking for whatever had put the bullet hole in Roger Tilly's head.

They found bicycles and lamps and folding beach chairs and an old television set and a clown's costume and a floor fan and a thirty-set edition of the Encyclopaedia Britannica and a deflated inflatable rubber doll with a blonde wig and stacks of old Life magazines corded together and a pay telephone with a coin box that had come from God knew which corner phone booth and rubber tires and tools and a winepress and ironing boards and a folding bridge table and chairs and all the stored and forgotten flotsam and jetsam of crowded urban living, stacked here out of sight and out of mind, most of it covered with dust, some of it covered with mildew. They did not find anything that even remotely resembled a pistol.

There was an oil burner at the far end of the basement, humming into the stillness of the afternoon, clicking on and off as the thermostat dictated, filling the basement with a sound death would have denied it if possible. Death was everywhere here. From the bloodstain where Roger Tilly had been lowered to the gray and cracking concrete floor ... to the rope indentations in the asbestos-covered pipe from which his murderer had hanged him ... to the dark silences in corners and coves.

"I wonder why," Meyer said.

"Why what?”

"Why he bothered hanging him from the ceiling.

He had to know we'd find the head wound.”

"If it was a man.”

"Had to be a pretty strong woman to hoist him all the way up there," Meyer said, and looked up at the overhead pipes running close to the ceiling.

"Lots of strong women in this city," Carella said.

"Oh, sure. But even so ... why bother? Dead is dead, no?”

"Dead is dead, all right.”

Meyer kept looking up at the asbestos-covered pipe.

"Maybe he wanted us to think it was a crazy," he said at last. "Shoot Tilly in the back of the head and then string him up. Make us think a crazy did it.”

"Maybe it was a crazy," Carella said.

"Maybe.”

Both men fell silent again.

"I wonder if the killer followed him down here," Carella said.

"He also could've been waiting down here,”

Meyer said.

"Could've been somebody he knew, in fact.”

"Some kind of meeting down here.”

"Some kind of prearranged meeting.”

"Why would anyone meet in the goddamn basement?”

"Well, up here ...”

"Dope," Meyer said.

"Could be.”

They were both thinking it could have been dope anywhere in this city, not only up here. A man got killed, you automatically thought dope. That was the saddest fact of life in America these days.

"Think he maybe had dope stashed in one of those cubbies?" Meyer said.

"Maybe.”

"Comes down here to visit his dope.”

"Unlocks the cubby, makes sure it's still there, guy comes up behind him, nails one into his skull.”

"Runs off with the dope.”

"Could be.”

"It's a scenario, that's for sure.”

"Didn't take anything else from him, though.

More gold on him than there is in Fort Knox.

Killer left all that behind.”

"Too many questions, Steve.”

"Not enough answers.”

There was an old cast-iron coal-burning furnace in one corner of the basement, obviously unused for some time now. Its main steam pipe had been disconnected at the first elbow, the pipe running up out of the boiler and ending abruptly in midair. On the other side of the boiler, the water-return pipe had been - similarly disconnected. It ran out horizontally for some two-and-a-half feet, and then right-angled upward to the air vent, where it, too, abruptly ended. There was a coal bin to the left of the furnace, chunks of shiny coal still piled loosely against its rear wooden wall.

An overhead light bulb illuminated a shovel still thrust into the coal at an angle. They might not have opened the furnace door if Carella hadn't caught the faintest tint of red on the handle that hung from it. Just a wink of red. But enough to make him think ...

"Blood," he said.

Meyer turned from where he was peering into the coal bin, walked over to where Carella was examining the handle, and bent to look at it.

"Could be," he said.

Carella went into the bin, picked up the shovel, and carried it back to the furnace. Using the flat blade, he lifted the handle on the heavy iron door. They still couldn't see anything inside there. Meyer went rummaging in one of the storage cubbies and came back with a flashlight.

That was when they found what looked like a .32-31liber revolver.

The bar at five o'clock that Tuesday afternoon was relatively empty, but then again it wasn't near any of the big office buildings that were letting out around this time. Andrew had been tracking around with Emma Bowles all day long, and he was glad to be rid of her now. Have a few drinks, get himself a good steak dinner, forget the damn job Bowles had given him. He was lifting his glass to the bartender to signal that he wanted a refill when the girl sitting on his right turned to him and said, "Hi, I'm Daisy.”

He thought at once he would like to pluck this daisy. Nineteen, twenty years old, brownish-black hair, blue eyes, a cute little nose, a mouth made for sin. She was wearing a white longsleeved silk blouse, high-heeled black pumps, and a black mini riding up to Alaska. Her legs were crossed. She kept jiggling her right foot.

"I'm Andrew," he said, and took her extended hand.

He figured her for a hooker.

Pretty young girl sitting at a bar, opens a conversation with "Hi, I'm Daisy," that's a hooker, right?

She told him she worked for the telephone company. He believed her. He could imagine her with a headset on, jiggling that right foot, how may I help you, please? He asked her why none of the pay phones in this city worked. The other day, he had to try eight phone booths before he found one with a working telephone. Two of the booths had coin boxes but no telephones. The telephone receivers were simply missing, cut from their connecting wires. The only thing left was a sort of shiny metallic cable with a spray of narrow, colored wires blooming from its end. No telephone receiver. The next two booths had receivers, but the coin slots were plugged, and you couldn't insert your quarter. The last four were simply dead. You lifted the receiver from the hook and you put in your quarter, and you got nothing but dead air, and when you hung up, the coin box swallowed your quarter.

He wasted a dollar trying to make a call, without getting so much as a beep.

"It's terrible, I know," Daisy said.

"And there are no phone books in these booths.”

"They tear them up, I know," Daisy said.

"Who tears them up?”

"Who knows? Vandals.”

"Why would they tear up phone books?”

"Who knows?" she said. "Why would they spray graffiti on walls? It's the breakdown of civilization.”

She kept jiggling her foot. He felt a sudden urge to slide his hand up under that short mini, break down a little civilization on his own.

"Do you like New Year's Eve?" she asked, and without waiting for an answer started telling him how much she hated New Year's Eve because it was always such a big disappointment. Nineteen, twenty years old, Andrew figured she'd had just worlds of experience with disappointing New Year's Eves. She told him she'd stayed home this past New Year's Eve, watched it all happening on television. She was in bed by twelve-thirty, she told him.

"Alone," she added, and rolled her blue eyes.

She was drinking a Campari with soda, something Andrew had never tasted. It looked like cherry soda.

"I've done everything a person can possibly do on New Year's Eve," she said, "and it's always ...”

"How old did you say you were?”

"I didn't," she said. "But I'm twenty-four.”

"Uh-huh," he said.

"How old are you?”

"Thirty-four.”

"I like older men," she said.

Older men, he thought.

"Also, I'm partial to blond men.”

"Lucky me," he said.

"Yes, with cat's-eyes," she said, and smiled. She had a nice wide smile. Good teeth, extravagant, brightly painted mouth.

"Anyway," she said, "as I was saying, I've gone to small parties and big parties, and I've stayed home and had quiet candlelit dinners for two, and I've gone out to fancy restaurants and had dinner with three other couples, and I've gone to bed alone, and I've also gone to bed together with someone, and it's always the same, it's always a bore, New Year's Eve is really a fucking bore.”

He wondered if she'd had one too many Camparis with soda.

"What do you do?" she asked.

"Well, this year I went to bed early, too,”

he said.

"No, I don't mean on New Year's Eve. I mean what do you do?”

"Oh, for a living," he said. "I'm a private investigator.”

"Really?" Daisy said. "I thought that was only in books and movies.”

"In real life, too," he said, and smiled.

"Well, well," she said, and looked him over. Jiggling her foot. He leaned in closer.

He touched her knee only briefly, as if to emphasize what he was about to say, and then casually removed his hand, put it on the bartop, rested it there alongside his second Absolut martini on the rocks, couple of olives, please. She looked at his hand, as if wondering why it was no longer on her knee.

"I've been working a case uptown," he said.

"Near Smoke Rise. Are you familiar with the neighborhood?”

Only neighborhood he himself was vaguely familiar with, since it was up there that Emma Bowles lived. Well, he knew this neighborhood, too, more or less. One day, he'd have to really learn this city. It was frustrating not knowing a place.

"Where's that?" Daisy asked. "The Butler Street stop?”

"You've got it.”

"The G train, right?”

"Yes.”

"I know a girl who lives up there. She works for the telephone company, too. You have very nice hands, did you know that?”

"Well, no, I never noticed," he said, and held up both hands as if just discovering them on his wrists, and turned them this way and that under the soft light flooding the bar.

"Nice long fingers," she said. "And you take good care of your nails, I can see that.”

"Well, thank you," he said, and pulled back his hands as if embarrassed. Actually, he'd been told before that he had good hands. Beautiful hands, in fact. He'd once passed himself off as a concert pianist. This job he had in Seattle.

Gained access to an impresario's office by claiming he was a concert pianist.

"So what's it like being a private eye?”

Daisy asked.

"Same as any other job," he said, and put his hand on her knee again, and left it there this time.

She gave no indication that she knew it was there.

But neither did she ask him to take it away.

"I wish we had a private police force in this city," Daisy said, "'stead of what we've got now. I called the police the other day, it took them three hours to get there. I'm not complaining, you understand, but when a girl calls to say there's somebody outside her door yelling obscenities at her, you'd think the police could get there a little faster than three hours. You should hear some of the things he was saying. You must know cops, aren't they supposed to respond, whatever you call it, to something like that?”

"Oh, sure," he said.

"A girl calls 9-1-1 to tell them somebody's outside her door yelling all kinds of filth at her, isn't that something they should check on right away? Instead they come three hours later. Long after he was gone.”

"They sometimes figure that's exactly what'll happen," he said.

"What do you mean?”

“That he'll get tired and go away.”

"But suppose he hadn't? I mean, suppose he'd broken down the door or something?

I mean, you should have heard the things he was saying.”

"What sort of things?”

"Well, all the things he wanted to do to me.

It was like getting an obscene phone call right through your front door!" she said, and burst out laughing.

He laughed with her.

His hand was still on her knee.

He squeezed her knee.

"Speaking of obscene phone calls," she said, raising her eyebrows, "I guess you know that's pretty exciting.”

"What is?" he asked.

"Your hand on my knee that way. You have very nice hands," she said.

"Thank you," he said, and moved his hand higher on her leg, off the knee, up toward the hem of the skirt where it rode high on her thighs. She covered his hand with her own, stopping its upward glide. "You have very smooth hands," she said.

Moving her hand on his. Touching his hand.

Exploring his hand. "Are you married or anything?”

she asked.

"No.”

"I didn't see a ring, but you never know.”

"I'm not married," he said. "How about you?”

"Don't be ridiculous," she said, and took her hand from his and reached for her drink. He watched her drinking. Eyes closed, face lifted, the long, clean sweep of her throat.

"What's so ridiculous about that?" he said.

"Pretty girl like you ...”

"Oh sure.”

"You are, you know.”

"Sure, sure.”

"I wouldn't say so if I ...”

"My mouth is too big.”

"No, it's a beautiful mouth," he said, and slid his hand higher on her thigh.

"People say I look like Carly Simon," she said, and made no move to stop his hand.

"You have her mouth, that's for sure.”

"Yes, that's what I meant.”

"Exactly her mouth," he said.

"Mmm," she said.

He was working her leg now. Hand very high on her leg, the warm, soft, slightly moist feel of her flesh under the nylon high on her thigh.

"I don't plan to get married for a while yet," she said.

Looking into her drink. Ignoring what his hand was doing under her skirt.

"You know ..." she said.

"Yes?”

"I don't normally let men get this familiar with me.”

"If you want me to stop ...”

“In a public place," she said. "I mean, I just don't.”

Their eyes met.

"I live right around the corner," he said.

She didn't say anything for what seemed a very long time. Then she said, "You're a very attractive man, you know.”

"Thank you.”

"Very," she said. Her eyes studying his face.

He waited.

"Why don't we just go to a movie or something?”

she said.

"If you like.”

"No, what I'd like ... never mind.”

"Tell me what you'd like," he said.

"I'd sound like that guy yelling in the hallway.”

"Tell me what he said.”

His voice a whisper. His hand under her skirt.

"I'll tell you later," she whispered.

"Maybe.”

"Tell me now.”

"What do you think he said?”

"He probably said he wanted to kiss that Carly Simon mouth of yours.”

"He said he wanted to do something to it, that's for sure.”

"What did he want to do to it?”

"What do you think he wanted to do to it?”

"Why don't we go up to my apartment?”

"Why should we?”

"Too public here.”

"Doesn't seem to be hampering you any.”

"I don't want to get arrested," he said, and smiled.

"Do they arrest private eyes?”

"All the time," he said.

Especially if you've got your hand this high up a woman's skirt, he thought. Bust you - for molestation or disorderly conduct or trying to find a trade route to China.

"Are you carrying a gun?" she asked.

"No," he said.

"Do you have one?”

"Yes.”

"Where?”

"In the apartment. Want to come see it?”

"I've never seen a gun," she said.

"Right around the corner," he said.

She looked at him.

"You really want to do this, huh?" she said.

"Yes, I think it might be nice," he said.

"Nice," she repeated, nodding.

"Yes.”

"I guess it would be.”

"But that's up to you.”

"Oh sure, that's up to me.”

"It is.”

"We know each other ten minutes ...”

"Longer than that.”

"And you've got me all ...”

She let the sentence trail. She shook her head. She picked up her glass again, drained it, took an ice cube in her mouth, sucked on it, let it fall back into the glass.

"You do this a lot, don't you?" she said.

"Do what?”

"Get women all ..." She shook her head again, and then lifted the glass to her lips and tilted another ice cube into her mouth. Rolled it around inside her mouth again. Let it drop into the glass again. "How do I know you haven't got something I wouldn't want to catch?" she asked.

"I haven't got anything.”

"How do I know?”

"I tested negative.”

"So did I," she said.

Still looking at him, studying him. Jiggling her foot. Nodding. Thinking it over. Eyes locked with his. Nodding.

"Incidentally," she said, "I'm not sure I can stand much more of this.”

"Shall I stop?”

"It's getting sort of excruciating, if you know what I mean.”

"Mm-h'm.”

Smiling at her. Working her.

"I mean ... did you see that movie Harry and Sally?”

“When Harry Met Sally," he said.

Correcting her. Smiling. Working her steadily.

"Remember that scene in the restaurant?" she asked.

"Yes?”

"What she did in the restaurant?”

"Yes?”

"Well, either you quit what you're doing ...”

"She was faking," he said.

"I won't be faking," she said. "I promise you.”

"Let's go look at my gun," he said.

"Let me go pee first," she said, and took his hand away and rolled her eyes as if to say Whooo, and slid off the stool, her skirt riding up higher on her thighs. He watched her as she walked toward the rest rooms. And thought How easy, how perfectly goddamn easy.

And at the same time wondered why he'd bothered- when really, you know, he didn't give a damn anymore about any woman in the world.

At a little past six that Tuesday evening, Fat Ollie Weeks walked into the squadroom.

"You still mad at me?" he asked.

It was twelve degrees Fahrenheit outside, but he was wearing only blue jeans, a white shirt, a tan sports jacket, dark blue socks, and brown loafers. The shirt had either a ketchup stain or a bloodstain on its front, and it was unbuttoned at the throat. A tuft of black hair sprouted at the opening, curling up over it. Bread crumbs or cake crumbs, some kind of crumbs, were caught in the tangled hairs. Ollie needed a shave. And a bath.

"'Cause you won't be mad once I tell you what I found out," he said.

"What'd you find out?”

"I found out why this Tilly character was uptown on Ainsley.”

"Why?" Carella asked.

"Why was he up there? Or why was I doing you a favor?”

"What favor was that, Ollie?”

"The favor of asking around about your case. On my own time.”

"Gee," Carella said. "You are still mad, ain't you?”

"No, I'm very happy to have my caseload increased.”

"What you think is I dumped a homicide in your lap, ain't that right?”

"No, what would give me that idea?”

"I don't know what, since it's an open-and-shut FMU.”

"Then don't worry about it.”

"Who's worried about it? You want to know why Tilly was up there, or not?”

"Why was he up there?”

"He was boffin' the broad in apartment 22.”

"How do you know that?”

"I told you. I been asking around. Tilly used to know this broad from before he went to the slammer on an assault rap, did you know about the assault rap?”

"Yes, Ollie.”

"What he done, Tilly, he nailed this fuckin spic who called him a fag. Which he ain't, by the way, since he was up there boffin' this broad the night before some other spic hung him from the ceiling after smoking him.”

"Who says?”

"The spic? I'm guessing. This neighborhood the building's in is strictly San Juan nowadays. They finally took over from the niggers on that section of Ainsley, you don't know what fuckin headaches it's causin' us.

Anyway, you want to talk to this broad, she's in apartment 22, her name is Carmen Sanchez.”

"Have you already talked to her?”

"No, I got all this from askin' around.”

"Who'd you ask?”

"You got your people, I got mine.”

"An informant?”

"What else is there?”

"In Diamondback?”

"No, on the fuckin French Riviera.”

"Want to give me his name?”

"I would be happy to give you his name, except it ain't a him, it's a her. There are ladies in this city, you know, who sometimes fall afoul of the law, ah yes," Ollie said, and fell into his dreaded W. C. Fields imitation. Carella winced.

"Did your informant mention how Tilly happened to end up on the ceiling?”

"All my informant told me, m'dear, is that Tilly was upstairs boffin' the Sanchez girl all night long, who I wouldn't mind boffin' myself, from what I hear she looks like.”

"Did your informant actually see Tilly up there?”

"I do not know, m'friend, I do not know. What I suggest you do is go up there yourself and talk to the lady in 22, who according to what I've been told is something to observe, ah yes.”

Carmen Sanchez was a woman in her late twenties, tall and loose-limbed, with a mop of curly black hair, eyes to match, and a mouth made for singing. Or so she told them at once.

Carmen was on her way to a singing lesson. Just putting on her coat, in fact, when the doorbell rang. The coat was as red as her very snug, long-sleeved sweater. A long striped muffler around her throat was the color of the snug sweater and her very snug jeans. Carmen said she had to leave immediately, she did not have time to talk to the police. Meyer said this would only take a minute.

"Sure, I know a police minute," Carmen said, and looked at her watch. "Okay, five minutes, that's all I've got. I'm not kidding you. I have to be there at eight.”

"Five minutes," Carella promised.

"I mean it," Carmen said. "I have to pay her for the full hour no matter how late I am.

So let's do this fast, okay?”

"Roger Tilly," Carella said, getting straight to the point.

"I figured.”

"Was he here the night before he got killed?”

"He was here.”

"This would've been Sunday night, the sixth.”

"I know when it was.”

"What time did he get here?" Meyer asked.

"He was here when I got home.”

"What do you mean? In the apartment?”

"Yes.”

And now the two men-mindful of the five-minute time limit Carmen had put on the questioning but ready to violate it if they had to-began working her as a team, firing at will, asking questions willy-nilly, trying to find out just what had happened in those hours before Tilly's death.

"Does he have a key?”

“No, I left it with the super. I knew he was coming over.”

"Home from where?”

"I was working that night. I got home around two o'clock.”

"Working where?”

"A club down the Quarter.”

"On a Sunday?”

"Why not? You religious or something?”

"Doing what?”

"I'm a singer. I thought I told you.”

"Which club?”

"Why?”

"Just curious.”

“I didn't kill him.”

"Who said you did?”

"Why do you want to know which club? So you can check if I was there, right?”

Both detectives looked at her.

"It's called Clancy's, it's a jazz club," she said.

"How come Tilly came here instead of going to the club?”

"He doesn't like jazz. Anyway, he's heard me sing a hundred times already.”

"So he came here to wait for you.”

"Yeah. This was Sunday night. Murder, She Wrote was on.”

"He liked that, huh?”

"Never missed it." Carmen looked at her watch.

"Three minutes," she said.

"What was Tilly doing when you got here?”

"Sleeping.”

"Was he here all night?”

"All night.”

"What happened yesterday morning?”

"We got up, it m/'ve been ten, ten-thirty. We had some coffee, and then went back to bed for a while.”

"Uh-huh," Carella said.

"Then what?" Meyer said.

"I started getting dressed.”

"What was Tilly doing?”

"He was talking on the phone.”

"Did he make the call? Or did someone call him?”

"The first one he made. The second one came in.”

"There were two altogether?”

“Yes.”

"Did he mention any names while he was on the phone?”

"I've got to get out of here in one minute flat.”

"Did you hear him say anyone's name?”

"He asked for a Mr. Steinberg. He was buying a new car, that was the salesman he was dealing with.”

"Was this the call he made?”

"Yes.”

"How about the second call?”

"He was talking to somebody about money.”

"Yeah, go ahead. What'd he say?”

"He said he wanted the rest of his money.”

"What'd he mean by that?”

"I don't know. But he was really angry.

Yelling in the phone-look, I have to leave.”

"Just sit tight a minute, Miss Sanchez," Carella said.

"No, I'm not sitting tight a minute or even thirty seconds," she said, and began putting on the red coat. "I'm out that door.

...”

"Just a few more questions," Carella said.

"You promised me ...”

"Promises, promises," Meyer said.

Their eyes locked.

"Cops," she said, and shook her head, and took off the coat, and draped it angrily over one of the kitchen chairs. "All right, let's get it over with," she said, and sat in the chair, and stretched her long legs and folded her arms across the tight red sweater.

"This second call," Carella said.

"Yeah," she said, and nodded curtly, fuming.

"Give it to us in detail.”

"What kind of detail?”

"What's the first thing he said?”

"He said, `Yeah, this is me.`”

"Then what?”

"He said something like, `Well, when am I gonna get it?`”

"Yeah, go on.”

"Then he ... how do I know? How do you expect me to remember ...?was "Try.”

"He said something about No, I want the rest of it now, not tomorrow, I want it right this minute. He said that a couple of times, about getting the rest of his money now. He said that was the deal, and he was tired of asking for it. He wanted the rest of it now.”

"He specifically mentioned the word money?”

"Yes. Well, the money, or the bread, whatever.”

"How'd the conversation end?”

"They made arrangements to meet downstairs.”

"How do you know?”

"'Cause I heard Roger giving the address here, and then he ...”

A look suddenly crossed her face. She was remembering. They waited.

"Yeah," she said, nodding. "That's right.”

"Yeah what's right?" Meyer said.

"He did say a name.”

"What name?”

"Bowles. `I'll give you half an hour, Mr. Bowles.`”

"Are you sure about that?”

"Yeah, that was the name. Bowles.”

"Then what?”

"He listened for a minute, and then he said, `All right, make it twelve sharp.`”

"And you say he gave him this address?”

"Yeah, and said he'd meet him on the front stoop.”

"At twelve o'clock sharp.”

"Yeah. And he said he'd better have the money with him.”

"What time was this, would you remember?”

"It m/'ve been around eleven-fifteen.”

"What'd Tilly do then?”

"He took a shower, and then he got dressed and went downstairs.”

"What time was that?”

"Well, I guess it was around twelve.”

"Did he come back up here after his meeting?”

"No, he never came back up here," Carmen said.