McBain's Ladies Too: More Women of the 87th Precinct

Naomi Schneider

The rain lashed the windows of the bar on Jefferson Avenue, some three and a half miles southwest of the station house. The tall blond man with the hearing aid in his right car had just told Naomi he was a cop. A police detective, no less. She didn’t know the police department was hiring deaf people nowadays. Antidiscrimination laws, she supposed. They allowed you to hire anybody. Next you’d have detectives who were midgets. Not that a hearing aid necessarily meant you were deaf. Not stone cold deaf anyway. Still she guessed any degree of hearing loss could be considered an infirmity, and she was far too polite to ask him how a man wearing a hearing aid had passed the physical examinations she supposed the police department required. Some people were sensitive about such things.

He was good-looking.

For a cop.

“So what's your name?” she asked.

"Steve,” he said.

“Steve what?”

“Carella,” he said. “Steve Carella.”

"Really?" she said. "Italian?"

"Yes," he said.

"Me too," Naomi said. "Half."

"What's the other half?"

"Wildcat," she said, and grinned, and then lifted her glass. She was drinking C.C. and soda, which she thought was sophisticated. She looked up at him seductively over the rim of her glass, which she had learned to do from one of her women's magazines, where she had also learned how to have multiple orgasms, occasionally.

Actually she was half-Italian and half-Jewish, which she guessed accounted for the black hair and blue eyes. The tip-tilted nose was Irish, not that her parents could claim any credit for that. The nose's true father was Dr. Stanley Horowitz, who had done the job for her three years ago, when she was twenty-two years old. She'd asked him at the time if he didn't think she should get a little something done to her boobs as well, but he'd smiled and said she didn't need any help in that department, which she supposed was true.

She was wearing a low-cut blue nylon blouse that showed her breasts to good advantage and also echoed the color of her eyes. She noticed that the deaf man's eyes — what'd he say his name was? — kept wandering down to the front of her blouse, though occasionally he checked out her legs, too. She had good legs. That's why she was wearing very high-heeled, ankle-strapped shoes, to emphasize the curve of the leg. Lifted the ass, too, the high heels did, though you couldn't tell that when she was sitting. Dark blue shoes and smoky blue nylons. Sexy. She felt sexy. Her legs were crossed now, her navy blue skirt riding up over one knee.

"I'm sorry, what was your name again?" she asked.

"Steve Carella," he said.

"I got so carried away with your being Italian," she said, rolling her eyes, "that I…"

"A lot of people forget Italian names," he said.

"Well, I certainly shouldn't," Naomi said. "My mother's maiden name was Giamboglio."

"And your name?" he said.

"Naomi Schneider." She paused and then said, "That's what the other half is… Jewish." She waited for a reaction. Not a flicker on his face. Good. Actually she enjoyed being a Big City Jewish Girl. There was something special about the Jewish girls who lived in this city — a sharpness of attitude, a quickness of tongue, an intelligence, an awareness that came across as sophisticated and witty and hip. If anybody didn't like her being Jewish — well, half Jewish — then so long, it was nice knowing you. He seemed to like it, though. At least he kept staring into her blouse. And checking out the sexy legs in the smoky blue nylons.

"So, Steve," she said, "where do you work?"

"Uptown," he said, "At the Eight-Seven. Right across the street from Grover Park."

"Rotten neighborhood up there, isn't it?"

"Not the best," he said, and smiled.

"You must have your hands full."

"Occasionally," he said.

"What do you get up there? A lot of murders and such?"

"Murders, armed robberies, burglaries, rapes, arsons, muggings… you name it, we've got it."

"Must be exciting, though," Naomi said. She had learned in one of her women's magazines to show an intense interest in a man's work. This got difficult when you were talking to a dentist, for example. But police work really was interesting, so right now she didn't have to fake any deep emotional involvement with a left lateral molar, for example.

"Are you working on anything interesting just now?" she asked.

"We caught a homicide on the twenty-fifth," he said. "Dead woman in the park, about your age."

"Oh my," Naomi said.

"Shot in the back of the head. Totally naked, not a stitch on her."

"Oh my," Naomi said again.

"Not much to go on yet," he said, "but we're working on it."

"I guess you see a lot of that."

"We do."

She lifted her glass, sipped at her C.C. and soda, looking at him over the rim, and then put the glass down on the bartop again, empty. The bar at five-thirty in the afternoon was just beginning to get crowded. She'd come over directly from work, the long weekend ahead, hoping she might meet someone interesting. This one was certainly interesting; she'd never met a detective before. Good-looking, too. A naked dead girl in the park, how about that?

"Would you care for another one?" he asked.

"Oh, thank you," she said. "It's C.C. and soda." She waited for a reaction. Usually you said C.C. and soda to a wimp, he asked, "What's that, C.C?" This one didn't even bat an eyelash. Either he knew what C.C. was, or he was smart enough to pretend he knew. She liked smart men. She liked handsome men, too. Some men, you woke up the next morning, it wasn't even worth the shower.

He signaled to the bartender, indicated another round, and then turned to her again, smiling. He had a nice smile. The jukebox was playing the new McCartney single. The rain beat against the plate glass windows of the bar. It felt cozy and warm and comfortably crowded in here, the hum of conversation, the tinkle of ice cubes in glasses, the music from the juke, the brittle laughter of Big City women like herself.

"What sort of work do you do, Naomi?" he asked.

"I work for CBS," she said.

It usually impressed people when she said she worked for CBS. Actually what she did, she was a receptionist there, but still it was impressive, a network. Again nothing registered on his face. He was a very cool one, this one, well-dressed, handsome, a feeling of… absolute certainty about him. Well, he'd probably seen it all and done it all, this one. She found that exciting.

Well, maybe she was looking for a little excitement.

This morning, when she was dressing for work, she'd put on the lingerie she'd ordered from Victoria's Secret. Blue, like the blouse. A demicup underwire bra designed for low necklines, a lace-front string bikini with a cotton panel at the crotch, a garter belt with V-shaped lace panels. Sat at the desk in the lobby with the sexy underwear under her skirt and blouse, thinking she'd hit one of the bars after work, find some excitement. "CBS, good morning." And under her clothes, secret lace.

"Actually I'm just a receptionist there," she said, and wondered why she'd admitted this. "But I do get to meet a lot of performers and such. Who come up to do shows, you know."

"Uh-huh," he said.

"It's a fairly boring job," she said, and again wondered why she was telling him this.

"Uh-huh," he said.

"I plan to get into publishing eventually."

"I plan to get into you eventually," he said.

Normally she would have said, "Hey, get lost, creep, huh?" But he was looking at her so intently, not a smile on his face, and he appeared so… confident that for a moment she didn't know what to say. She had the sudden feeling that if she told him to disappear, he might arrest her or something. For what, she couldn't imagine. She also had the feeling that he knew exactly what she was wearing under her skirt and blouse. It was uncanny. As if he had X-ray vision, like Superman. She was nodding before she even realized it. She kept nodding. She hoped her face was saying, "Oh, yeah, wise guy?" She didn't know what her face was saying. She just kept nodding.

"You're pretty sure of yourself, aren't you?" she asked.

"Yes," he said.

"Walk into a bar, sit down next to a pretty girl…"

"You are," he said.

"Think all you have to do…"

"Yes," he said.

"Man of few words," she said. Her heart was pounding.

"Yes," he said.

"Mmm," she said, still nodding.

The record on the juke changed. Something by the Stones. There was a hush for a moment, one of those sudden silences, all conversation seeming to stop everywhere around them, as though E. F. Hutton were talking. And then a woman laughed someplace down the bar, and Mick Jagger's voice cut through the renewed din, and Naomi idly twirled her finger in her drink, turning the ice cubes, turning them. She wondered if he liked sexy underwear. Most men liked sexy underwear. She visualized him tearing off her blouse and bra, getting on his knees before her to kiss her where the cotton panel covered her crotch, his big hands twisted in the garters against her thighs. She could feel the garters against her thighs.

"So… uh… where do you live, Steve?" she asked. "Near the precinct?"

"It doesn't matter where I live," he said. "We're going to your place."

"Oh, are we?" she said, and arched one eyebrow. She was jiggling her foot, she realized. She sipped at the drink, this time looking into the glass and not over the rim of it.

"Naomi," he said, "we are…"

"Bet you can't even spell it," she said. "Naomi."

Her magazines had said it was a good idea to get a man to spell your name out loud. That way, he would remember it. But it was as if he hadn't even heard her, as if her statement had been too ridiculous to dignify with a reply.

"We are," he repeated, giving the word emphasis because she'd interrupted him, "going to your apartment, wherever it is, and we are going to spend the weekend there."

"That's what… what you think," she said.

She was suddenly aware of the fad that her panties were damp.

"How do you know I'm not married?'' she said.

"Are you?"

"No," she said. "How do you know I'm not living with someone?"

"Are you?"

"No, but…"

"Finish your drink, Naomi."

"Listen, I don't like men who eome on so strong, I mean it."

"Don't you?" he said. He was smiling.

"No, I don't."

"You do," he said.

"Do all detectives come on so strong?" she said.

"I don't know what all detectives do," he said.

"'Cause, you know, you really are coming on very strong, Steve. I don't usually like that, you know. A man coming on so strong."

"I'm giving you sixty seconds to finish that drink," he said.

God, I'm soaking wet, she thought, and wondered if she'd suddenly got her period.

"Are you married?" she asked.

"No," he said, and pushed back the cuff on his jacket. He was wearing a gold Rolex. She wondered briefly how come a detective could afford a gold Rolex.

"Sixty seconds," he said. "Starting now."

"What if I don't finish it in sixty seconds?"

"You lose," he said simply.

She did not pick up her glass.

"Fifty-five seconds," he said.

She looked into his face and then reached for her glass. "I'm drinking this because I want to," she said. "Not because you're looking at your watch."

"Fifty seconds," he said.

Deliberately, she sipped at the drink very slowly, and then suddenly wondered if she could really finish the damn thing in whatever time was left. She also wondered if she'd made the bed this morning.

"Forty seconds," he said.

"You're really something, you know that?" she said, and took a longer swallow this time.

"In exactly thirty-eight seconds…" he said.

"Do you carry a gun?" she asked.

"Thirty-five seconds now…"

'"Cause I'm a little afraid of guns."

"Thirty seconds…"

"What is this, a countdown?" she asked, but she took another hasty swallow of the drink.

"Twenty-six seconds…"

"You're making me very nervous, you know that?" she said.

"Twenty seconds…"

"Forcing me to…"

"Fifteen…"

"Slow down, will…?"

"In exactly twelve seconds…"

"I'm gonna choke on this," she said.

"Ten seconds…"

"Jesus!"

"You and I… eight seconds… are going to… five seconds… walk out of here… two seconds…"

"All right, already!" she said and plunked the empty glass down on the bartop.

Their eyes met.

"Good," he said, and smiled.

She had found the ribbons for him in her sewing box. He had asked her for the ribbons. By then she would have given him the moon. Silk ribbons. A red one on her right wrist. A blue one on her left wrist. Pink ribbons on her ankles. She was spread-eagled on her king-size bed, her wrists and ankles tied to the bars of the brass headboard and footboard. She was still wearing the smoky blue nylons, the high-heeled, ankle-strapped shoes, and the garter belt. He had taken off her panties and her bra. She lay there open and exposed, waiting for whatever he chose to do next, wanting whatever he chose to do next.

He had put his shoulder holster and gun on the seat of the armchair across the room. That was when he was undressing. Jokingly she had said, "Let me see your badge," which is what anybody in this city said when somebody knocked on your door in the middle of the night and claimed to be a cop. He had looked at her without a smile. "Here's my badge, baby," he'd said, and unzipped his fly. She knew she was in trouble right that minute. She just didn't know how much trouble. She had looked down at him and said, "Oh, boy, I'm in trouble," and had giggled nervously, like a schoolgirl, and suddenly she was in his arms, and his lips were on hers, and she was lost, she knew she was lost.

That had been four hours ago, before he'd tied her to the bed.

The clock on the dresser now read ten o'clock.

He had insisted that they leave the shades on the windows up, even though she protested that people in the building across the way might see them. There were lights on in the building across the way. Above the building the night was black. She wondered if anyone across the way could see her tied to the bed with silk ribbons. She was oozing below again, dizzy with wanting him again. She visualized someone across the way looking at her. Somehow it made her even more excited.

She watched him as he went to the armchair, picked up the holster, and took the pistol from it. Broad, tanned shoulders, a narrow waist, her fingernail marks still on his ass from where she'd clawed at him. She'd described herself to him, back therein the bar, as half-wildcat, but that was something she'd never believed of herself, even after she'd learned all about multiple orgasms. Tonight… Jesus! Afloat on her own ocean. Still wet with his juices and her own, still wanting more.

He approached the bed with the gun in his hand.

"Is there a burglar in the house?" she asked, smiling.

He did not smile back.

"A lesson," he said.

"Is that loaded?" she said. She was looking at his cock, not the gun, though in truth the gun did frighten her. She had never liked guns. But she was still smiling, seductively she thought. She writhed on the bed, twisting against the tight silken ribbons.

"Empty," he said, and snapped open the cylinder to show her. "A Colt Detective Special," he said. "Snub-nosed."

"Like me," she said. "Do you like my nose?"

"Are you ready for the lesson?" he asked.

"Oh my," she said, opening her eyes and her bound hands in mock fright. "Another lesson?" The gun was empty, she wasn't afraid of it now. And she was ready to play any game he invented.

"If you're ready for one," he said.

"I'm ready for anything you've got," she said.

"A lesson in combinations and permutations," he said, and suddenly opened his left hand. A bullet was in it. "Voilà," he said. "Six empty chambers in the…"

"There's an empty chamber right here," she said.

"… cylinder of the pistol."

"Come fill it," she said.

"And one bullet in my left hand."

He showed her the bullet.

"I insert this into the cylinder…"

"Insert something in me, will you, please?"

"… and we now have one full chamber and five empty ones. Question: What are the odds against the shell being in firing position when I stop twirling the cylinder?" he started twirling the cylinder, slowly, idly. "Any idea?" he said.

"Five to one," she said. "Come fuck me."

"Five to one, correct," he said, and sat on the edge of the bed, resting the barrel of the gun against the inside of her thigh.

"Careful with that," she said.

He smiled. His finger was inside the trigger guard.

"Really," she said. "There's a bullet in it now."

"Yes, I know."

"So… you know… move it away from there, okay?" She twisted on the bed. The cold barrel of the gun touched her thigh again. "Come on, Steve."

"We're going to play a little Russian roulette," he said, smiling.

"Like hell we are," she said.

But she was tied to the bed.

He rose suddenly. Standing beside the bed, looking down at her, he began twirling the cylinder. He kept twirling it. Twirling it. Smiling.

"Come, Steve," she said, "you're scaring me."

"Nothing to be scared of," he said. "The odds are five to one."

He stopped twirling the cylinder.

He sat on the edge of the bed again.

He looked at her.

He looked at the gun.

And then, gently, he placed the barrel of the gun into the hollow of her throat.

She recoiled, terrified, twisting her head. The metal was cold against her flesh.

"Hey, listen," she said, and he pulled the trigger.

The silence was deafening.

She lay there sweating, breathing harshly, certain he would pull the trigger yet another time. The odds were five to one. How many times could he…?

"It's made of wood," he said. "The bullet in the gun. You weren't in any danger."

He moved the barrel of the gun away from her throat.

She heaved a sigh of relief.

And realized how wet she was.

And looked at him.

His erection was enormous.

"You… shouldn't have scared me that way," she said.

She was throbbing everywhere.

"I can do whatever I want with you," he said.

"No, you can't."

"I own you," he said.

"No, you don't," she whispered.

But she struggled against the restraining ribbons to open wider for him as he mounted her again.

They did not budge from that apartment all weekend.

She did not know what was happening to her; nothing like this had ever happened to her in her life.

He left early Monday morning, promising to call her soon.

As soon as he was gone, she dressed as he had ordered her to.

Sitting behind the reception desk at CBS later that morning, she wore no panties under her skirt and no bra under her blouse.

"CBS, good morning," she said into the phone.

And ached for him.

"Eighty-seventh Squad, Brown," he said.

"Hello, yes," the voice on the other end said. A young woman. Slightly nervous. "May I speak to Detective Carella, please?"

"I'm sorry, he's not here just now," Brown said. "Should be in any minute, though." He looked up at the wall clock. Five minutes to eight. "Can I take a message for him?"

"Yes," the woman said. "Would you tell him Naomi called?"

"Yes, Miss, Naomi who?" Brown said. O'Brien was on his way out of the squadroom. He waved to Brown, and Brown waved back.

"Just tell him Naomi. He'll know who it is."

"Well, Miss, we like to…"

"He'll know," she said, and hung up.

Brown looked at the telephone receiver.

He shrugged and put it back on its cradle.

Carella walked into the squadroom not three minutes later.

"Your girlfriend called," Brown said.

"I told her never to call me at the office," Carella said.

He looked like an Eskimo. He was wearing a short woolen car coat with a hood pulled up over his head. The hood was lined with some kind of fur, probably rabbit, Brown thought. He was wearing leather fur-lined gloves. His nose was red, and his eyes were tearing.

"Where'd summer go?" he asked.

"Naomi," Brown said, and winked. "She said you'd know who."

The phone rang again.

Brown picked up the receiver.

"Eighty-seventh Squad, Brown," he said.

"Hello, it's Naomi again," the voice said, still sounding nervous. "I'm sorry to bother you, but I'll be leaving for work in a few minutes, and I'm not sure he has the number there."

"Hold on, he just came in," Brown said, and held the phone out to Carella. "Naomi," he said.

Carella looked at him.

"Naomi," Brown said again, and shrugged.

"You kidding?" Carella asked.

"It's Naomi," Brown said. "Would I kid you about Naomi?"

Carella walked to his own desk.

"What extension is she on?" he asked.

"Six. You want a little privacy? Shall I go down the hall?"

Carella pushed the six button on the base of his phone and lifted the receiver. "Detective Carella," he said.

"Steve?" a woman's voice said. "It's Naomi."

"Uh-huh," he said, and looked at Brown.

Brown rolled his eyes.

"You promised you'd call," she said.

"Uh-huh," Carella said, and looked at Brown again. The way he figured it, there were only two possible explanations for the youngish-sounding lady on the phone. One: She was someone he'd dealt with before in the course of a working day, an honest citizen with one complaint or another, and he'd simply forgotten her name. Or two, and he considered this more likely: The witty gents of the Eight-Seven had concocted a little gag, and he was the butt of it. He remembered back to last April, when they'd asked a friendly neighborhood hooker to come up here and tell Genero she was pregnant with his child. Now there was Naomi. City-honed voice calling him "Steve" and telling him he'd promised to call. And Brown sitting across the room, watching him expectantly. Okay, he thought, let's play the string out.

"Steve?" she said. "Are you still there?"

"Yep," he said. "Still here. What's this in reference to, Miss?"

"It's in reference to your pistol."

"Oh, I see, my pistol," he said.

"Yes, your big pistol."

"Uh-huh," he said.

"When am I going to see you again, Steve?"

"Well, that all depends," he said, and smiled at Brown. "Who'd you say this was?"

"What is it?" she said. "Can't you talk just now?"

"Yes, Miss, certainly," he said. "But police regulations require that we get the name and address of anyone calling the squadroom. Didn't they tell you that?"

"Didn't who tell me that?"

"Whoever put you up to calling me."

There was a long silence on the line.

"What is it?" she said. "Don't you want to talk to me?"

"Miss," Carella said, "I would love to talk to you, truly. I would love to talk to you for hours on end. It's just that these jackasses up here" — he looked meaningfully at Brown — "don't seem to understand that a dedicated and hardworking policeman has better things to do at eight o'clock in the morning than…"

"Why are you acting so peculiarly?" she said.

"Would you like to talk to Artie again?" Carella said.

"Who's Artie?"

"Or did Meyer set this up?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," she said.

"Cotton, right? It was Cotton."

"Am I talking to the right person?" she asked.

"You are talking to the person they asked you to talk to," he said, and winked at Brown. Brown did not wink back. Carella felt suddenly uneasy.

"Is this Detective Steve Carella?" she asked.

"Yes," he said cautiously, beginning to think he'd made a terrible mistake. If this was an honest citizen calling on legitimate police business.

"Who ties girls to beds and plays Russian roulette," she said. "With a wooden bullet."

Uh-oh, he thought, a bedbug. He signaled to Brown to pick up the extension, and then he put his forefinger to his temple and twirled it clockwise in the universal sign language for someone who'd lost his marbles.

"Can you let me have your last name, please?" he said. He was all business now. This was someone out there who might need help. Brown had picked up the phone on his desk. Both men heard a heavy sigh on the other end of the line.

"Okay," she said, "if you want to play games, we'll play games. This is Naomi Schneider."

"And your address, please?"

"You know my address," she said. "You spent a whole goddamn weekend with me."

"Yes, but can you give it to me again, Miss?"

"No, I won't give it to you again. If you've forgotten where I live, for Christ's sake…"

"Are you alone there, Miss?" he asked. They sometimes called in desperation. They sometimes asked the desk sergeant to put them through to the detectives, and sometimes the sergeant said, "Just a moment, I'll connect you to Detective Kling," or Brown or whoever the hell — Detective Carella in this case — but how did she know his first name?

"Yes, I'm alone," she said. "But you can't come over just now, I'm about to leave for work."

"And where's that, Miss? Where do you work?"

"I'm wearing what you told me to wear," she said. "I've been wearing it every day."

"Yes, Miss, where do you work?"

"The garter belt and stockings," she said.

"Can you tell me where you work, Miss?"

"No panties," she said seductively. "No bra."

"If you'll tell me where you work…"

"You know where I work," she said.

"I guess I've forgotten."

"Maybe you weren't listening."

"I was listening, but I guess I…"

"Maybe you should have turned up your hearing aid," she said.

"My what?" Carella asked at once.

"What?" Naomi said.

"What makes you mention a hearing aid?" Carella said.

There was a long silence on the line.

"Miss?" he said.

"Are you sure this is Steve Carella?" she said.

"Yes, this is…"

"Because you sound strange as hell, I've got to tell you."

"Listen, I'd like to see you," Carella said, "really. If you'll give me your address…"

"I told you I'm leaving for work in a few minutes…"

"And where's that? I'd like to talk to you, Naomi…"

"Is that all you'd like to do?"

"Well, I…"

"I thought you might want to fuck me again."

Brown raised his eyebrows. Jesus, Carella thought, he thinks I really know this girl! But she had mentioned a hearing aid, and right now he didn't give a damn what Brown thought.

"Yes, I'd like to do that, too," he said.

"At last," she said, and sighed again. "It's like pulling teeth with you, isn't it?"

"Tell me where you work," he said.

"You already know where I work. Anyway, why would you want to come there?"

"Well, I thought…"

"We couldn't do anything there, could we, Steve?" she said, and giggled. "We'd get arrested."

"Well, what time do you get off tonight?" he asked.

"Five."

"Okay, let me have your address, I'll come by as soon as…"

"No," she said.

"Naomi…"

"You try to remember my address, okay? " she said. "I'll be waiting for you. I'll be wide open and waiting for you."

There was a click on the line.

"Miss?" he said

The line was dead.

"Shit," he said.

Brown was staring at him.

Carella put the receiver back on its cradle. "Listen," he said, "if you're thinking…"

"No, I'm, not," Brown said. "I'm thinking the Deaf Man."

The Carella house in Riverhead was a huge white elephant they'd picked up for a song shortly after Teddy Carella gave birth to the twins. At about the same time, Teddy's father presented them with a registered nurse as a month-long gift while Teddy was getting her act together, and Fanny Knowles had elected to stay on with them at a salary they could afford, telling them she was tired of carrying bedpans for sick old men.

A lot of cops ribbed Carella about Fanny. They told him they didn't know any other cop on the force who was rich enough to have a housekeeper, even one who had blue hair and wore a pince-nez. They said he had to be on the take. Carella admitted that being able to afford live-in help was decidedly difficult these days; the numbers boys in Riverhead were always so late paying off. Actually Fanny was worth her weight — a hundred and fifty pounds — in pure gold. She ran the house with all the tenderness of a Marine Corps drill sergeant, and she was fond of saying, "I take no shit from man nor beast," an expression the ten-year-old twins had picked up when they were learning to talk and which Mark now used with more frequency than April. In fact, the twins' speech patterns — much to Carella's consternation — were more closely modeled after Fanny's than anyone else's; Teddy Carella was a deaf mute, and it was Fanny's voice the twins heard around the house whenever Carella wasn't home.

When the phone rang at three o'clock that Thanksgiving Day, Fanny was washing dishes in the kitchen. Her hands were soapy but she answered the phone anyway. Whenever she and Teddy were alone in the house, she had to answer the phone, of course. But even when Carella was home, she normally picked up because she wanted to make sure it wasn't some idiot detective calling about something that could easily wait till morning.

"Carella residence," she said.

"Yes, hello?" a woman's voice said.

"Hello?" Fanny said.

"Yes, I'm trying to get in touch with Detective Steve Carella. Have I got the right number?"

"This is the Carella residence, yes," Fanny said.

"Is there a Detective Steve Carella there?"

"Who's this, please?" Fanny said.

"Naomi Schneider."

"Is this police business, Miss Schneider?"

"Well… uh… yes."

"Are you a police officer, Miss Schneider?"

"No."

"Then what's this in reference to, please?"

It wasn't often that a civilian called here at the house, but sometimes they did, even though the number was listed in the book as "Carella, T. F.," for Theodora Franklin Carella. Not too many cops listed their home numbers in the telephone directories; this was because not too many crooks enjoyed being sent up the river, and some of them came out looking for revenge. The way things were nowadays, most of them got out ten minutes after you locked them up. These days, when you threw away the key, it came back at you like a boomerang.

"I'd rather discuss it with him personally," Naomi said.

"Well, he's finishing his dinner just now," Fanny said. "May I take a message?"

"I wonder if you could interrupt him, please," Naomi said.

"I'd rather not do that," Fanny said. "They're just having their coffee. If you'll give me your number…"

"They?" Naomi said.

"Him and Mrs. Carella, yes."

There was a long silence on the line

"His mother, do you mean?" Naomi asked.

"No, his wife. Miss Schneider, he'll be back in the office tomorrow if you'd like to…"

"Are you sure I have the right number?" Naomi said. "The Detective Carella I have in mind isn't married."

"Well, this one is," Fanny said. She was beginning to get a bit irritated.

"Detective Steve Carella, right?" Naomi said.

"Yes, Miss, that's who lives here," Fanny said. "If you'd like to give me a number where he can reach you…"

"No, never mind," Naomi said. "Thank you."

And hung up.

Fanny frowned. She replaced the receiver on the wall hook, dried her hands on a dish towel, and went out into the dining room. She could hear the television set down the hallway turned up full blast, the twins giggling at yet another animated cartoon: Thanksgiving Day and all you got was animated cats chasing animated mice. Carella and Teddy were sitting at the dining room table, finishing their second cups of coffee.

"Who was that?" Carella asked.

"Somebody wanting a Detective Steve Carella," Fanny said.

"Well, who?"

"A woman named Naomi Schneider."

"What?" Carella said.

"Got the wrong Carella," Fanny said, and looked at him. "The one she wanted ain't married."

Teddy was reading her lips. She looked at Carella questioningly.

"Did you get a number?" he asked. "Did she leave a number?"

"She hung up," Fanny said, and looked at Carella again. "You ought to tell people not to bring police business into your home," she said, and went out into the kitchen again.

It was beginning to snow lightly.

Naomi stood under the lamppost across the street from the old house and wondered for perhaps the tenth time whether she should go in or not. Her shrink, whom she used to see three years ago, would have said she was conflicted. That had been one of Dr. Hammerstein's favorite words, "conflicted." If she couldn't decide between the vanilla or the chocolate ice cream, that was because she was conflicted. She once protested about his use of the word "conflicted," and he said, "Good, we are making progress." That wasn't what he'd really said, he didn't even have a German accent. But Naomi always thought of him as having a German accent.

The house across the street looked cozy and warm.

Well, Thanksgiving.

The reason Naomi felt conflicted was because she didn't want to lay this heavy stuff on this bastard Carella's wife, but at the same time nobody should have the right to do to her what he'd done to her, which she wouldn't have let him do if she'd known he was married, which he'd lied about. A cop, no less! A detective!. Lying to her, taking advantage of her, doing disgusting things to her, and then not even calling her again. She'd called every damn Carella in the Isola phone book and had come down six Carella's in the Riverhead directory before she'd struck pay dirt earlier today with T. F. Carella. Who the hell was T. F. Carella? Was Steve even his right name? She'd never have gone to bed with somebody who didn't even give a person his right name. A married man. She'd never have gone to bed with a married man who'd picked her up in a bar. Well, maybe she would have. Isadora Wing went to bed with married men, didn't she? That wasn't the point. This wasn't a question of her own morality here, this was a question of whether a man sworn to uphold the laws of the city, state, and nation should be allowed to get away with not calling up a person after the person had allowed him to do such things to her. You weren't even supposed to take your gun out of your holster without justification, were you? No less what he had done with it.

She could imagine telling that to Hammerstein.

Ja? Dot is very inner-estink. Are you avare vot a symbol der gun is?

She wondered what Hammerstein was doing these days, the crazy old bastard.

Conflicted, she thought, and started across the street toward the house.

The snow was sticking. She shouldn't have come all the way up here. If the snow got really bad, it would raise hell with mass transit. Well, some things simply had to be done. One thing she'd learned about being conflicted was that if you took action, the confliction disappeared. Better you than me, Stew, she thought, and knocked on the door.

A short fat lady with blue hair answered it.

Is this his wife? Naomi thought. No wonder he picks up girls in bars.

"Yes?" the woman said.

"I'm looking for Steve Carella," Naomi said.

"I'm sorry, he's not here just now," the woman said.

"He was here an hour and a half ago," Naomi said. "He was here having coffee with his wife."

The woman studied her more closely.

"Are you the person who called here?" she asked.

"I'm the person who called here," Naomi said. "I'm Naomi Schneider. Are you his wife?"

"No, I'm not his…"

Another woman appeared suddenly behind her. Dark eves and hair the color of a raven's wing, good breasts and legs, an inquisitive look on her face. God, she's gorgeous! Naomi thought. Why is that son of a bitch fooling around?

"Mrs. Carella?" she asked.

The woman nodded.

"I'm Naomi Schneider," she said. "I'd like to talk to you about your husband. May I come in?"

The other woman was studying her mouth as she spoke. All at once, Naomi realized she was deaf. Oh God, she thought, what am I doing here? But the woman was gesturing her into the house.

She stepped inside.

I'm going to bring this house down around your ears, Steve, she thought, and followed the woman into the living room.

Teddy listened motionless as Naomi told her all about the man she'd met in a bar some three weeks ago, a man she claimed was Steve Carella. Detective Carella had told her he was not married. They had gone to her apartment afterward. Naomi detailed all the things they had done together in her apartment, her eyes unflinching, the words spilling soundlessly from her lips. They had spent the entire weekend together. He had told her he wanted her to go to work on Monday morning without anything under her.

Teddy held up her hand. Not quite like a traffic cop, but with much the same effect. She rose, crossed the room to a rolltop desk standing near a Tiffany-type floor lamp, and took from it a pencil and pad. She walked back to where Naomi was sitting.

On the pad she wrote: Are you sure the name was Detective Stephen Louis Carella?

"He didn't give me his full name," Naomi said. "He just said Steve Carella."

Did he say where he worked? Teddy wrote.

Naomi began talking again.

Teddy watched her lips.

The man — she kept referring to him as "your husband" — had told her he worked uptown at the Eight-Seven, right across the street from Grover Park. He'd told her he was working a homicide he'd caught on the twenty-fifth of October. Dead woman in the park, about your age, he'd said.

"I'm twenty-five," Naomi said, a challenging look on her face.

Told her the woman had been shot in the back of the head. Totally naked, not a stitch on her. Not much to go on, he'd told her, but we're working on it.

How can she know all this? Teddy wondered.

On the pad she wrote: When was this?

"November fourth," Naomi said. "A Friday night. He left on Monday morning, the seventh. When I went to work that morning — does your husband ask you to run around naked under your dress? Does he tie you to the bed and stick his goddamn…"

Teddy held up the traffic-cop hand again. She rose and went to the desk again. She picked up her appointment calendar. On Friday night, November 4, she and Carella had had dinner with Bert Kling and his girlfriend, Eileen. They had talked about the plastic surgery Eileen was considering. It had been painful for Eileen to discuss the scar a rapist had put on her left cheek. On Saturday, November 5, she and Carella had taken the kids to see a magic show downtown. On, Sunday, November 6, they had gone to visit Carella's parents. She went back to where Naomi was sitting. On the pad she wrote, Please wait, and then went down the hall to fetch Fanny.

"Mrs. Carella would like me to translate for her," Fanny said. She looked at Naomi sternly, her arms folded across her ample bosom. "Save a lot of time that way."

"Fine," Naomi said, looking just as stern.

Teddy's fingers moved.

Fanny watched them and then said, "This man who picked you up wasn't my husband."

"Your husband?" Naomi said, looking suddenly puzzled.

"Mrs. Carella's husband," Fanny said. "I'm translating exactly what she signs."

Teddy's fingers were moving again.

"My husband and I were together on the weekend you're talking about," Fanny said.

"You're trying to protect him," Naomi said directly to Teddy.

Teddy's fingers moved.

"What did this man look like?" Fanny asked.

"He was tall and blond…"

Watching Teddy's hands, Fanny said, "My husband has brown hair."

"What color eyes does he have?" Naomi asked.

"Brown," Fanny said, ahead of Teddy's fingers.

Naomi blinked. She realized all at once that she couldn't remember what color his eyes were. Damn it, what color were his eyes? "Does he wear a hearing aid?" she asked in desperation.

This time Teddy blinked.

"No, he doesn't wear no damn hearing aid," Fanny said, though Teddy hadn't signed a thing. "You've got the wrong man. Now what I suggest you do is get out of here before I…"

Teddy was signing again. Very rapidly. Fanny could hardly keep up.

"This man you met is a criminal," Fanny said, translating. "My husband will want to talk to you. Will you please wait here for him? We'll call him at once."

Naomi nodded.

She suddenly felt as if she were in a spy novel.

Carella did not get back to the house until six that night.

Naomi Schneider was still waiting there for him. Fanny had brought her a cup of tea, and she was sitting in the living room, her legs crossed, chatting with Teddy as Fanny translated, the two of them behaving like old college roommates, Teddy's hands and eyes flashing, her face animated.

Naomi thought Carella was very good-looking, and wondered immediately if he fooled around. She was happy when Teddy excused herself to see how the children were doing. Twins, she explained with her hands as Carella translated. A boy and a girl. Mark and April. Ten years old. Naomi listened with great interest, thinking a good-looking man like this, burdened with a handicapped wife and a set of twins, probably did play around a little on the side. She waited for Fanny to leave the room, grateful when she did. She was going to enjoy telling the real Steve Carella all about what the fake Steve Carella had done to her. She wanted to see the expression on his face when she told him.

The real Steve Carella didn't want to know what the fake Steve Carella had done to her.

Instead he started questioning her like a detective.

Which he was, of course, but even so.

"Tell me exactly what he looked like," he said.

"He was tall and…"

"How tall?"

"Six-one, six-two?"

"Weight?"

"A hundred and eighty?"

"Color of his eyes?"

"Well, actually I don't remember. But he did terrible things to…"

"Any scars or tattoos?"

"I didn't see any." Naomi said. "Not anywhere on his body." She lowered her eyes like a maiden, the way she had learned in her magazines.

"Did he say where he lived?"

"No."

"What was he wearing?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Oh, I thought you meant when he was doing all those…"

"When you met him."

"A gray suit," she said. "Sort of a nubby fabric. An off-white shirt, a dark blue tie. Black shoes. A gold Rolex watch, all gold, not the steel and gold one. A gun in a shoulder holster. He used the gun to…"

"What kind of gun?"

"A Colt Detective Special."

"You know guns, do you?"

"That's what he told me it was. This was just before he…"

"And you met him where?"

"In a bar near where I work. I work for CBS. On Monday morning, when I went to work, he forced me to…"

"What's the name of the bar?"

"The Corners."

"Where is it?"

"On Detavoner and Ash. On the corner there."

"Do you go there a lot?"

"Oh, every now and then. I'll probably drop by there tomorrow after work." She raised one eyebrow. "You ought to check it out," she said.

"Had you ever seen him in that bar before?"

"Never."

"Sure about that?"

"Well, I would have noticed. He was very good-looking."

"Did he seem familiar with the neighborhood?"

"Well, we didn't discuss the neighborhood. What we talked about mostly, he gave me sixty seconds to finish my drink, you see, because he was in such a hurry to…"

"Did you get the impression he knew the neighborhood well?"

"I got the feeling he knew his way around, yes."

"Around that particular neighborhood?"

"Well, the city. I got the feeling he knew the city. When we were driving toward my apartment later, he knew exactly how to get there."

"You drove there in his car?"

"Yes."

"What kind of car?"

"A Jaguar."

"He was driving a Jaguar?"

"Yes."

"You didn't find that surprising? A detective driving a Jaguar?"

"Well, I don't know any detectives," she said. "You're only my second detective. My first, as a matter of fact, since he wasn't a real detective, was he?"

"What year was it?"

"What?"

"The Jag."

"Oh. I don't know."

"What color?"

"Gray. A four-door sedan. Gray with red leather upholstery."

"I don't suppose you noticed the license plate number."

"No, I'm sorry, I didn't. I was sort of excited, you see. He was a very exciting man. Of course, later, when he started doing all those things to me…"

"And you say he knew how to get there? From the bar on Detavoner and Ash to where you live?"

"Oh, yes."

"Where do you live, Miss Schneider?"

"On Colby and Radner. Near the circle there. If you'd like to come over later, I can show you…"

"Did you ask him for any sort of identification? A shield? An ID card?"

"Well, when he was undressing, I said, 'Let me see your badge.' But I was just kidding around, you know. It never occurred to me that he might not be a real detective."

"Did he show you a badge?"

"Well, what he said was, 'Here's my badge, baby.' And showed me his… you know."

"You simply accepted him as a cop, is that right?"

"Well… yeah. I'd never met a cop before. Not socially. Of course, you must meet a lot of young, attractive women in your line of work, but I've never had the opportunity to…"

"Did he say anything about coming back to that bar? The Corners?"

"No, he just said he'd call me."

"But he never did."

"No. Actually I'm glad he didn't. Now that I know he wasn't a real detective. And, also, I might never have got to meet you, you know?"

"Miss Schneider," Carella said, "if he does call you, I want you to contact me at once. Here's my card," he said, and reached into his wallet. "I'll jot down my home number, too, so you'll have it…"

"Well, I already know your home number," she said, but he had begun writing.

"Just so you'll have it handy," he said, and gave the card to her.

"Well, I doubt if he'll call me," she said. "It's already three weeks, almost."

"Well, in case he does."

He looked suddenly very weary. She had an almost uncontrollable urge to reach out and touch his hair, smooth it back, comfort him. She was certain he would be very different in bed than the fake Steve Carella had been. She suddenly wondered what it would be like to be in bed with both of them at the same time.

"How are you getting home?" he asked.

End of interview, she thought.

Or was he making his move?

"By subway," she said, and smiled at him. "Unless someone offers to drive me home."

"I'll call the local precinct," he said. "See if I can't get a car to take you down."

"Oh," she said.

"Thanksgiving Day, they might not be too bus\

He rose and started for the phone.

"Miss Schneider," he said, dialing. "I really appreciate the information you've given me."

Yeah, she thought, so why the fuck don't you come home with me?

The next break in the case — if in retrospect it could be considered that — came on the third day of December, a Saturday. It came with a phone call from Naomi Schneider at twenty minutes past three.

"Did you just call me?" she asked Carella.

"No," he said. And then at once, "Have you heard from him again?"

"Well, somebody named Steve Carella just called me," she said.

"Did it sound like him?"

"I guess so. I've never heard his voice on the phone."

"What'd he want?"

"He said he wants to see me again."

"Did he say when?"

"Today."

"Where? Is he coming there?"

"Well, we didn't arrange anything actually. I thought I'd better call you first."

"How'd you leave it?"

"I told him I'd call him back."

"He gave you a number?"

"Yes."

"What is it?"

Naomi gave him the number.

"Stay right there," Carella said. "If he calls again, tell him you're still thinking it over. Tell him you're hurt because you haven't heard from him in such a long time."

"Well, I already told him that," Naomi said.

"You told him…?"

"Well, I really was hurt," Naomi said.

"Naomi," Carella said, "this man is a very dangerous criminal. Don't play games with him, do you hear me? If he calls again, tell him you're still considering whether you want to see him again, and then call me here right away. If I'm not here, leave a message with one of the other detectives. Have you got that?"

"Yes, of course, I've got it. I'm not a child," Naomi said.

"I'll get back to you later," he said, and hung up. He checked his personal directory, dialed a number at Headquarters, identified himself to the clerk who answered the phone, and told her he needed an address for a telephone number in his possession. The new hotline at Headquarters had been installed because policemen all over the city had been having trouble getting information from the telephone company, whose policy was not to give out the addresses of subscribers, even if a detective said he was working a homicide. Carella sometimes felt the telephone company was run by either the Mafia or the KGB. The clerk was back on the line three minutes later.

"That number is for a phone booth," she said.

"On the street or where?" Carella asked.

"Got it listed for something called The Corners on Detavoner and Ash."

"Thank you," Carella said, and hung up. "Artie!" he yelled. "Get your hat!"

When the knock sounded on the door to Naomi's apartment, she thought it might be Carella. He had told her he'd get back to her later, hadn't he? She went to the door.

"Who is it?" she asked.

"Me," the voice said. "Steve."

It did not sound like the real Carella. It sounded like the fake Carella. And the real Carella had told her the fake Carella was a very dangerous man. As if she didn't know.

"Just a second," she said, and unlocked the door and took off the night chain.

There he was.

Tall, blond, handsome, head cocked to one side, smile on his face.

"Hi," he said.

"Long time no see," she said. She felt suddenly weak. Just the sight of him made her weak.

"Okay to come in?"

"Sure," she said, and let him into the apartment.

The Corners at three-thirty that Saturday afternoon was — thanks to the football game on the television set over the bar — actually more crowded than it would have been at the same time on a weekday. Carella and Brown immediately checked out the place for anyone who might remotely resemble the Deaf Man. There was only one blond man sitting at the bar, and he was short and fat. They went at once to the men's room. Empty. They knocked on the door to the ladies' room, got no answer, opened the door, and checked that out, too. Empty. They went back outside to the bar. Carella showed the bartender his shield. The bartender nodded.

"Tall blond man," Carella said. "Would have used the phone booth about forty minutes ago."

"What about him?" the bartender said.

"Did you see him?"

"I saw him. Guy with a hearing aid?"

"Yes."

"I saw him."

"He's been in here before, hasn't he?"

"Coupla times."

"Would you know his name?"

"I think it's Dennis, I'm not sure."

"Dennis what?"

"I don't know. He was in here with a guy one night, I heard the guy calling him Dennis."

"There's just this one room, huh?" Brown said.

"Just this one."

"No little side rooms or anything."

"Just this."

"Any other toilets? Besides the rest rooms back there?"

"That's all," the bartender said. "If you're lookin' for him, he already left."

"Any idea where he went?"

"Nope."

"Did he leave right after he made his phone call?"

"Nope. Sat at the bar for ten minutes or so, finishing his drink."

"What was he drinking?" Carella asked.

"Jim Beam and water."

Carella looked at Brown. Brown shrugged. Carella went to the phone booth and dialed Naomi Schneider's number.

"Let it ring," the Deaf Man said.

She was naked. They were on her bed. She would have let it ring even if it was the fire department calling to say the building was on fire. The phone kept ringing. Spread wide beneath him, her eyes closed, she heard the ringing only distantly, a faraway sound over the pounding of her own heart, the raging of her blood. At last the phone stopped.

All at once he stopped too.

"Hey," she said, "don't…"

"I want to talk," he said.

"Put it back in," she said.

"Later."

"Come on," she said.

"No."

"Please, baby, I'm almost there," she said. "Put it back in. Please."

He got off the bed. She watched him as he walked to the dresser, watched him as he shook a cigarette free from the package on the dresser top. He thumbed a gold lighter into flame, blew out a wreath of smoke. Everything was golden about him. Gold watch, gold lighter, golden hair, big magnificent golden…

"There's something we have to discuss," he said. "Something I'd like you to do for me."

"Bring it here, I'll show you what I can do for you."

"Later," he said, and smiled.

They were in the unmarked sedan, heading back toward the precinct. The heater, as usual, wasn't working. The windows were frost-rimed. Brown kept rubbing at the windshield with his gloved hand, trying to free it of ice.

"I told her to stay home," Carella said. "I specifically told her to…"

"We don't own her," Brown said.

"Who owns you?" the Deaf Man said.

"You do."

"Say it."

"You own me."

"Again."

"You own me."

"And you'll do anything I want you to do, won't you?"

"Anything."

"You think we ought to stop by there?" Brown asked. "It's on the way back."

"What for?" Carella said.

"Maybe she just went down for a newspaper or something.

"Pull over to that phone booth," Carella said. "I'll try her again."

The phone was ringing again.

"You're a busy little lady," the Deaf Man said.

"Shall I answer it?"

"No."

The phone kept ringing.

Carella came out of the booth and walked back to the car. Brown was banging on the heater with the heel of his hand.

"Any luck?"

"No."

"So what do you want to do?"

"Let's take a spin by there," Carella said.

"I need you on Christmas Eve," the Deaf Man said.

"I need you right now," Naomi said.

"I want you to be a very good little girl on Christmas Eve."

"I promise I'll be a very good little girl," she said, and folded her hands in her lap like an eight-year-old. "But you really owe me an apology, you know."

"I owe you nothing," he said flatly.

"I mean for not calling me all this…"

"For nothing," he said. "Don't ever forget that."

She looked at him. She nodded. She would do whatever he asked her to do, she would wait forever for his phone calls, she would never ask him for explanations or apologies. She had never met anyone like him in her life. She almost said out loud, "I'll bet you've got girls all over this city who'll do anything you want them to do," but she caught herself in time. She did not want him walking out on her. She did not want him disappearing from her life again.

"I want you to dress up for me," he said. "On Christmas Eve."

"Like a good little girl?" she said. "In a short skirt? And knee socks? And Buster Brown shoes? And white cotton panties?"

"No."

"Well, whatever," she said. "Sure."

"A Salvation Army uniform," he said.

"Okay, sure."

That might be kicks, she thought, a Salvation Army uniform. Nothing at all under the skirt. Sort of kinky. Little Goodie-Two-Shoes tambourine-beating virgin with her skirt up around her naked ass.

"Where am I supposed to get a Salvation Army uniform?" she asked.

"I'll get it for you. You don't have to worry about that."

"Sure," she said. "You know my size?"

"You can give me that before I leave."

"Leave?" she said, alarmed. "I'll kill you if you walk out of here without…"

"I'm not walking out of here. Not until we discuss this fully."

"And not until you…"

"Be quiet," he said.

She nodded. She had to be very careful with him. She didn't want to lose him, not ever again.

"Where do you want me to wear this uniform?" she said. "Will you be coming here?"

"No."

"Then where? Your place?"

"Uptown," he said. "Near the precinct."

"Uh-huh," she said, and looked at him. "Is that where you live? Near the precinct?"

"No, that's not where I live. That's where you'll be wearing the uniform. On the street up there. A few blocks from where I work."

"We're gonna do it on the street?" she asked, and smiled.

"You have a very evil mind," he said, and kissed her. She felt the kiss clear down to her toes. "This is a stakeout," he said. "Police work. Both of us in Salvation Army uniforms."

"Oh, you're gonna be wearing one, too."

"Yes."

"Sounds like fun," she said. "But what do you really have in mind?"

"That's what I have in mind," he said.

"A stakeout, huh?"

"Yes, a stakeout."

"Even though you're not a cop, huh?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, I know you're not a cop."

"I'm not, huh?"

"I know you're not Steve Carella."

He looked at her.

"And how do you know that?" he said.

"'Cause I know the real Steve Carella," she said.

He kept looking at her.

"I do," she said, and nodded. "I called the station house," she said. "I called the 87th Precinct."

"Why'd you do that?"

'"Cause you told me you worked there."

"You spoke to someone named Carella?"

"Steve Carella, yes. In fact, I met him. Later."

"You met him," he said.

"Yes."

"And?"

"He told me you're not him. As if I didn't know. I mean, the minute I saw him I knew he wasn't…"

"What else did he tell you?"

"He said you're very dangerous," Naomi said, and giggled.

"I am," he said.

"Oh, I know," she said, and giggled again.

"And what'd you tell him?"

"Oh… how we met… and what we did… and like that."

"Did you tell him where we met?"

"Oh, sure, The Corners," she said.

He was very silent.

"What else did you tell him?" he asked at last.

A good way for a statistician to discover how many policemen are on duty in any sector of the city is to put a 10–13 call on the radio. Every cop in the vicinity will immediately respond. Sometimes even cops from other precincts will respond. That is because the 10–13 radio code means assist police officer, and there is no higher priority.

Carella and Brown were a block from Naomi's apartment when the 10–13 erupted from the walkie-talkie on the seat between them. Neither of the men discussed or debated it. The cop in trouble was ten blocks from where they were, in the opposite direction from the one they were traveling. But Brown immediately swung the car around in a sharp U-turn, and Carella hit the siren switch.

The Deaf Man sat up straight the moment he heard the siren. Like an animal sensing danger, Naomi thought. God, he is so beautiful. But the siren was moving away from her street, and as it faded into the distance, he seemed to relax.

"What else did you tell him?" he asked again.

"Well… nothing," she said.

"Are you sure?"

"Well… I told him what you looked like and what you were wearing… he was asking me questions, you see."

"Yes, I'm sure he was. How did he react to all this information?"

"He seemed interested."

"Oh, yes, I'm sure."

"He told me to keep in touch."

"And have you kept in touch?"

"Well…"

"Have you?"

"Look, don't you think you should tell me who you really are?" she said.

"I want to know whether you and Steve Carella have kept in touch."

"He said you're a dangerous criminal is what he actually said. Are you a criminal?"

"Yes," he said. "Tell me whether you've stayed in touch."

"What kind of criminal are you?"

"A very good one."

"I mean… like a burglar… or a robber… or…" She arched her eyebrows, the way her magazines had taught her. "A rapist?"

"When did he tell you I was a criminal?" he asked.

"Well, when I saw him, I guess. At his house."

"Oh, you went to his house, did you?"

"Well, yeah."

"When was that?"

"On Thanksgiving Day."

"And that was when he told you I was a criminal?"

"Yes. And again today. A dangerous criminal is what he…"

"Today?" the Deaf Man said. "You spoke to him today?"

"Well, yes, I did."

"When?"

"Right after you called."

Four patrol cars were already angled into the curb when Carella and Brown got to the scene. A least a dozen patrolmen with drawn guns were crouched behind the cover of the cars, and more patrolmen were approaching on foot, at a run, their guns magically appearing in their hands the moment they saw what the situation was. Again neither Carella nor Brown discussed anything. They immediately drew their guns and stepped out of the car.

A sergeant told them a cop was inside there. "Inside there" was a doctor's office. The cop and his partner had responded to a simple 10–10— INVESTIGATE SUSPICIOUS PERSON — and had walked into the waiting room to find a man holding a.357 Magnum in his hand. The man opened fire immediately, missing both cops, but knocking a big chunk of plaster out of the waiting room wall and scaring the patients half to death. The point-cop had thrown himself flat on the floor. The backup-cop had managed to get out the door and radio the 10–13. The sergeant figured the man inside there was a junkie looking for dope. Doctors' offices were prime targets for junkies. Carella asked the sergeant if he thought he needed them there. The sergeant said, "No, what I think I need here is the hostage team."

Carella and Brown holstered their guns and went back to the car.

The Deaf Man was putting on his clothes. Naomi watched him from the bed.

"I didn't tell him you were coming here, if that's what's bothering you," she said.

"Nothing's bothering me," he said.

But he was tucking the flaps of his shirt into his trousers. He sat again, put on his socks and shoes, and then went to the dresser for his cuff links. He put on the cuff links and then picked up the gun in its holster. He slipped into the harness and then came back to the chair for his jacket.

She kept watching him, afraid to say anything more. A man like this one, you could lose him if you said too much. Instead, she opened her legs a little wider, give him a better look at her, he was only human, wasn't he? He went to the closet, took his coat from a hanger, and shrugged into it.

He walked back to the bed.

He smiled and reached under his coat, and under his jacket, and pulled the gun from its holster.

Naomi returned his smile and spread her legs a little wider.

"Another game with the gun?" she asked.

It took Carella and Brown five minutes to clear the immediate area around the doctor's office. The police had cordoned off the scene, so they had to stop at the barricade to identify themselves. It took them another ten minutes to get uptown to Naomi's apartment.

They were twelve minutes too late.

The door to Naomi's apartment was wide open.

Naomi was lying on the bed with a bullet hole between her eyes.

Eight Black Horses, 1985