Kiss

6.

In an American court of law, the prosecuting attorney is always the first to present his case. In what is called a direct examination, he questions the witnesses he has called, and then the defense attorney questions them in what is called a cross-examination. The D.A. then gets a second shot at these witnesses in what is known as a re-direct. After which the defense attorney gets his turn once again in a re-cross.

Once the prosecutor has paraded all his witnesses, he tells the judge that he is resting his case, and the defense calls his witnesses, and the same ritualistic procedure starts all over again: direct, cross, redirect, recross.

It is sometimes tedious and confusing.

On Wednesday morning, the ninth day of January and the third day of the Carella murder trial, Henry Lowell called his second witness, a Ballistics Section detective named Peter Haggerty. Short and squat, with a thick black mustache and eyeglasses with matching rims, Haggerty took the stand, swore to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but, so help him God, and then looked out comfortably over the rows of benches, conveying the impression that a courtroom was second home to him. When Lowell asked him how many times he had been called to testify as an expert witness, he said, "This is my forty-eighth time.”

"In how many courts have you testified as an expert witness?”

"Eleven.”

"In how many counties?”

"Four.”

"How long have you been working with the Ballistics Section?" Lowell asked.

"Twelve years.”

"Can you tell me what sort of training you've had in identifying and ...?was For the next ten minutes, Haggerty paraded his credentials, telling the court about the extensive training he'd had, the seminars he'd attended, the lectures he himself had given on ballistics to various police departments all over the nation.

At the end of that time, Di Pasco accepted him as an expert witness, but instructed the jury that whereas his expertise should be considered, it was not necessary that they accept it either wholly or in part.

"During the course of your everyday duties,”

Lowell asked, "are you called upon frequently to identify the makes and calibers of various firearms?”

"I am," Haggerty said.

"And during the course of your everyday duties, are you also called upon to identify bullets fired from various firearms?”

“I am.”

"Does your work also involve comparing bullets and cartridge cases against other bullets and cartridge cases in order to determine whether they were fired from the same gun?”

"I do that every day of the week, as a matter of routine.”

"I show you a pistol previously marked and moved into evidence and ask if you performed certain examinations on this pistol?”

"I did.”

"Can you tell me what kind of pistol it is?”

"It's a nine-millimeter Uzi.”

"And what is that? If you'll explain to the jury ...”

"It's an Israeli-made assault pistol, a shorter and lighter version of their Uzi submachine gun.”

"When you say `lighter ...`was "It weighs about four-and-a-half pounds fully loaded.”

"What constitutes `fully loaded`?”

"Well, it carries a twenty-round magazine. That means you can fire twenty bullets without having to reload. That's what fully loaded means. Twenty bullets.”

"Now, when you say it's a nine-millimeter pistol, what does that mean?”

"It means that the gun fires a nine-millimeter Parabellum cartridge.

That's the caliber. Nine millimeters.”

"And when you say it's a shorter gun than the submachine gun, what are its dimensions, actually?”

"Its overall length is two hundred and forty millimeters.”

"Perhaps inches would be more understandable to the jury. Can you translate that into inches for us?”

"Well, without a slide rule ...”

"Approximately. So the jury will understand it.”

"The overall length would be about nine-and-a-half inches.”

"And the length of the barrel? Again, in approximate inches, please.”

"About five inches.”

"Can this gun be held in the hand?”

"Oh, yes, it's designed to be held in the hand. It's what is known as a hand-held, semiautomatic pistol.”

“What does semiautomatic mean?”

"It means that a separate pull of the trigger is required for each shot. As opposed to a fully automatic weapon, where the gun will continue firing as long as pressure is exerted on the trigger.”

"Would you say that this weapon is capable of firing a great many shots in rapid succession?”

"Well, as many as twenty. That's the magazine capacity.”

"But in rapid succession?”

"Yes. The gun is designed to absorb recoil. This enables rapid fire with enormous control and therefore accuracy.”

"Would this gun be capable of firing, say, three shots in rapid succession?”

"Oh yes. Certainly.”

"Your Honor, I would like to offer in evidence, three nine-millimeter Parabellum bullets recovered during autopsy on the body of Anthony John Carella.”

"Mr. Addison?”

"No objections.”

"Mark them Exhibits Two, Three and ...”

"Your Honor, since there'll be more evidence of this nature, may I suggest that it might be simpler to mark the three bullets as a single exhibit rather than ...”

"Yes, fine. Mark them Exhibit Two.”

Carella cut a glance at his mother. She was sitting erect, her face impassive, watching Lowell as he walked back to the prosecutor's table and picked up another sealed plastic bag with a Police Department EVIDENCE tag on it.

"Your Honor," Lowell said, "I would also like to offer in evidence three spent nine-millimeter Parabellum cartridge cases recovered by Detectives Wade and Bent in the AandL Bakery Shop at 7834 Harrison Street on the night of July seventeenth last year.”

"No objection.”

"Mark them Exhibit Three.”

"Lastly, Your Honor, I would like to offer in evidence three cartridge cases and three bullets recovered in test firings in the Police Department's Ballistics Section.”

"Mr. Addison?”

"No objection.”

"Mark them Exhibit Four.”

“Detective Haggerty, I ask you now whether you performed comparison tests on all of these bullets and cartridge cases?”

"I did.”

"Can you tell me now whether all of these bullets were fired from the same pistol?”

"They were.”

"Can you tell me whether all of the cartridge cases were ejected from the same pistol?”

"They were.”

"Detective Haggerty, which pistol did you use in your test firings?”

"The assault pistol you showed me just a few minutes ago.”

Lowell picked up the gun.

"Are you referring to this nine-millimeter semiautomatic Uzi assault pistol marked Exhibit One in evidence?”

"I am.”

"And are you willing to say without qualification that the bullets recovered from the body of Anthony John Carella were fired from this gun?”

"They were. The markings on the recovered bullets and the test bullets are identical.”

"Similarly, were the cartridge cases found on the floor of Mr. Carella's bakery shop ejected from this gun?”

"Without question. The markings on the recovered shells and those examined after the test firing are identical.”

"Thank you, no further questions.”

"Mr. Addison?”

Addison rose ponderously, shaking his head even before he approached the witness chair, conveying to the jury the certain impression that somebody was being hoodwinked here, but that he intended to set that little matter straight as soon as possible.

"Detective Haggerty," he said, "when did you receive the bullets allegedly recovered from the body of Anthony John Car ...”

"Objection, Your Honor!" Lowell shouted, leaping to his feet. "Unless the integrity of the Medical Examiner's Office is being challenged here, then there is no question that those bullets are the ones recovered from the corpse. There's nothing alleged here, Your Honor. Dr. Josef Mazlova signed the necropsy report and also signed the evidence tag attached to the three bullets. Those are the bullets. I ask that you instruct Mr. Addison ..."

"Question withdrawn," Addison said, and again shook his head as though the entire world-including his opponent and the sitting judge-were against seeing justice done in this courtroom. "Detective Haggerty," he said, "when did you receive these bullets?”

"Do you mean the ones recovered from the corpse?”

Haggerty asked; he had worked with Carella on many occasions, and he was damned if he'd now let a shyster lawyer pull the kind of stuff he was attempting here today.

"The bullets marked Exhibit Two,”

Addison said, refusing to repeat what he hoped the jury would still believe was a slander.

"I received them on July eighteenth last year. The day after the murder.”

"Who sent you those bullets?”

"Dr. Josef Mazlova, assistant medical examiner. At the request of DetectivestSecond Grade Charles Bent of the Forty-fifth Precinct.”

"Was there any direct communication between you and Dr. Mazlova?”

"None.”

"Between you and Detective Bent?”

"Yes.”

"What was the nature of that communication?”

"He asked me to determine the make and caliber of the firearm from which those bullets were fired.”

"And did you supply this information?”

"I did.”

"What did you tell him?”

"That the bullets had been fired from a nine-millimeter Uzi pistol.”

"You were certain of this?”

"I was positive.”

"So you knew all the way back then-long before you fired any test bullets from the Uzi-that the bullets recovered from Mr. Carella's body ...”

Beside him, Carella saw his mother flinch.

"... had been fired from a nine-millimeter Uzi.”

"I did.”

"And you so informed Detective Bent.”

"I did.”

"So that everyone was looking for a nine-millimeter Uzi as the murder ...”

"Objec ...”

“I don't know what everyone was looking for.

I know ...”

"Your Honor, objection, please.”

"Yes, Mr. Lowell.”

"There is no way that Mr. Haggerty could know what everyone was looking for.”

"Sustained.”

"Detective Haggerty, did you tell Detective Bent that the murder weapon was a nine-millimeter Uzi?”

"I told him that the evidence bullets had been fired from a nine-millimeter Uzi.”

"And you determined this by performing certain routine tests ...”

"Yes.”

"That are, so far as you know, performed by every ballistics section in the United States ...”

"In the world.”

"In the world, thank you. Tests examining lands, and grooves, and twists, and what-have-you ...”

"These are all highly scientific ...”

"I haven't asked my question yet, Mr.

Haggerty. Are these tests infallible?”

"The tests are infallible, yes.”

"And are you also infallible?”

"What?”

"Have you never in your life made a mistake?”

"Not where it concerned determining the caliber and make of an unknown firearm.”

"Other mistakes, though? You have made other mistakes in your lifetime?”

"Everyone makes mistakes in his lifetime.

I'm saying ...”

"No further questions.”

"Mr. Lowell?”

Lowell came to the witness chair, looped his thumbs into his jacket pockets, leaned into the chair, and said, "Is it not an indisputable scientific fact that the caliber and make of an unknown firearm can be determined by examining a bullet fired from that weapon?”

"Indisputable.”

"Is it not also indisputable that the Ballistics Section in this city maintains the largest and most comprehensive classification of weapons anywhere in the entire world?”

"That is indisputable.”

"And that it maintains up-to-date records on any gun known to exist, including specimens of bullets fired from those guns?”

“Yes.”

"Did you compare the evidence bullets recovered from Mr. Carella's body with a specimen bullet fired from a nine-millimeter Uzi?”

"I did.”

"And what did you discover?”

"All of the bullets were of the same caliber, with the same twist, and the same number and width of lands and grooves.”

"And is that how you knew they'd all been fired from a nine-millimeter Uzi?”

"Exactly.”

"Thank you, no further questions.”

Addison rose again and came to the witness chair.

"Mr. Haggerty, are you saying that any bullet fired from any nine-millimeter Uzi would have the same markings?”

"No, sir, I'm not saying that at all.”

"Because I got the impression here that the bullets recovered from Mr. Carella's body could have been fired from any nine-millimeter Uzi, and not necessarily ...”

"No, sir, the impression would be a false one. What I said ...”

"Thank you, you've answered the question.”

"Your Honor?”

"Yes, Mr. Lowell?”

"May the witness explain what he did mean?”

"Your Honor, I'm satisfied with his answer.”

"I'm not," Di Pasco said. "Finish what you were saying, Detective.”

"I was trying to say that initially I examined the bullets recovered from Mr. Carella's body only to determine the caliber and make of the pistol that had fired them. But later, when I received the evidence pistol, I was able to conduct test firings that proved the evidence bullets were fired from that very gun. That's what I was trying to say, Your Honor.”

"Does that answer your question, Mr. Addison?”

"I felt my question had already been answered, Your Honor," Addison said dryly. "But I thank the witness nonetheless for his further elucidation." He turned from the witness chair, seemed about to walk back to the defense table, and then said, "Oh, yes," and walked back - to Haggerty. "Tell me," he said, "when did you receive the evidence pistol?”

"On the second day of August.”

"How did it come to your attention?”

"It was sent to Ballistics for examination.”

"Sent by whom?”

"By Lieutenant Nelson.”

"Do you mean Lieutenant James Michael Nelson of the Forty-fifth Detective Squad?”

"I do.”

"Was there a so-called Chain of Custody tag attached to it?”

"There was.”

"Was there any other name on that tag? Aside from Lieutenant Nelson's?”

"There was.”

"Can you tell me what that name was?”

"Detective Randall Wade.”

"Thank you, no further questions.”

Carella thought he noticed a thin triumphant smile hidden in Addison's beard.

This was the Old City.

He walked swiftly through City Hall Park, pigeons strolling even in the bitter cold, hands behind their backs like little old men, passing freshly painted green benches; here among the formidable, pillared buildings of government, there was still a sense of law and order, of civilization functioning, even though the city proper was a shambles. He continued walking steadily downtown, the day cold and bright and sunny, Lowell's words ringing in his ears, Addison's humming in secret counterpoint. And now the towers of big business loomed suddenly ahead, not too distant from the impressive gray structures of the law, where Carella had stayed only long enough to hear Addison's recross, and then had kissed his mother on the cheek and hurried off to meet Meyer. There were obligations, and not all of them were in that courtroom.

The ocean-battered seawall still stood where the Dutch had built it centuries ago, the massive cannons atop it seeming even now to control the approach from the Atlantic though their barrels had long ago been filled with cement.

If you looked out over the wall at the very - tip of the island, you could watch the Dix and the Harb churning with crosscurrents where the two rivers met. The wind howled in fiercely here, ripping through streets that had once accommodated horse-drawn carts but that were now too narrow to allow the passage of more than a single automobile. Where once there had been two-story wooden taverns, a precious few of which still survived, there were now concrete buildings soaring high into the sky, infested redundantly with lawyers and financiers. And yet-perhaps because the Atlantic was right there to touch, tumbling majestically off toward the Old World that had given this city its life-there was still the feel here of what it must have been like when everyone was young and innocent.

Well, not so innocent that they couldn't steal the place from the Indians.

They had tried to reach Martin Bowles at home last night, but there'd been no answer on the phone. When Meyer called his office this morning, he was told that Mr. Bowles could not see him until eleven A.M., after his morning meeting. Now, as Carella and Meyer walked through the narrow streets of the Old City, they went over it one more time. Police work was ever and always a matter of going over it one more time. And then one more time after that. And again and again after that, until it began to make sense.

"I admit it looks different with money involved," Meyer said.

"Very different," Carella said.

"It eliminates a crazy.”

"It also eliminates a dope angle.”

"What it gets down to is Bowles owed Tilly money.”

"One of the two basics, Meyer. Love or money. Now why do you think Bowles owed Tilly money?”

"Ask me a hard one.”

"Okay, how do these contracts work?”

"It's usually half on agreement, remainder on delivery.”

"Usually.”

"But Tilly didn't deliver. He fumbled two attempts.”

"And still wanted the rest.”

"Which is maybe why he ended up in a basement with a bullet in his head and a rope around his neck.”

"Which is why we're here to see Bowles,”

Carella said. - The offices of Laub, Kramer, Steele and Worth seemed a trifle cold and modern. A foot-high electronic ticker tape ran incessantly on the wall opposite the thick glass entrance doors, racing from right to left with symbols neither Carella nor Meyer understood.

Lower on that same wall were paintings Carella recognized as enormously valuable, even though he could not for the life of him have identified the individual artists. A very beautiful black woman in a severe black dress sat behind a rosewood desk trimmed with stainless steel. One slender hand was resting on a console that looked as if it could launch nuclear weapons to any nation on earth. The nails on that hand were very long and very red. Her lips were painted the same color as the nails. As the detectives came into the reception area, she turned languid brown eyes toward them. Behind her, the ticker tape kept spilling quotes across the narrow electronic screen on the wall opposite.

"Mr. Bowles, please," Carella said, and flipped open a small leather case to show her his shield and his ID card.

"Do you have an appointment?" she asked.

"Yes, we do," Meyer said.

"May I have your names, please?" she said, and tapped a button on the console and picked up a telephone receiver.

"Tell him Detectives Meyer and Carella are here.”

The woman nodded noncommittally.

"Two gentlemen to see Mr. Bowles," she said into the phone. "A Detective Meyer and ...”

Slight arching of one eyebrow ...

"Detective Carella," Carella said.

"... Detective Carella," she said into the phone, and listened. "Thank you," she said at last, and put the phone back on the console.

"Someone will be out to show you in," she said. "Won't you have a seat, please?”

They both took seats.

They felt uncomfortable here, these cops.

They didn't know what all those symbols meant, running across that high-tech electronic thing up there ... AGC and BHC and FAL and JNJ and DIS ... what the hell were all those letters? They were cops who didn't have disposable income to invest anywhere. The way they disposed of their income was in feeding and clothing their families and maybe taking them out to a movie every now and then. So they sat there feeling uncomfortable.

And because they were uncomfortable, sitting there in their cop clothes and feeling like cops, they didn't say anything to each other until a statuesque blonde wearing a business suit and high heels suddenly appeared in the reception area and said, "Mr. Carella, Mr. Meyer?" and they both leaped to their feet as if called upon by an arithmetic teacher to recite a solution to a long-division problem-"Yes," they both said together-and the glacial blonde said, "This way, please, gentlemen," and led them past the desk where Nefertiti with her long red nails and her languid look and her luscious red lips sat deciding whether she should throw her brother to the crocodiles. And down those long, mean corridors they followed the blonde until she stopped at a door with a little brass plaque on it etched with the name MARTIN J. BOWLES.

She knocked.

"Come in," he said.

Martin J. Bowles.

Some six feet one, six feet two inches tall, a good-looking man with dark hair and brown eyes, a smile on his face, hand extended, wearing what looked like a designer suit.

"Gentlemen," he said, "how are you?”

Hand still extended.

"Mr. Bowles," Carella said, taking his hand, "I'm Detective Carella, this is my partner, Detective Meyer.”

Still feeling clumsy.

"How do you do?" Bowles said, shaking hands vigorously. "How can I help you? Is this about the attempts that were made on my wife's life?”

"Yes, sir, it is," Carella said.

"I thought so," Bowles said, and nodded.

"We understand a man named Roger Turner Tilly once worked for you as a chauffeur,”

Carella said.

"Well, he worked for a limousine company, actually," Bowles said. "Executive Limousine. But he was my regular driver, yes.”

"Until last spring sometime, isn't that so?”

"Yes. He got into some kind of trouble ...”

"Yes, and was sent to prison.”

“Yes, that's my understanding of what happened.”

"Have you seen him since his release from prison?”

"No, I haven't.”

"You know that he's dead, don't you?”

"Yes. My wife mentioned that you'd called yesterday morning ...”

"Yes.”

"... to inform her.”

"Yes. When's the last time you saw him alive, Mr. Bowles?”

"Before he went to prison. M/'ve been last February sometime.”

"Did you know he'd been released on parole?”

"Yes.”

"How'd you happen to know that, Mr. Bowles?”

"Well, I've spoken to him.”

"When would that have been?”

"The first time was last week sometime.”

"Last week?" Carella said, surprised.

"When last week?”

"Friday, I guess it was. I remember I was just on my way out at the end of the day.

Emma and I ... my wife ...”

Carella nodded.

"Had theater tickets, and we were going to dinner beforehand. Tilly called at around five-thirty, it must have been.”

"What was the purpose of his call?" Carella asked.

"He said I owed him money.”

"Oh?" Carella said, surprised again. "For what?”

"He said I'd hired him to take me to a seminar upstate last year-hired him personally, you understand, not through Executive-and that I'd only given him half the money for the trip and still owed him the rest. I told him I was on my way out, and he gave me a number where I could reach him. I didn't call him back until Monday morning.”

The day Tilly got killed, Meyer thought.

"Why'd you call him?" Carella asked.

"To settle this thing. I had, in fact, hired him to drive me up there-he'd rented a limo someplace, I really don't know the details, I'm sure he made more than if I'd gone through Executive. But I'd paid him in full, and I wanted to clear this up. I didn't - want the man thinking I'd stiffed him.”

"What time did you call him?”

"Eleven, eleven-thirty, somewhere in there.”

"What'd you talk about this time?”

"Well, it was ridiculous. He kept insisting that I owed him money, virtually demanded that I go up there to Diamondback, meet him uptown at twelve sharp with the rest of the money. I never heard such nonsense in my life. As if I'd go to Diamondback under any circumstances.”

"But did you go up there to meet him?”

"Of course not!”

"Did you tell him you'd be there?”

"Yes, I did. To get him off my back.”

"Did you plan to let us know you'd had these two telephone conversations with him?”

"Frankly, no.”

"Did you mention them to your wife?”

"No, I didn't.”

"Mr. Bowles, I suppose you know that your wife identified the man trying to kill her ...”

"Yes, I know all ...”

"... as Roger Tilly.”

"Yes. But I don't know where she got that idea. The man had no reason to ...”

"You don't think he was the man she saw, huh?”

"I think she was mistaken. He had no reason for wanting to do anything like that.”

"How about this money he claimed you owed him?

Could he have been angry about that?”

"That occurred to me, but then why didn't he talk to me before these attempts were made on Emma's life? It just doesn't jibe, you see.”

Carella was thinking that none of it jibed. He was thinking Bowles was lying in his teeth.

"So you don't think this money you owed him ...”

"Money he said I owed him.”

"Yes, excuse me, you don't think that had anything to do with whoever was trying to kill your wife.”

"Nothing whatever.”

"How'd you get along with Tilly personally?”

Meyer asked, taking another tack. He, too, thought Bowles was lying. There was a feel here. It came from years of talking to killers and nonkillers alike. You just knew when someone was leading you down the garden.

"We got along fine," Bowles said. "He was one of the best drivers Executive ever sent me. Well, that's why I kept him as a regular. I didn't know he was going to go crazy in prison.”

"You think he went crazy in prison,”

Meyer said, nodding.

"Well, this whole business about the money,”

Bowles said, and shook his head.

"You didn't owe him any money, right?”

"Not a penny.”

"Before these two phone conversations," Carella said, "had there ever been any harsh words between you?”

"Never.”

"Did you have any reason to think he may have been harboring a grudge?”

"No, nothing like that.”

"Yet your wife felt certain he was the man who shoved her off a subway platform ...”

"I know, but ...”

"... and later tried to run her over.”

"I'm sure she was mistaken.”

"And you're sure you didn't owe him this money he claimed you ...?was "Yes, how many times do I have to ...?was "Did you have reason to give him a business card lately?" Carella asked.

"No. I told you, I hadn't seen him since last February.”

"Mr. Bowles, can you tell us where you were this past Monday at noon? That would've been the day before yesterday, the seventh.”

Bowles looked at him sharply.

"Am I going to need a lawyer here?" he asked.

"Not unless you feel you need one.”

"I mean, what is this, where was I? What the hell is this?" Bowles said, pulling his appointment calendar to him, and angrily leafing through it. "Here it is," he said, snapping the page, and then looking up. "I had a client with me until eleven or so," he said, "after which I placed the call to Tilly. Then I left the office ...”

"To go where?”

"I had a lunch date.”

"With whom?”

"Another client.”

"What's his name?”

"It was a woman.”

"Her name then.”

"Lydia Raines.”

“What time was your date?”

"Twelve noon.”

"Where?”

"A restaurant called Margins.”

"Where's that?”

"On Zwaan.”

The word was Dutch, a holdover from the days of Peter Stuyvesant. Bowles pronounced it the way most natives of this city did: Zwayne.

"Where can we reach this woman?" Carella asked.

"She's a valuable client, I don't want her ...”

"Mr. Bowles, I'm not sure you understand the serious ...”

"I do indeed. I also understand the importance of ...”

"Do you know this is a murder case?”

Carella said.

"Yes, I do," Bowles said. "I'm merely suggesting that there may be some other way to confirm that I was there with her. I don't want her to know that a police investigation is under way. Investors hear police, they immediately believe the firm's involved in some wrongdoing. I expect to be promoted in May. If a client as important as Ms. Raines ...”

"What other way are you suggesting?" Meyer asked pleasantly.

"I just don't want to get her involved in this.”

"But she's already involved," Meyer said gently. "Don't you see?”

"I suppose so.”

"So can you tell us where she lives, sir?”

"Well ...”

"Please," Meyer said. "It'll make it a lot easier for all of us.”

"She lives on Chase. 475 Chase Avenue.”

"Thank you, sir," Meyer said.

"I'd appreciate it if you didn't mention you're investigating a murder.”

"We'll try not to," Meyer said, and again smiled pleasantly.

Lydia Raines owned a flower shop called The Raines Forest, on Davidson and Parade.

The name of the place might have worked as a cutesy-poo pun, except for the fact that none of Lydia's customers knew her last name. As a result, not too many people gave a passing thought to the cleverness on the front plate-glass window.

Most passersby figured the middle word had been misspelled. As a matter of fact, the doorman at her building on Chase had told the detectives that the name of her shop was The Rain Forest.

The window was full of exotic blooming plants, surprising at any time of the year, absolutely startling for January. Carella recognized the orchids, but there were other plants he could not have guessed at, all purple and yellow and orange and gold, most of them looking phallic. Meyer was thinking about the name of the place and wondering what other businesses Lydia Raines could have gone into, and what other variations she might have worked on her name. If she imported venison from the Wild West, for example, might she have called her business Home on the Raines? Or if she made bridles and such for the horsey set, would her business be called Saddles and Raines?

"Or how about It Never Raines?" he asked Carella out loud.

"Huh?" Carella said.

"For a salt manufacturer," Meyer said.

"Huh?" Carella said again, and opened the front door to the shop.

"But it pours," Meyer explained, and shrugged.

Once, a long time ago, Carella and Meyer had gone together to Puerto Rico, to extradite a man wanted for a double murder. The moment they'd stepped off the plane in San Juan, they'd known they were in the tropics. Their perception had nothing to do with the brilliant sunshine, or the heat, or the humidity. It came instead from the heady scent in the air, a fetid mix of mildew and perfume, rot and riotous growth, an aroma neither of the men had ever before inhaled. There was the same aroma here in Lydia Raines's private little forest. Mist should have been rising from the giant leafy plants that crowded the walls and cluttered the narrow aisles of the shop. Tiny bright birds should have been twittering about the open blooms that stridently trumpeted their colors. There should have been the incessant sound of insects. And in the distance, the lazy whisper of the ocean.

Lydia Raines-if such the lady was- stood behind the counter at the rear of the shop, fussing over an arrangement, tucking in a purple flower here, moving a red to another position, fanning out a spray of fern. Carella guessed she was in her mid-forties, a tall, slender woman who resembled one of her own exotic plants.

Golden hair tufted close, green eyes sparkling in leafy imitation, a skirt the color of a tropical sky, a blouse and sweater that seemed in pink and crimson bloom, high-heeled pumps that echoed the pale blue of her skirt.

She looked up as the bell over the door sounded, smiled as they came down the crowded center aisle, brushing past the variegated leaves on one of the giant plants-"May I help you?”

"Miss Raines?" Carella said.

"Yes?”

"Detective Carella," he said, showing his shield and his ID card, "Eighty-seventh Squad. This is my partner, Detective Meyer.”

Her hands hovered like birds over the flower arrangement, flightless now.

"Yes?" she said again.

"There's no need to be alarmed," he said, "we're ...”

"But I'm not alarmed," she said.

And yet her hands still hung motionless over the arrangement, and her welcoming smile seemed frozen on her lovely face. Only the green eyes were in motion. Darting. Apprehensive.

"Miss Raines, do you know a man named Martin Bowles?" Meyer asked.

"Has something happened to him?" she asked.

"No, no," Carella said.

"Then ...?was "This is just a routine investigation," Meyer said.

To a criminal, this meant run for the hills. But Lydia Raines was not a criminal.

"Do you know him?" Carella asked.

"Yes, he's my investment broker," she said.

"With Laub, Kramer, Steele and Worth.”

"When did you last see him?" Carella asked.

"Is he missing or something?”

She looked puzzled now. Nothing had happened to him, or so they'd just told her. But now they wanted to know when she'd seen him last. Why?

Unless he was missing or something. All of this showed on her face and in her eyes. She was either a very good actress or else Bowles hadn't called her in advance to warn her about their impending visit.

"No, he's not missing," Meyer said, smiling pleasantly, nodding. "In fact, we just saw him ... when was it, Steve? Half an hour ago? Forty minutes?”

"About then," Carella said.

Putting her at her ease. They still hadn't told her that Bowles had used her as his Monday alibi. They wanted to hear this from her.

"Can you tell us when you last saw him?" Meyer asked.

Still smiling pleasantly. Nodding. Come on, darling. Tell your baldy-bean uncle when you last saw the nice man.

"I had lunch with him on Monday," Lydia said, "I'm sure it's in my book.”

She gave the arrangement a last loving touch, almost petting one of the flowers, glanced at it appreciatively and admiringly, and then walked to a small desk nestled into a nook alongside a pair of double-doored, glass-fronted refrigerator cases. She sat in the chair behind the desk, crossing what Carella now saw were very shapely legs, and opened the drawer over the kneehole. Her appointment book was one of those thick black leather-covered things that shrieked efficiency. She opened it swiftly to where a heavy paper clip marked the current day, removed the clip, and began flipping back through the pages.

"Yes, here it is," she said, and looked up.

Exactly the words Bowles had used when he'd consulted his own calendar.

"It was Monday," she said. "The seventh.”

"You had lunch with him that day," Carella said.

"Yes," she said. "Well, here it is," she said, and turned the book to show him the page. In a sprawling handwriting Carella presumed was her own, he read the words: Martin Bowles Margins at 12 "Is that the name of a restaurant?" Meyer asked, already knowing the answer. "Margins?”

"Yes. It's down near the Exchange. On Zwaan.”

She, too, pronounced it Zwayne. But there was in her voice a regional dialect that iden- tified her as originally coming from someplace else.

"Was Mr. Bowles there when you arrived?”

Carella asked.

"Yes, he was.”

"You didn't have to wait for him or anything, did you?”

"No, he was sitting at the bar.”

"Is it a big place? Margins?”

"Fairly big.”

"Were there many people there?”

"I suppose. I really didn't notice.

Why? What's he done?”

They were both wondering when she'd get around to that.

"Nothing that we know of," Meyer said, and again smiled pleasantly. Old Uncle Meyer here.

You may not be able to trust the one with the Chinese eyes, but me you can bet your life on.

"Then why all these questions?" she asked.

"Just routine," Carella said.

"Sure," she said. "And I'm Princess Di.”

"When did you make this lunch date?" Meyer asked.

"I have no idea. Martin and I meet periodically to discuss my investments. I may have called him, he may have called me. I simply don't remember. What is it he's done?”

"As I told you ...”

"Or supposed to have done?”

"Nothing. That we know of.”

"What do you suspect he's done?”

"Nothing," Carella said.

"Sure," she said again. Her eyes locked on his. Meyer had never seen such an eye-lock in his life. The Green Lantern, this one was, shooting a laser beam at Carella. Defying him to tell her why they were really here. For a moment, Meyer was tempted to lay it all on the table.

He resisted the temptation.

"Where are you from originally?" he asked.

"Chicago," she said. "Why?”

Carella went to see her personally-and alone.

There were matters he needed to discuss with her, and he wanted to afford her at least a semblance of privacy. He did not want this to be a visit from two police goons in heavy overcoats.

She told him she'd just got home a few minutes ago, and she offered him a drink. This was now four in the afternoon. He told her he was still on duty, and she took his coat and hung it in the hall closet, and then they moved into the living room that was all leather and steel, and he got down to brass tacks.

"Mrs. Bowles," he said, "do you have any reason to believe your husband might want you dead?”

She looked at him in stunned silence.

"Mrs. Bowles?" he said.

"No. Of course not. No. What do you mean?

Martin?" she said.

"Yes, ma'am. Have you been having trouble lately?”

"No, we ...”

"In your marriage, I mean.”

"Yes, I know. No, positively not.

We're ...”

"Has he ever mentioned divorce ...”

"No, no, we're very ...”

"Or even obliquely suggested it?”

"No, we're very happy.”

"Have you had any violent arguments recently ...?was "No.”

"... anything like that?”

"No.”

"He hasn't ever abused you, has he?”

"No. Do you mean ...?was "I mean has he ever hit you. Physically abused you.”

"No. Never.”

"Or threatened abuse?”

"No.”

"Mrs. Bowles, I'm sorry I have to ask this, but it's important. Does your husband have another woman?”

"He does not. Mr. Carella, really ...”

"I'm sorry, but I have to ask these questions.

There's not another man in your life, is there?”

"Definitely not!”

"Your husband has absolutely no reason to distrust you ...”

“None.”

"Or to want you out of his life ...”

"None.”

"How do your wills read, Mrs. Bowles?

I'm sorry," he said, "I'm not enjoying this, either, believe me. But two attempts were made on your life ...”

"Why would you imagine Martin ...?was "Because he telephoned Tilly on the morning he was killed ...”

"Tilly?”

"Yes. To discuss money Tilly said he owed him.”

She looked at him.

"Yes," he said.

She kept looking at him. It was beginning to sink in.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"It's just ... I've never had reason to believe ...”

"I appreciate that.”

"I just never ..." she said, and let the sentence trail.

She was thinking now. Wondering about everything he'd told her. Considering whether or not it was even remotely possible that ...

"There are prenuptial agreements," she said.

Very softly. "We signed prenuptial agreements.”

"What did they say, Mrs. Bowles?”

"If ... if we ever got divorced ...

I'd get half of everything he owns. Now and forever.”

"I see.”

"And ... we're in each other's wills as well. As sole beneficiaries. Whoever goes first ...”

She shook her head.

"There's lots of money involved," she said.

Carella waited.

"His father left him something in excess of a million dollars ... and, of course, he's done very well on his own. He'll probably be made a partner this spring.”

She shook her head.

"I just can't believe this, really. If you say he called Tilly ...”

"Yes, he's admitted that.”

"Then, well ... I suppose he did. And I suppose if he was considering a - divorce, he might have given it second ... but he wasn't, he isn't, I know that. We love each other. And if you're suggesting ...

I mean, I don't know what you're suggesting, but I guess you're trying to say Martin got this Tilly person to ...”

"Yes, Mrs. Bowles, I'm suggesting that's a possibility.”

"But that's just it. If that were the case, why would he have hired Darrow?”

"Who's Darrow?" Carella asked, puzzled.

"A private investigator.”

"A what?" Carella said. He was thoroughly surprised. "Why'd he hire a private ...?was "To get to the bottom of this. To find out who was trying to hurt me. So you see ...”

"When was this?" he asked.

"He started on Monday.”

"I wish you'd have told me.”

"I didn't see any reason why I should.

The man's legitimate, he's ...”

"How do you know that?”

"I checked.”

"I wish you'd have let me do the checking.”

"It seemed such a simple thing to do. He gave me his card, I simply called the number in Chicago ...”

"Your husband hired a private investigator from Chicago?”

"Yes.”

"Why? Don't we have enough of them here?”

"I don't know why. He's supposed to be very good.”

"And you say you called him in Chicago?”

"The number, yes. On his card. It's a real detective agency.”

"Why'd your husband hire him, do you know?”

"I just told you. To protect me. And to find whoever was trying to kill me.”

"Well, now that Tilly's dead, he won't have to do that anymore, will he? Tell me this man's name again.”

"Andrew Darrow.”

"How do you spell that last name?”

"Do-A-Rather-Rather ...”

Carella was already thinking it was a phony. A private eye named Darrow? As in Clarence?

"... O-W.”

"And the name of his company?”

“A. N. Darrow Investigations.”

I'll bet, Carella thought.

"Have you still got his card?”

"Yes.”

"Can I see it, please?”

"It's in my bag," she said.

She went out of the room. When she came back, she handed him what seemed to be a bona fide business card-but no one ever asked for identification when you had these things printed up.

He copied down the name, address, and telephone number printed on the face of the card, and then handed it back to her. It was beginning to get dark outside. He thanked her for her time, and told her he'd stay in touch. What she'd told him about the prenuptial agreement worried him considerably, but he tried not to reveal this. Nor was he too terrifically pleased that Martin Bowles had hired a stranger from Chicago to protect his wife from harm.

The moment he got back to the squadroom, he dialed the number he'd copied from the card. A recorded message said: "You've reached Darrow Investigations. I'm out of town just now, but if you'll leave a message when you hear the beep, I'll get back to you as soon as I return. Thank you.”

Darrow Investigations, he thought, and dialed 1-312-555-1212.

"Directory Assistance," a voice said.

"In Chicago," he said. "A listing for Darrow Investigations on South Clark Street.”

"How are you spelling that?" she asked.

"Do-A-Rather-Rather-O-Will," he said.

As in Clarence, he thought.

"One moment, please," the operator said.

He waited.

"I'm sorry, sir, I don't have a listing under that name.”

"Can you try A. N. Darrow?" he asked.

"Is that N as in Nancy?”

"Yes, please.”

"Moment, please.”

He waited again.

When she came back, she said, "Nothing under that name, either, sir.”

"Are you sure?”

"Yes, sir.”

“Thank you," he said, and hung up.

He thought for a moment, and then looked through his personal directory for the number of the telephone company's P.A. line. When he got through, he identified himself to the woman who answered, told her he was investigating a homicide and needed a name and address for a telephone number in Chicago. She said she'd call back in a moment. It actually took her three minutes to punch up and dial the number her records showed for the 87th Precinct. When she got Carella again, she asked him for the number in Chicago, said she'd contact her equivalent there, and called back ten minutes later to say the number he'd given her was an unpublished number.

"I don't understand the problem," he said.

"I just told you, sir. It's a nonpub.”

"Am I talking to a P.A. operator?”

"Yes, sir, you are.”

"And do those letters still stand for Police Assistance?”

"They do, sir.”

"I've had cooperation on nonpubs in the past," he said.

"I'm sorry, sir," she said. "You're probably thinking of a nonlist.”

"No, I'm thinking of a nonpub. This is a homicide I'm working.”

"Yes, sir, I appreciate that. But I can't let you have a nonpub ...”

"Did Chicago give you a name and address for that number?”

"No, sir, Chicago did not.”

"Who'd you talk to there?”

"I can let you have the number at Illinois Bell, sir, but they seemed pretty adamant about it.”

"Let me have the number, please," he said.

"Yes, sir," she said, and gave him the number.

Carella dialed it.

"Subpoena Group," a woman's voice said.

Carella figured he was already in trouble.

"Yes," he said, "this is Detective Carella at the 87th Precinct in Isola?”

"Yes?" she said.

"Who am I speaking to, please?”

"Mrs. Fisher.”

"Mrs. Fisher, I'm working a homicide down here, and I have a Chicago telephone number I understand is unpublished ...”

"Yes, sir?”

"I'd like a name and address for that number.”

"You'll have to get a court order ...”

"This is a homicide," he said.

"You'll still need a subpoena ordering us to release that information.”

"Well, that might be a little difficult ...”

"Yes, sir.”

"... seeing as I'm all the way down here, and you're ...”

"Yes, sir, but that's the way it's done here.”

"Are you talking about an Illinois court order?”

"Yes, sir. This is Illinois, sir.”

"That's just what I mean. A man's been killed down here ...”

"Yes, sir.”

"And normally, when we're investigating ...”

"All of our requests come from law-enforcement officers, sir.”

"What I'm saying, in a situation like this one, the telephone company will usually ...”

"Illinois Bell handles some eight- to nine-thousand such requests every year, sir. You'll still need a court order.”

"Don't you have some sort of liaison with the Chicago PAID?" he asked. "Down here, we ...”

"Are you with the Chicago PAID, sir?”

"No, I told you ...”

"Then you'll need a court order, sir.”

"Thank you," he said, and hung up.

He went back to his personal directory, found a listing for Police Headquarters in Chicago, dialed the number there, and told the sergeant who answered the phone what he needed.

The sergeant put him through to a detective named Riley. He explained it to Riley all over again. Told him all about his conversation with Mrs.

Fisher.

"Yeah, they can get snotty when they want to," Riley said. "But here's what you do. You get in touch with our Field Inquiry Section.

Look up the teletype number in your Leads Network directory. Tell them what you're working and why you need the information. The Chief of Detectives'll turn it over to the Detective Division, and somebody'll take care of it.”

"You'll get that subpoena for me?”

"No, no, that's bullshit.”

"She said ...”

"Yeah, but we got a special guy in their security office, he works with us all the time. In an active investigation ... you did say homicide, didn't you?”

"I said homicide.”

"He'll usually give us the information right on the phone.”

"Good," Carella said. "How long will it take?”

"Later this afternoon sound okay?" Riley asked.

The teletype from the Chicago PAID came in half an hour later. It told Carella only two things: The unpublished telephone number printed on Andrew Darrow's supposed business card was billed to a man named Andrew Denker at an address not on South Clark but instead on West Wellington.