Poison

CHAPTER 7

There were three shifts on the squad-room duty-chart, more closely resembling the blues' shifts than they used to, an innovation initiated by the new Chief of Detectives, but one honored more in the breach than in actuality; detectives were used to making their own schedules.

Nonetheless, the day shift officially began at eight in the morning and ran through to four p.m. The evening shift started at four and ended at midnight. The night shift (familiarly called the Graveyard Shift) began at midnight and ended at eight in the morning. The detectives tried to work the shifts so that they'd be on days for a couple of weeks, then evenings, then nights—the better to establish sleep patterns that were seriously threatened, anyway.

The morning shift was midway and a bit more through its inexorable cycle when Willis got to the squadroom at a quarter to one. Kling and Brown were sitting at Kling's desk, eating sandwiches and drinking coffee when Willis pushed through the slatted rail divider that separated the squadroom from the corridor outside. Brown looked up in surprise.

"You bucking for Commissioner?" he said.

Willis ignored this. He had learned over the years that if a person tried to respond to every quip and jibe bouncing off the squadroom walls, he had to learn how to play squash.

"Three hours early," Kling said. "The man is dedicated."

Willis sighed.

"There are three kinds of cops," Brown said, and Willis knew he was in for an impromptu standup-comic routine (though in this case, both Brown and Kling were sitting). "You've got your burned-out cop…"

"Burnout occurs after four minutes on the job," Kling said.

"… who tries to do as little work as possible without calling the Loot's attention to the fact that he is goofing off."

Brown and Kling, the best Mutt and Jeff team on the squad, now doing their world famous comedy shtick. Willis much preferred them as Mutt and Jeff. Big Bad Leroy Brown (though his given name was Arthur and he was familiarly called Art or Artie by every other detective on the squad) as black as midnight, six feet two inches tall, tipping the scales at a hard, muscular two-twenty; and tall, blond, slender Bert Kling, looking like a farmboy from the wheatfields of Indiana (wherever that was), peach fuzz on his jaw and chin, mild hazel eyes reflecting worlds of innocence, a cop willing to listen to any sob story a cheap thief pitched, the perfect Mutt and Jeff team. "Gee, Artie, I really do think we've got the wrong man this time," and Brown looking like a ferocious bear ready to pounce and claw and bite, "Let me at 'im, Bert, I'm goan tear the man apart!" Within minutes, the thief was in Kling's arms, begging for mercy and willing to confess to the murder of a maiden aunt twelve years ago. But now…

"And you've got your time-study cop…"

"In on the dot…"

"Out on the dot…"

"Types up everything in triplicate…"

"Goes to court uncomplainingly…"

"Doesn't mind working on Christmas or New Year's…"

"Protector of the innocent…"

"Dedicated to the pursuit of justice…"

"But who won't give you a nickel's more than the time he's being paid for." Brown grinned like a wolf. "And then you've got your cop like Willis here."

"On the job twenty-four hours a day…"

"Takes his pistol to bed with him…"

"Do not be afraid, guapa, it is only my pistol."

"Breaks up armed robberies when he's off-duty…"

"Never calls in a 10-13…"

"Constantly bucking for promotion…"

"Comes in three hours early to relieve the shift…"

"Your eager-beaver cop…"

"Appearing for the first time in America…"

"Live and in person…"

"Detective/Third Grade…"

"Looking for Second…"

"Harold O. Willis."

"Take a bow, Oliver," Brown said.

Willis wondered how Brown had tumbled to his middle name. He brought up his hands and clapped hollowly, twice. Then he went to Kling's desk and dropped a quarter onto Brown's paper plate. "Very nice," he said. "Thank you very much, boys."

"Big tipper, too," Brown said, but pocketed the quarter anyway.

"Steve left a note on your desk," Kling said.

"I'll be going now," Brown said, "seeing as I'm relieved and all."

"You're not relieved," Willis said. "Sit down."

He went to his own desk and picked up Carella's note.

It told him to expect a callback from the Food and Drug Administration, which Carella had phoned yesterday (while Willis was in bed with Marilyn, but Carella didn't know that) in an attempt to learn whether nicotine was used in any commercial products. It also advised Willis not to expect him at four on the dot because he was going first to Basil Hollander's building to recanvass the tenants Larkin of the Twelfth had already canvassed. Since it's ours now, he'd written, I want to make sure he got everything.

Willis wondered in which of Brown's cop-categories Carella would fit.

He also wondered about the honesty—to use Marilyn's word—of what had happened yesterday afternoon and last night and this morning in her apartment, his cop-mentality considering the possibility that the lady had let him into her pants and into her bed only as a diversionary tactic.

He had told her yesterday that he thought he was the cat's ass, but in the private recesses of his mind, he knew this wasn't the truth. He had never been a ladies man, somehow always favoring women who were much too tall for him, a penchant that inevitably led to rejection of the Did-You-Bring-Your-Stepladder sort. He considered himself an average-looking man in a world populated more and more, it seemed, with spectacularly handsome men. He knew he was short. He knew, too, that short men were supposed to carry chips on their shoulders, angry at the world for the genetic unfairness that had robbed them of the inches necessary to compete in a nation of giants. He might have felt more at home in Japan. Or India. But he was stuck with the U.S. of A., where even your average cab driver looked like a linebacker for the Los Angeles Rams. Generation after generation growing taller and broader, the result of good food and good medicine. Unless you lived in a slum.

As a result of that long-ago shootout—Christ, he shouldn't have told her about it, why had he opened up to her that way?—he had developed a severe aversion toward using the gun. Almost immediately after that worst day in his life, he had enrolled in a Judo school, and had since supplemented his education with police-academy lessons in karate. He was now capable of tossing any cheap thief on his ass in ten seconds flat, without having to resort to deadly force. He somehow enjoyed the feeling of secret power this gave him. Kick sand in Shorty's face? Okay, pal, wham, bam, how does it feel to have a broken arm and swollen balls? Drive your extended forefinger and middle finger into the space over the upper lip and the nose, hit the hard ridge there, and you could send bone splinters flying into a man's brain, never mind using the damn gun.

He had told Marilyn, in the hours he'd spent with her, more about himself than he'd ever told any other woman he'd known. There was that about her. An openness—no pun intended—that demanded openness in return. And yet he wondered. An undeniably beautiful woman deliberately encouraging the runt of the litter? Why? He was not the cat's ass, and he knew it. He was Harold Oliver Willis—even the name seemed appropriate for a short man—Detective/Third Grade, street-smart, experienced, wise to the ways of the con artist, but perhaps gulled anyway by a lady whose close friends seemed to be departing with amazing rapidity for that great big fraternal order in the sky. Four men on that list, two of them already dead and gone. Were the other two similarly marked for imminent extinction? Was he himself now on that select list, a fifth man who had shared Marilyn's bed and bountiful honesty?

If it was indeed honesty.

She had told him her stepfather's name was Jesse Stewart.

Big oil millionaire.

In Houston, Texas.

At the risk of incurring the lieutenant's wrath for making an unnecessary long-distance phone call, he asked the operator for the number of police headquarters in Houston, was informed by her that the main police facility down there was called Houston Central, and then immediately dialed the number and asked for the detective division.

The detective he spoke to was a man named Maynard Thurston. Willis imagined a big, red-faced man in a cowboy hat. He told Thurston he was working a double homicide up here and would appreciate anything the Texas cops could give him on an oil man named Jesse Stewart.

"He break the law?" Thurston asked.

"Well, I don't think so. He's a rich oil man down there."

"All oil men are rich down here," Thurston said. To Willis's northern ear, the words "all" and "oil" sounded identical. "Why you calling a law-enforcement agency if the man hasn't broken no law?"

"I thought you might run a quick check for me," Willis said. "I could call the Chamber of Commerce, I guess…"

"Yeah, why don't you do that?" Thurston suggested.

"But it's been my experience," Willis said, doing a quick tap dance for Texas, "that cops get better cooperation from other cops."

There was a long silence on the line.

Then Thurston said, "Mmm."

Willis waited.

"This's a double homicide, huh?" Thurston said.

"Yes," Willis said. "A poisoning and a stabbing."

"I got on my hands just now somebody chopped up seven people with a chainsaw."

Willis continued waiting. He was thinking he was glad he didn't work in Houston Central. Poisonings and stabbings were bad enough.

"I get the time, I'll see I can look into this for you," Thurston said. "May take a coupla days."

"I'd appreciate whatever…"

"How you spell that last name? Is it S-T-U, or S-T-E-W?"

"S-T-E-W," Willis said.

"Give me your number there, I'll see what I can do." Willis gave him the number before he changed his mind.

"I really appreciate this," he said.

"I ain't done nothin' yet," Thurston said, and hung up.

Willis put the receiver back on its cradle.

He looked at the wall clock.

Two P.M. sharp.

Twenty hours until ten o'clock tomorrow morning, when he would see Marilyn again.

The return call from Houston Central came at eight that night, midway through the evening shift.

By then, Carella had talked to most of the tenants in Hollander's building. As Larkin had reported, all of them—with the exception of the one who'd seen Hollander in the elevator at seven-thirty on Easter Sunday—were deaf, dumb and blind, a not uncommon phenomenon in this city insofar as witnessing a murder was concerned. Better not to get involved. Better to go one's own way. In this indifferent city, where a tenant rarely knew even the name of the person living next door, it was risky to say too much about what one had seen or heard. The fear of reprisal was always present. If someone had killed one person, was he not then capable of killing yet another? Why volunteer as the next victim? A policeman's lot was not a happy one.

They were laying out a strategy of sorts when the call came.

Carella was not dismissing the possibility that the homicides were of the Boy-Meets-Girl garden variety. Jealous lover does in the lady's two other lovers. Which made Nelson Riley and Chip Endicott prime suspects in the Eternal Triangle Tragedy, although in this case the triangle was four-sided, a geometric impossibility, but well within the realm of investigative speculation. The possibility also existed, Carella suggested, that the murders were of the classic Smokescreen variety, the lady herself doing in two of her lovers in the hope that suspicion would fall on—

"No, I don't think so," Willis said at once. "I think she's clean, Steve."

"How so? What'd she tell you?"

"She was with Endicott the night Hollander was killed. I checked with Endicott this afternoon, and he confirms…"

"That doesn't eliminate a double alibi."

"I don't think she had anything to do with this," Willis insisted. "Endicott may have sneaked out of bed…"

"Oh? They were in bed together."

"Well… yes," Willis said.

"What's the matter?" Carella said at once.

"Nothing."

"You look… I don't know… funny."

"Funny, I don't feel funny," Willis said, and attempted a smile.

Carella was still studying him. Willis opened his notebook, avoiding his gaze.

"All I'm saying is that it's unlikely Endicott got out of the apartment without her realizing it, and also got past the doorman—twice—without being seen…"

"You talked to the doorman?"

"Yes. He saw them both go in at a little after nine—which checks with their stories—and he didn't see either one of them go out anytime later."

"When did he go off?"

"At midnight."

"Did you talk to his relief?"

"Same story."

"What time did they leave the apartment?"

"Eight the next morning."

"Same doorman?"

"A third one. He corroborates. Got taxis for both of them."

"Any back way out of the building?"

"A door opening onto a courtyard where the garbage cans are stacked. But both the elevator and the steps are clearly visible from the front door."

"Is that all the security? Just the doorman?"

"Yes."

"So you're assuming all of these guys were wide awake all during their shifts, right?"

"They seemed like reliable witnesses," Willis said.

"So that would eliminate both Endicott and the Hollis woman."

"It would seem to," Willis said.

"Which leaves only Nelson Riley. On that list she gave us. If this was Boy-Meets-Girl." He hesitated, and then said, "But he was off skiing when McKennon caught it." He hesitated again. "Unless he and the Hollis woman are in this together. In which case, their alibi for that weekend…"

"No, I think she's clean, Steve."

"So you said."

"But let's assume for the moment… well, where's the motive, Steve? Why would the two of them, her and the artist—he'd have to be in it if they're lying about that ski weekend…"

"He would."

"So why would they knock off two people who were close friends of hers? I mean, I genuinely believe they were friends, Steve. I think she's telling the truth about that."

"Maybe she's mentioned in both their wills, who knows?" Carella said.

"Come on," Willis said, "the girl's independently wealthy. Her stepfather's an oil millionaire in…"

"Oh? He's her stepfather?"

"Yes."

"And he set her up in that swanky place on the Lane?"

"Well, yes, they're very close, from what I could gather. That's not unusual, Steve. Sometimes the relationship between a stepfather and…"

"Sure," Carella said.

"What I'm saying is… even if there are these wills you were talking about, which I don't think you really believe…"

"We can check with Probate," Carella said, and shrugged.

"Well, I just don't think money is the motive here. I really don't."

"There are only two motives for murder," Carella said. "Love or money. Unless we're dealing with a crazy, in which case we can throw away the manual."

"Well, I don't think this was money."

"That leaves love."

"Or a crazy."

"So which do you think it is?" Carella asked.

"I don't know. But I've got a gut feeling the girl is clean."

"Do you have a gut feeling about Riley, too?"

"Well, if he was up skiing with her that weekend… I mean, if she's clean and telling the truth…"

"Then Riley's clean, too."

"Yes."

"Which leaves us with nobody."

"Or anybody. Anybody connected with McKennon or Hollander. The possibility exists, you know, that these are unrelated. That's not so far-fetched, Steve. A poisoning and a knifing are worlds apart."

"Tell me all about it," Carella said, and sighed.

The telephone rang.

Carella picked up the receiver.

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

"You got a Willis there?" the voice on the other end said.

"Who's this, please?"

"Detective Colworthy, Houston Central."

"Just a second," Carella said, and covered the mouthpiece. "You place a call to Houston?" he asked Willis.

"Yeah," Willis said, and took the receiver. "Detective Thurston?" he said. "This is Hal Willis, what'd you…?"

"It's Detective Colworthy here, Thurston passed this on to me. You wanted a check on somebody named Jesse Stewart?"

"That's right," Willis said.

"S'posed to be an oil millionaire down here?"

"Yes?"

"We got nobody by that name's an oil millionaire down here," Colworthy said.

"Have you got any Jesse Stewarts at all?" Willis asked.

"We got a shitpot full of 'em," Colworthy said. "Jesse's a common name down here, and so's the last name. That includes two or three dozen assholes doing hard time. But none of them's an oil millionaire."

"What are they then?"

"Buddy, you asked us to check oil millionaires, and what we checked was oil millionaires. You want a census by occupation, you picked the wrong people to call."

On impulse, Willis asked, "Have you got anything on a woman named Marilyn Hollis?"

"What do you mean by 'anything'? We ain't about to go through the phone book again."

"Criminal," he said, and immediately wondered why the word had popped into his head. Not five minutes ago, he'd been telling Carella she was as pure as the driven snow.

"You wanna hold while I punch up the computer?"

"I'll hold," Willis said, and turned to Carella. "Nothing on Jesse Stewart," he said.

"Who's Jesse Stewart?"

"Her stepfather," Willis said. "The oil millionaire who set her up in that townhouse."

"Willis?" Colworthy said. "You there?"

"I'm here."

"Nothing on a Marilyn Hollis."

Good, Willis thought.

"But we got a one-time sheet on a Mary Ann Hollis, if that's any help to you. Picked her up on a 43.02 seven years back."

"What's a 43.02?" Willis asked.

"Prostitution," Colworthy said. "Her pimp paid the fine, and she's never been heard from since."

"You got a description there?" Willis asked, and held his breath.

"White Caucasian," Colworthy said, "seventeen years old at the time. Blonde hair, blue eyes, five feet eight inches tall, weight a hun' eighteen, no visible scars or tattoos."

Willis sighed heavily.

"What was her pimp's name?" he asked.

"Joseph Seward," Colworthy said.