Poison

CHAPTER 8

Never mind tomorrow morning at ten o'clock, never mind saving it for her till then. This had to be now, he had to talk to her now about Mary Ann Hollis whose description fit her to the toe-nails. Mary Ann Hollis who'd been picked up on a 43.02 seven years back, and whose pimp's name was Joseph Seward, not a far stretch from Jesse Stewart, why did criminals have no imagination at all? Talk to her right this goddamn minute and get a few things straight.

It was a little past nine when he got to the townhouse on Harborside Lane.

Springtime in the Rockies maybe, but still a wintry chill on the nighttime air, enough to cause him to raise the collar on his coat as he walked from the car to the front door. He rang the doorbell. No answer. He rang it again. Oooo, I wish I could, sweetie, but I'm busy all day. Busy all night, too? He kept his forefinger pressed insistently to the button. Still no answer. Okay, he thought, I've got all the time in the world. Or maybe not. Maybe time was running out for him and Marilyn Hollis both, though he wondered why he should give a damn.

He crossed the street to where he'd parked the car, unlocked it, got in, closed the door behind him, and hunkered down behind the wheel, watching the door to 1211 Harborside. At ten minutes to ten by the dashboard clock, a taxi pulled up to the building. Marilyn got out, wearing a light topcoat over what she'd been wearing this morning when she'd left the apartment. She paid the cabbie and started for the front door searching in her bag for her keys. Willis came out of the car in a wink, slamming the door behind him. She turned at once.

As he came across the street toward her, she said, "Hey, hi, what a surprise."

"Yeah," he said.

She kissed him on the cheek. "You're early," she said.

"By almost twelve hours."

"But come in anyway."

"No, let's take a walk," he said.

"Bit chilly for a walk, isn't it?" she said, and smiled.

"We can use a little fresh air," he said. "All around."

She studied his face, tried to read his eyes in the illumination coming from the street lamp.

"Sure," she said, and took his arm.

They walked down toward the river.

This city wasted the river running along its northern edge. Bordered by a highway that made no allowance for a walking path, the Harb could have taken lessons from the Thames or the Seine or the Arno. No river for lovers, this one, though tonight he wasn't here as a yesterday lover, merely as a cop doing his job. I like it much better when you're not a cop doing his job. I'll bet, he thought. As they entered the small park across the street from her building, a fresh gust of wind blew up off the river far below, and she tightened her grip on his arm. Lady, you better hang on real tight, he thought.

"Who's Joseph Seward?" he asked.

Straight for the jugular.

No answer for several moments. No tightening of the hand on his arm, no expression on her face, very cool, this one.

"A man I used to know," she said.

"What's his occupation?"

"If you already know, why ask?"

"He's a pimp, isn't he?"

"When I knew him, he was, yes. I haven't seen him in at least six years."

"Make it seven," Willis said. "When he paid a fine for a prostitute named Mary Ann Hollis."

"All right, so what? I told you I'd done some awful things in my life."

"You also said you'd enjoyed them."

"Yes, it was marvelous fun, is that what you want to hear? So that's what friends do, is it?" she said, shaking her head and sounding very, very hurt, poor darling. "Check up on a person's past?"

"That's what cops do," he said.

"You weren't such a cop last night," she said.

"I'm a cop tonight. Is that the name you used in Houston? Where you were hooking?"

"That's my real name," she said.

"Mary Ann Hollis."

"Mary Ann Hollis, yes. I started using Marilyn when I came east."

"Why? Are you wanted for something in Houston?"

"Of course not!" she said.

Which was the correct answer. Colworthy had told him the prostitution arrest was the last thing they had on her.

"Does Jesse Stewart exist?"

"No."

"No millionaire stepfather?"

"No."

"Then who paid for that pad across the street?"

"I did."

She was still holding his arm. He was amazed that she was still holding his arm. Together, they strolled the park's winding path like lovers, which technically they were, moving from one pool of lamplight to the next. A casual passerby might have thought they were quietly discussing plans for the future. Instead, they were discussing a past—and a possible end to the present.

"Where'd you get that kind of money?" he asked.

"I earned it," she said.

"Hooking?"

"That's earning it, believe me."

"That building had to've cost at least a mi…"

"Seven-five," she said.

"Even so. You telling me you earned that kind of money on your back?"

"On my knees, usually."

"You must have been a very busy lady."

"I was at it for a long time."

"Seward let you take home that kind of money?"

"I broke with Seward after the bust."

"He let you walk? Who are you kidding?"

"I didn't walk, I ran. All the way to Buenos Aires."

"Where you earned seven-hundred and fifty…"

"More than that. There are lots of high rollers in Argentina. I was an independent, I kept every penny for myself."

"Are you wanted for something in Argentina?" he asked suddenly.

"I'm not wanted for anything anywhere! What the hell's the matter with you?"

"Then why'd you change your name?"

"Does that make me a wanted desperado? What's that, my only claim to fame? That I changed my name? How about what I've accomplished? I broke with the past, I came here and started a new life…"

"Are you still hooking?"

"I told you no."

"No, you didn't tell me no!"

"I said I started a new life, didn't I? Does that sound like hooking?"

Now they were arguing. Like lovers.

"Was that punk Mickey a John?"

"He was someone a girlfriend asked me to…"

"How about the men on your answering machine?"

"Casual acquaintances."

"That means Johns!"

"It doesn't fucking mean Johns!" she shouted.

"Nice talk on the lady."

"I am!" she said.

"If you're not hooking, how do you support yourself?"

"I left Buenos Aires with two million dollars."

"Busier than I thought."

"Much," she said angrily. "I gave great head. I still do." She paused and then said, softly, "You know that."

"But not professionally, right?"

"How many times do I have to say it?"

"As often as I want to hear it."

"I'm not hooking anymore," she said, and sighed heavily. "I invested what was left over after I bought the house. My broker is a man named…"

"I know. Hadley Fields at Merrill Lynch."

"Yes."

They walked in silence for several moments.

"Why'd you lie to me?" he asked at last.

"Why'd you have to go snooping?"

"Why the fuck did you lie to me?" he said, and shook off the hand on his arm, and stopped dead in the center of the path, and grabbed her by the shoulders. "Why?"

"Because I knew you'd run if I told you the truth. The way you're about to run now."

"Why would that have mattered to you?"

"It mattered. It still matters."

"Why?"

"Why do you think?" she said.

He released his grip on her shoulders. His own shoulders slumped. He felt suddenly very short.

"I don't… I don't know what to think," he said.

"Do we have to discuss this out here in the cold?"

She took a step closer to him. She stood very close to him.

"Hal?" she said. "Will you come inside now?"

He was trembling. He knew it was not from the wind that blew in off the river.

"Hal? Please. Come inside. Let me love you. Please."

"Don't lie to me ever again," he said.

"I promise," she said.

Her hand came up to touch his face. She kissed him gently on the mouth.

"Now come with me," she said. "Come."

And she took his arm again, and led him out of the park, and across the street, and into the house.

Nelson Riley was working when Carella got there the next morning at nine o'clock. It was a Friday, and Riley was annoyed.

"I wrap for the week on Friday," he said. "Try to get a lot of work done, set my ducks in a row for Monday. You should have called first."

Big redheaded giant, green eyes blazing with anger, paint smears on his big-knuckled hands, paint brush clutched like a saber in one of them.

"I'm sorry," Carella said. "But there are a few more questions I'd like to ask."

"Where's the other cop? The little guy. At least he had the decency to call first. You guys think all an artist does is sit around on his ass waiting for inspiration to strike. I'm a working man, same as you."

"I appreciate that," Carella said. "The only difference is I'm working a murder."

He did not mention that he was now working two murders. He was here because he wanted to learn what Riley knew about the second one.

"Who cares what you're working?" Riley said, still angry. "I'm working a nine-by-twelve canvas that's breaking my balls! You think your murder is tough to solve? Try taking a look at that big mother against the wall."

Carella took a look at the big mother against the wall, which wasn't a mother at all, but was instead a ski slope swarming with skiers in motion.

"You get any sense that it's snowing?" Riley asked.

"No," Carella said.

"Neither do I. I want it to be snowing. But each time I lay on the white, I lose color. Those primaries on the skier's costumes, the brilliant purples and greens on the flags from the base lodge, the rich brown chairs on the lift—you see those brilliant colors? I'm an artist who uses color. But I've had to rework all that stuff a dozen times, because the white overlay filters it down to pastels. If I can't make it snow by the end of the day, it'll drive me nuts all weekend. So who gives a shit about your murder? Anyway, I told the other cop everything I knew."

"Mr. Riley," Carella said, "if you don't make it snow, you only go nuts for the weekend. If we don't crack this case, somebody gets away with murder. And that can drive us nuts for a long, long time."

"Look, mister, don't come bleeding on me, okay?" Riley said. "I really don't care if you're overworked and underpaid. Go tell it to the Salvation Army. Nobody forced you to become a cop."

"That's true," Carella said. "But I am one, and I'm here, and it won't kill you to extend a little common courtesy."

"A little common courtesy is picking up a phone before you barge in on a man trying to make it snow!"

"Only God can make it snow," Carella said, and Riley unexpectedly burst out laughing. Carella smiled uncertainly. "So can we talk?" he said.

"All right," Riley said, shaking his head, "but let's make it quick, okay? I really do have to get a handle on this."

You and me both, Carella thought.

Out loud, he said, "I just wanted to prod your memory again on the people my partner asked you about."

"What people?"

"Marilyn Hollis's friends."

"Here we go again with Marilyn and her friends," Riley said. "For Christ's sake, she had nothing to do with this guy's murder, whatever the hell his name was."

"McKennon," Carella said. "How do you know she had nothing to do with it?"

"Because first of all she was with me when he poisoned himself. That painting against the wall is all about where we were that weekend. If you look closely, you'll see Marilyn there near the chair lift, kneeling to adjust her bindings. The girl in the yellow parka, though she was wearing a sort of peach-colored thing that weekend. I prefer primary colors. And secondly, Marilyn swore she had nothing to do with the guy's death. And Marilyn never lies."

"Everybody lies," Carella said.

"Not Marilyn."

Saint Marilyn, Carella thought. Newly canonized. The only person in the universe who never lies.

"Everybody," he said again, leaning on the word.

Even me, he thought, if only by omission; he had still not mentioned Basil Hollander's death. But then again, neither had Riley. Maybe both of them were lying.

"When did she tell you that?" he asked.

"Tell me what?"

"That she'd had nothing to do with McKennon's death."

"We talked on the phone after the other cop…"

"Willis."

"The little guy, yeah. I talked to her after he was here. I told her I knew she was with me that weekend, but was it possible she'd hired some goon—for whatever reasons of her own—to drop the poison pellet in the guy's cup? That's when she swore up and down that she hadn't even known he was dead till you guys broke the news to her."

"Were those her exact words?"

"More or less."

"And, of course, you knew nothing about it until my partner informed you."

"Yeah, the little guy."

"Willis."

"Yeah."

"What made you think Miss Hollis—or anyone—might have hired a goon to do the job?"

"I didn't seriously think…"

"Well, seriously enough to have suggested it to her."

"Jokingly."

"Oh, you were joking about it."

"Not about the murder, nobody jokes about murder. About the goon."

"Because you felt it was a far-fetched notion."

"Well, who hires a goon to drop poison in somebody's drink?"

"Is that how you think McKennon got poisoned? Someone dropping the stuff in his drink?"

"I don't know how he got poisoned. I'm only saying. Goons break your arms or shoot you in the kneecaps. They don't do dainty little ladylike pois…"

He stopped dead.

"What are you getting me into?" he asked.

"I'm just listening," Carella said.

"Well, I don't like the way you listen," Riley said. "It's very selective listening."

"Do you think a goon might have forced that poison down McKennon's throat?"

"I have no idea how that poison got into McKennon."

Defensive now, muscular arms crossed over his burly chest, scowl on his craggy face, even the red handlebar mustache seeming to bristle.

"Well, let's talk about these other two men she was seeing," Carella said.

"I don't know those other two men, the ones your partner mentioned."

"Willis."

"Yeah, the little guy. I don't know them, and I didn't know McKennon and if I don't start making it snow soon, I'm going to get pretty fucking irritable, Mr. Carella."

"Chip Endicott?" Carella persisted. "Never heard of him? That would be Charles Endicott, Jr. He's a lawyer."

"I didn't know him when your partner was here, and I still don't know him."

"How about Basil Hollander?"

"I don't know him."

"The name isn't familiar to you?"

"It isn't…"

"It wasn't familiar to you when my partner came here on…" Carella checked his notebook and then looked up. "March twenty-fifth? The day after McKennon's murder? The name wasn't familiar to you then?"

"It was not."

"And it isn't familiar to you now?"

"It is not."

"Do you read the newspapers, Mr. Riley?"

"I do."

"Do you watch television?"

"I don't own a television set."

"Do you listen to the radio?"

"While I'm painting."

"And the name Basil Hollander still isn't familiar to you?"

"I just told you…"

"Do you know that Basil Hollander is dead?"

Watch the eyes.

"Do you know he was murdered?"

Keep watching the eyes.

"He was stabbed to death in his apartment on Addison Street, downtown in the Twelfth Precinct. But you didn't know that, did you?"

"No, I…"

"Have you talked to Marilyn Hollis since the beginning of the month?"

"Actually, no, I…"

"This is the fourth, Mr. Riley. You haven't spoken to Miss Hollis anytime since the first?"

"No, I haven't."

"I thought you were close friends."

"We are, but…"

The cavernous loft went silent. When Riley spoke again, his voice was almost a whisper.

"This is serious, isn't it?" he said.

"Very," Carella said.

"I mean… is someone knocking off all her friends?"

"Two so far," Carella said, and kept watching the eyes. He had seen nothing in those eyes when he'd broken the news about Basil Hollander, no quick lie-detector needle jump, no mirroring of a guilty soul, nothing to indicate that Riley had been anything but genuinely surprised. Now he saw in those eyes only something that looked like fear. Big redheaded grizzly bear of a man suddenly realizing that two of Marilyn's friends had been killed, and he was another of Marilyn's friends.

"Am I a suspect or a target?" he asked. His face had gone pale against the fiery red hair and the handlebar mustache.

"You tell me," Carella said.

"I want police protection," Riley said.