Poison

CHAPTER 16

On Tuesday morning, April 15, Willis and Carella met with Byrnes in his office. Elsewhere in the city, a great many citizens were mailing off their federal income tax returns. But death is as certain as taxes, and the men were there to discuss three corpses. Plus an attempton Willis that could have made him a corpse.

"Anything from Ballistics yet?" Byrnes asked.

"Supposed to hear from them sometime today," Willis said.

"Four shots fired?"

"Recovered three of the bullets and the four spent cartridge cases."

"If it's the same man, he's versatile," Byrnes said drily.

"Or desperate," Carella said.

"Where was Endicott at the time?" Byrnes asked.

"Home in his beddie," Willis said. "Kling beeped Hawes—who by the way, I didn't know was tailing Endicott—and Hawes rapped on his door five minutes after the shooting. It would've been impossible for Endicott to get all the way downtown in that time. He was in his pajamas when he answered the door."

"So we can scratch Endicott," Byrnes said. "How about the woman?"

"Home," Willis said.

"Across the street?"

"Yes."

"Firing came from the park?"

"Yes."

"So that lets her out," Byrnes said.

"Unless either of them hired the shooter," Carella said.

"Come on, Steve," Willis said, flaring immediately.

"It's a possibility," Byrnes said. "But an extremely remote one. What it looks like to me, we just lost two suspects."

"I hope we don't lose them for keeps," Willis said.

"What do you mean?"

"I'd like to recommend renewed protective surveillance."

"I'll talk to Frick."

"The sooner the better," Willis said.

"I understand you're living with this woman," Byrnes said.

"Yes, sir. And I've got to tell you it pisses me off that I wasn't informed about the tails on her and Endicott."

"Be that as it may…"

"No, sir, I'd like to make this a formal complaint. As far as I know, I'm still working this case, and withholding information from me…"

"All right, your point is well taken. We thought, however…"

"Who's we?"

"Me and Steve."

"Well, next time let me know what you're thinking, okay? And doing."

"I said your point was well taken," Byrnes said. "Meanwhile, what've we got now?"

"We should have a make on the gun sometime today," Carella said. "The stabbing instrument is anybody's guess. As for the nicotine, it could've been titrated from a pesticide, or distilled from tobacco mash."

"That takes equipment."

"Yes, sir."

"Which could be anywhere in the city."

"Yes, sir."

"In anybody's possession."

"Yes, sir."

"So where the hell do we start? This case is three weeks old and we're for Christ's sake just starting!"

"Sir," Carella said, "what happened last night…"

"And I wish to hell you'd both stop sirring me to death. Whenever a cop starts sirring me, I begin thinking he isn't doing his goddamn job."

"Sorry," Carella said, and squelched the "sir" on the tip of his tongue.

"What about last night?"

"Until last night, we were working two possibilities. Boy-Meets-Girl or Smokescreen. Somebody knocking off Marilyn Hollis's close friends—some jealous guy, a spurned lover, somebody's girlfriend, whatever. Or the lady herself doing them in for whatever reason, and trying to make it look like a Boy-Meets-Girl. Okay, last night somebody tried to get Hal. The lady didn't fire those shots, and neither did Endicott. So unless we go with the Hired Gun premise…"

"I think we can safely dismiss that," Byrnes said.

"Well, it's still a possibility," Carella said. "And so's the Boy-Meets-Girl. The only problem now…"

"I know the problem," Byrnes said. "The problem is we've run out of suspects."

"Or maybe we've got too many suspects," Carella said. "That depends on the lady."

"How so?" Willis said, bristling again.

"On how active she's been."

Byrnes looked from Carella to Willis.

"How long has she been in this city?" he asked.

"Bit more than a year," Willis said.

"I want a list of everyone she knows here," Byrnes said, "men and women both. People she's dated, people she's socialized with…"

"More than that, Pete," Carella said. "I'd like the names of anyone and everyone she's ever dealt with, even casually—her hairdresser, her doctor, her shoemaker, her grocer, the whole orbit. If this is a grudge-type thing…"

"I agree," Byrnes said, and turned to Willis. "Can you get that from her?"

"I'll try," Willis said.

"Never mind trying, just get it. Meanwhile, I'll talk to Frick about renewing the round-the-clocks on her and Endicott. Do you want protection, too?"

"Is that a rhetorical question?" Willis said.

"I don't know what that means," Byrnes said. "Yes or no?"

"No."

"Good," Byrnes said, and nodded briefly. "Get going."

"Everybody I know?" Marilyn said. "That's ridiculous."

"Everybody,' Willis said. "I don't care how insignificant you think…"

"I know my goddamn dry cleaning man isn't killing anybody!"

"Did you ever have an argument with him?"

"Never."

"Never complained about a spot that wouldn't come out? Never…?"

"Well, maybe. But…"

"That's exactly the point," Willis said. "If we're dealing with a nut here…"

"A spot on a skirt isn't a reason to kill somebody."

"For you it isn't a reason, for me it isn't a reason, but for a nut it could be a reason."

"That makes everybody in this city a suspect!"

"Do you know everybody in this city?"

"No, but everybody in this city is a nut."

"I only want the people you know. Start with all the men you dated since you came here. Then give me all your girlfriends. Then I want the names of all your professional people—your internist, your gynecologist, your dentist…"

"The old one or the new one?"

"Both. Your periodontist…"

"I don't have one."

"Your dermatologist, your…"

"I don't have a dermatologist, either."

"Your chiropractor, your lawyer, your stockbroker…"

"You already have his name."

"List it again. Your accountant…"

"You have his, too."

"The real estate broker who sold you this house…"

"I bought it from the owner."

"Put his name on the list."

"Her name."

"Your banker, your plumber, your electrician, your butcher, your baker…"

"My candlestick maker…"

"Are you beginning to get the idea?"

"I'm beginning to get a headache."

"Nothing compared to the one we'll have."

Marilyn sighed.

"Okay?" he said.

"I'll need a ream of paper," she said.

The man from Ballistics called at three that Tuesday afternoon.

He reported that an examination of the recovered bullets and cartridge cases indicated they had been fired from a Colt Super .38 automatic pistol.

He explained to Carella—which Carella already knew, but he was always willing to give an expert his time in the sun—that the action of an automatic pistol was what made it possible to identify shells fired from such a pistol. Since the automatic action involved a number of movable parts, and since those parts were made of steel whereas shell casings were made of softer metals like copper or brass, the gun's parts always left marks on the cartridges. And since no two guns were exactly alike, no two guns would mark a cartridge in the same way. Similarly, a bullet could be examined for direction of rifling twists and number of lands and grooves which—together with the cartridge data—would yield a weapon's model and make. Was there anything else Carella needed at the moment? Carella said he did not need anything else at the moment.

He looked at the wall clock.

What the hell was taking Willis so long to get that list?

"That's all of them," Marilyn said, and tossed down the pencil. "I have writer's cramp."

Willis glanced cursorily at the list.

"What would you say? Sixty, more or less."

"It felt like a hundred and sixty."

He went to her, kissed the top of her head.

"Thank you," he said.

"De nada," she said.

"I want to get back to the squadroom. I'll call you later, we can figure out what we want to do tonight, okay? We'll have company. They're putting you back on protective."

"Oh, great," she said, and rolled her eyes.

He was starting for the door when she said, "Hal?"

"Yes?"

"Do you really think this could be someone with a grudge?"

"It could be." He looked at her and then said, "Why?"

"No reason," she said, and shrugged.

He came back to where she was sitting.

"Can you think of such a person?" he asked.

"Not really. I mean, it could be anyone, right? The spot on the blouse, right?"

"Or something more important than a spot."

He kept watching her.

Her eyes met his.

"Hal," she said, "suppose… suppose a long time ago, I did something that… that maybe somebody now is… trying to revenge."

"What'd you do?" he asked at once.

"I'm only saying suppose."

"All right, suppose you did something. Like what?"

"Like something if… if somebody found out about it, maybe they'd want to… you know… get me for it. Or maybe get my friends for it. Maybe as a sort of warning, you know? That they were coming for me, you know?"

"Who, Marilyn? Who'd be coming for you?"

"I used to know a lot of bad people, Hal."

"Pimps, are you talking about? You think Seward may be coming after you? For running out on him in Houston?"

"No, he let me go with his blessings. I told you that."

"Then who? Your Los Angeles beach bum? That was ancient…"

"No, not him. But… maybe someone from Buenos Aires."

"Hidalgo? The guy who bought you out of that Mexican prison?"

"No, not him, either. But maybe… if somebody in Buenos Aires thought I'd done something…"

"What'd you do, Marilyn?"

"Nothing. I'm only saying maybe somebody down there got the idea I'd done something…"

"Who? And how'd he get this idea?"

"People get ideas."

"What people?"

"You know, people. You meet a lot of people in the life. Hidalgo had a lot of friends."

"Hidalgo let you go. He gave you your passport and let you go. Why would any of his friends…?"

"Well, people get ideas, you know."

"What kind of ideas?"

"You know how Spanish men are."

"No, I don't know how they are. Tell me how they are."

"All that macho bullshit. You know. Blood brothers. Revenge. You know."

"Revenge for what?"

"For something they think a person might have done."

"Marilyn, what the hell did you do?"

She was silent for a long time.

Then she said, "I'll lose you."

"No, you won't. Tell me."

"I'll lose you, I know it."

"Damn it, if somebody's after you…"

"Hidalgo didn't give me my passport," Marilyn said. "I took it."

"You…"

"I stole it."

"Is that all you did?" Willis said, relieved. "Honey, honey…"

"That's not all I did."

He sat down beside her.

"All right," he said, "let me hear it."

Hidalgo was a man of means, an ambitious pimp with a large clientele serviced by a modest stable. Born in Caracas, he lived in Buenos Aires by choice, and was as paranoid as only someone with a great deal to lose can be. Even recognizing the hold he had over Marilyn, he rarely let her out of his sight, fearful she would either run away or go to the American Embassy. She could have done either, had she realized her true circumstances. The American woman named Mary Ann Hollis was already lost to the Mexican and American authorities; monies had changed hands, records had been destroyed, she had in effect been sold to Hidalgo.

But she believed that if she disobeyed him, her parole (or whatever it was) would be revoked, and she would be sent back to La Fortaleza. Hidalgo nurtured this misunderstanding from the very beginning, telling her immediately that he was in possession of her passport, which was the truth, and that if she went to the American Embassy to apply for a new one on the grounds that it had been lost or stolen, they would discover at once that she was a convicted felon on parole and in the custody of one Alberto Hidalgo, who was not without influence in Argentina.

"Influence, certainly," she said. "You're a pimp."

"Yes," he said, "that may be true, but the Mexican authorities have nonetheless seen fit to place you in my custody for the remainder of your prison term. As you well know, you will be free to go wherever you wish or do whatever you choose once you have served your full sentence. But, Mariucha, my dear"—all this in his soft, persuasive voice—"you had only served four months of it when you were released in my custody, and you must still serve another five years and eight months until the authorities will consider your debt paid. At which time, of course, they will inform your State Department. But for now, Mariucha, you are not a free woman. You must remember that."

There were six other whores in Hidalgo's stable, all of them very high-priced horseflesh, racehorses as they were known in the trade, bringing prices of upward of a hundred an hour. Most of them had been ransomed from prisons, as Marilyn had been, or else openly abducted into white slavery, as a buxom blonde from Munich claimed she'd been. Each of the girls—Hidalgo called them "las muchachitas," the little girls—felt he had absolute control over their lives and their destinies. If one or another of them ever complained about an indignity to which she'd been submitted, or a future indignity she was being asked to endure, always there was the threat, the reminder that she was not a free agent.

"I won't go," Marilyn told him.

"Yes, you will," Hidalgo said.

"No. You don't own me."

"For certain, I do not own you. The Mexican prison system owns you. I am only your legally appointed custodian. But, Mariucha, I must tell you that if you become too troublesome, it would be simpler for me to wash my hands of you completely."

"You wouldn't do that," she said. "You paid them good money. You wouldn't send me back."

"I would merely consider it a bad business investment," Hidalgo said, and shrugged. "I would tell the authorities that you are incorrigible."

"You're a pimp. They wouldn't believe you."

"They would believe you, of course," Hidalgo said. "A woman convicted of trafficking in narcotics."

"I wasn't trafficking!"

"A cheap whore," Hidalgo said.

"I'm not a cheap whore," Marilyn said, and began weeping.

He took her in his arms. "There, there, little girl," he said, "why must we argue this way? Do you think it pleases me to have to threaten you?"

"Yes," she said, sobbing.

"No, no, little girl. Please now, no more tears, eh? Go to meet this gentleman, do whatever it is he desires of you. He will be good to you, Mariucha, I promise."

"No," she said. "I'll run away. You'll never find me. I'll go all the way to Santa Cruz, I'll…"

"But you do not have a passport," he said gently.

"I don't need a passport to travel inside Argentina. I speak Spanish, everyone will think…"

"Oh, yes, with your blonde hair, they will certainly believe you're a native."

"I'll dye my hair black."

"And your eyes? Will you dye them black as well? Mariucha, Mariucha, the police will know in an instant that you are American. They will ask for your passport."

"I don't care. You can't keep me here."

"Do you know what will happen to you if you run away? Let us say you succeed in getting to any other city in Argentina. Let us say—although it is impossible—that you even managed to cross the border into Chile or Bolivia or Paraguay, let us say that. Do you know what will happen to you? A woman without funds of her own? A woman without a passport? You will become a common streetwalker beckoning to tourists. Is that what you want?"

"Yes."

"Mariucha, Mariucha."

"You don't own me," she said.

But she knew that he did.

She never had a cent of her own. She took taxis to and from her various assignations, but the money came from Hidalgo's pocket before she left the apartment she shared with him and the other girls. She paid for all her meals with money Hidalgo provided, and usually ate with the other girls in a small restaurant around the corner from the apartment. Hidalgo bought all her clothing, garments he felt were elegant, but which were only provocative. If ever she wanted to go to a movie, Hidalgo gave her the price of admission beforehand and often asked her for change when she got back to the apartment. If ever she sulked or seemed in any way rebellious, he forced her into alliances he knew she detested, the better to maintain his stubborn rule.

"But why are you objecting to this?" he asked. "I know what happened at the Fortress, do you think I'm unaware of what they did to you there?"

"I'm afraid," she said.

"I would not let anyone harm you, you know that. But those men at the Fortress were brutes, and these men are gentlemen who…"

"Oh, yes."

"They are, truly. And they asked specifically for you."

"Send one of the other girls."

"No, no, I can't do that."

"Please, Alberto. If you cared for me…"

"I do, Mariucha, you know that."

"Then send one of the others. Please, Alberto, please, querido, do that for me."

"You are making me impatient," he said. "You are supposed to be there at four o'clock, and it is already three-thirty. Go to them at once, and do what they ask, and do it graciously or—I promise you—you will have reason to regret your impoliteness."

"One of these days," she said, "I'm going to call your bluff."

But she never did.

And the iron grip tightened.

"Mariucha, what is it now? What do you object to now? I do not understand you, I sometimes think you are taking leave of your senses. What is the matter this time?"

"Papa," she said—she had taken to calling him Papa, as did all the other girls—"I'm not going. Send me back to prison, okay? Call whoever it is you have to call. Tell them to come get me."

"I will call the Mexican Embassy at once," he said, and went to the telephone. "As you wish. But will you not at least tell me…?"

"Yes, I'll tell you," she said, "I'll tell you, all right. If you're going to keep sending me to these creeps"—the word in Spanish was patanes—"then I'd rather go back to prison, I mean it, make your phone call, go ahead."

"Who is this person you're talking about?" Hidalgo asked.

"I'm talking about the man Arabella went to see last week, the man you're sending me to right now, I'm talking about the creep who…"

"He is a gentleman," Hidalgo said.

"Oh, yes, Arabella told me what a gentleman he is."

"He comes from a very good family."

"Maybe that's why he likes to shit on peoples' faces."

"I do not enjoy it when you're crude," Hidalgo said.

"And I do not enjoy…"

"Forgive me, Mariucha, but I suspect in your heart of hearts that you truly miss the Fortress. I will make the call. I will telephone."

"Good. Do it."

"I will."

"Because you don't give a damn, Papa. You just don't give a damn about a person's feelings."

"I care for you deeply, Mariucha. I care deeply for all my little girls. But, please, I have had enough of you. Please, no more. Enough." He picked up the telephone receiver.

"Why don't you send Constantia?" she said, naming the girl from Munich. "She'll do anything."

"Yes, she is not an ingrate. I will send her perhaps, but only after you are already on your way. I will call for them to come take you. Do you have any personal belongings you wish to pack? You know what it is like in prison. Take whatever you think will help you there. I will not begrudge you the many gifts I've lavished on you."

"Papa, please," she said. "Please don't send me to this man, Papa, I beg of you."

"But I am not sending you to him. I am sending you back to prison," he said, and began dialing.

"Por favor," she said. "Por favor."

He slammed down the telephone receiver. "Then will there be an end to this?" he shouted. "Or must I listen to it day and night forever?"

"I'll…"

She shook her head.

"Yes, what is it?"

"Nothing," she said. "Give me the address."

"You will need money for the taxi," he said.

"Yes," she said, and turned away from him because she did not want him to see that she was weeping.

In the fifth year of her indenture to him, and despite all her precautions, she became pregnant by one of Hidalgo's "gentlemen." Hidalgo generously offered to pay for the abortion, but he did not tell her what else he had arranged with "el medico" who performed the operation in the dingy back room of a hardware store in one of the worst sections of the city. Marilyn fainted while he was working on her. When she regained consciousness hours later, she was bleeding severely. It was then that Hidalgo told her the doctor—he insisted on calling the man a doctor—had also scalpeled out her uterus.

She struck out with her fists at Hidalgo and the butcher both, and then ran to the bathroom and vomited into the filthy toilet bowl where the fetus still floated. She fainted again, and woke up in the apartment hours later, remembering the horror of her ordeal and screaming as she had in Mexico when she'd been covered with rats, screaming until one of the other girls slapped her and told her to shut up. Before she was fully recuperated, Hidalgo put her back to work again.

That was when she decided she had to kill him.

"No," Willis said. "You didn't. Please, Marilyn, you…"

"I did. I killed him."

"I don't want to hear it. Please, I don't want to hear it."

"I thought you wanted the truth!"

"I'm a cop!" he shouted. "If you killed a man…"

"I didn't kill a man, I killed a monster! He ripped out my insides, I can't have babies, do you understand that? He stole my…"

"Please, please," he said, shaking his head, "please, Marilyn…"

"I'd kill him again," she said. "In a minute."

He sat shaking his head, unable to stop shaking his head. He was afraid he would begin crying. He covered his face with his hands.

"I poisoned him," Marilyn said.

He kept shaking his head.

"Cyanide," she said. "For rats."

Shaking his head. Breathing in great gulps of air.

"And then I went into his bedroom and searched for the combination to the safe because I knew that was where my passport had to be. I found the combination. I opened the safe. My passport was in it. And close to two million dollars in Argentine currency."

Willis sighed deeply. He took his hands from his face.

"So what now?" she said. "Do you turn me in?"

The tears came. He took the handkerchief from his hip pocket and wiped at his eyes. He began shaking his head again, sobbing, wiping away the tears.

He did not know what to say.

He was a cop.

He loved her.

He was a cop.

He loved her.

Still sobbing, he went to the front door, and fumbled for the knob, and opened the door—

"Hal?"

—and went out into an afternoon smelling of springtime.