by Ed McBain
There was a giant bleeding cross on the woman’s belly.
The woman had no nose.
“Jesus!” one of the patrolmen said.
“Help me,” the woman moaned, and blood bubbled from her mouth.
The woman who answered the door to Allan Carter’s apartment was perhaps thirty-five years old, Carella guessed, wearing a brocaded housecoat at 10:00 in the morning, her long black hair sleekly combed and hanging straight on either side of a delicate oval face, her brown eyes slanted enough to give her the same faintly Oriental appearance that caused the cops of the Eight-Seven to kid Carella about being Fujiwara’s cousin. She could have been an older Tina Wong; it always amazed Carella that when a man began cheating on his wife, he often chose a woman who looked somewhat like her.
“Mr. Carella?” she said.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Come in, please, my husband’s expecting you.” She extended her hand. “I’m Melanie Carter.”
“How do you do?” Carella said, and took her hand. It felt extremely warm to the touch, perhaps because his own hand was so icy cold after walking gloveless (and hatless, yes, I know, Uncle Sal) from where he’d parked the police sedan.
Carter came out of what Carella assumed to be a bedroom. He was wearing a Japanese-style kimono over dark blue pajamas. Carella idly wondered if the kimono had been a gift from Tina Wong. He let the thought pass.
“Sorry to bother you so early in the morning,” he said.
“No, no, not at all,” Carter said, and took his hand. “Some coffee? Melanie?” he said. “Could we get some coffee?”
“Yes, certainly,” Melanie said, and went out into the kitchen.
“No partner today?” Carter asked.
“There are only two of us,” Carella said, “and we have a lot of people to see.”
“I’ll bet,” Carter said. “So. What can I do for you?”
“I was hoping we could talk privately,” Carella said.
“Privately?”
“Yes, sir. Just the two of us,” he said, and nodded toward the kitchen.
“My wife can hear anything we have to say,” Carter said.
“I’m not sure of that, sir,” Carella said, and their eyes met and held. Carter said nothing. Melanie came out of the kitchen carrying a silver tray on which there was a silver coffeepot, a silver sugar bowl and creamer, and two cups and saucers. She set the tray down on the coffee table before them, said, “I forgot spoons,” and went out into the kitchen again. Neither of the men said a word. When she came back, she said, “There we are,” and put two spoons onto the tray. “Would you like anything else, Mr. Carella? Some toast?”
“No, thank you, ma’am,” Carella said.
“Melanie,” Carter said, and hesitated. “I’m sure this will bore you to tears. If you have anything you need to do—”
“Of course, dear,” Melanie said. “If you’ll forgive me, Mr. Carella.” She nodded briefly, smiled, and went out into the bedroom, closing the door behind her. Carter rose suddenly and went to the bank of stereo equipment set into a bookcase on the far wall. He knows what we’re going to talk about, Carella thought. He wants a sound cover. The door between the rooms isn’t enough for him. Carter turned on the radio. Music flooded the room. Something classical. Carella could not place it.
“That’s a little loud, isn’t it?” he said.
“You said you wanted to talk privately.”
“Yes, but I don’t want to shout privately.”
“I’ll lower it,” Carter said.
He went to the radio again. Carella remembered that there had been classical music in the background when Loeb had spoken to Moore on the telephone Friday night. There was only one classical music station in this entire cultured city. Apparently it had more listeners than it realized.
Carter came back to where Carella was sitting on the sofa upholstered in the pale green springtime fabric, and took the chair opposite him. The chair was upholstered in a lemon-colored fabric. Outside the windows at the far end of the room, the sky was intensely blue, but the wind howled fiercely.
“This is about Tina, huh?” Carter said at once.
Carella admired him for getting directly to what he surmised was the point, but actually he wasn’t here to talk about Tina Wong. Tina Wong was only his form of official blackmail. Coercion, it might have been called in the Penal Code. Carella was not above a little coercion every now and again.
“Sort of,” he answered.
“So you know,” Carter said. “So what? Actually, my wife could have heard this.”
“Oh?” Carella said.
“She isn’t exactly a nun,” Carter said.
“Oh?” Carella said again.
“She finds ways to busy herself while I’m occupied elsewhere, believe me. Anyway, what does Tina have to do with Sally Anderson?”
“Well, gee,” Carella said, “that’s just what I’d like to know.”
“That was very nicely delivered,” Carter said, unsmiling. “The next time I have a part for a shit-kicking bumpkin, I’ll call you. What are you after, Mr. Carella?”
“I want to know why you thought Sally Anderson was a redhead.”
“Isn’t she?” Carter said.
“Very nicely delivered,” Carella said. “The next time I have a role for a smart-ass liar, I’ll call you.”
“Touche,” Carter said.
“I didn’t come here to fence,” Carella said.
“Why did you come here? So far, I’ve been very patient with you. I’m not without legal resources, you know. I have a lawyer on retainer, and I’m sure he’d like nothing better than to—”
“Go ahead, call him,” Carella said.
Carter sighed. “Let’s cut the crap, okay?” he said.
“Fine,” Carella said.
“Why did I think Sally was a redhead? That was your question, wasn’t it?”
“That was my question.”
“Is it a crime to believe a redhead was a redhead?”
“It’s not even a crime to think a blonde was one.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“Mr. Carter, you know she was a blonde.”
“What makes you think so?”
“Well, for one thing, your choreographer favors blondes, and every white girl in the show is a blonde. It was a nice show, by the way. Thanks for making those tickets available to me.”
“You’re welcome,” Carter said and nodded sourly.
“For another thing, you were present at the final selection of all the dancers—”
“Who told you that?”
“You did. And you had to know there were no redheads in the show, especially since you attended all the run-throughs after the show was put together…which you also told me.”
“So?”
“So I think you were lying when you told me you thought she was a redhead. And when someone is lying, I begin wondering why.”
“I still think she was a redhead.”
“No, you don’t. Her picture’s been in the papers for the past three days. She’s clearly shown as a blonde, and she’s described as such. Even if you thought she was a redhead on the day after she was murdered, you certainly don’t think so now.”
“I haven’t seen the papers,” Carter said.
“How about television? They showed her picture on television, too. In full color. Come on, Mr. Carter. I told you I wasn’t here to fence.”
“Let me hear what you think, Mr. Carella.”
“I think you knew her better than you’re willing to admit. For all I know, you were playing around with her as well as Tina Wong.”
“I wasn’t.”
“Then why’d you lie to me?”
“I didn’t. I thought she was a redhead.”
Carella sighed.
“I did,” Carter said.
“I’ll tell you something, Mr. Carter. Shit-kicking bumpkin that I am, I nonetheless believe that if a man continues lying even after he’s been c
aught in a lie, then he’s really got something to hide. I don’t know what that something might be. I know that a girl was shot to death last Friday night, and you’re lying about having known her better than you did know her. Now what would you think, Mr. Carter, big-shot producer that you are?”
“I would think you’re way off base.”
“Were you at a party on the Sunday before the murder? A party given by a dancer named Lonnie Cooper? One of the black girls in the cast?”
“I was.”
“Was Sally Anderson there?”
“I don’t remember.”
“She was there, Mr. Carter. Are you telling me you didn’t recognize her then, either? There are only eight female dancers in your show, how could you not know Sally Anderson if you ran into her?”
“If she was there—”
“If she was there—and she was—she sure as hell wasn’t wearing a red wig!” Carella said, and stood up abruptly. “Mr. Carter, I hate to sound like a cliched detective in a B-movie, but I wouldn’t advise you to go to Philadelphia this Wednesday. I’d suggest, instead, that you stay right here in this city, where we can reach you if we want to ask you any other questions. Thanks for your time, Mr. Carter.”
He was starting for the door when Carter said, “Sit down.”
He turned to look at him.
“Please,” Carter said.
Carella sat.
“Okay, I knew she was a blonde,” Carter said.
“Okay,” Carella said.
“I was simply afraid to say I’d known her, that’s all.”
“Why?”
“Because she was murdered. I didn’t want to get involved, not in any way possible.”
“In what way could you have got involved? You didn’t kill her, did you?”
“Of course not!”
“Were you having an affair with her?”
“No.”
‘Then what were you afraid of?”
“I didn’t want people poking around. I didn’t want anyone to find out about Tina and me.”
“But we have found out, haven’t we? And besides, Mr. Carter, your wife isn’t exactly a nun, remember? So what difference would it have made?”
“People behave strangely when murder is involved,” Carter said, and shrugged.
“Is that a line from the play you’re rehearsing in Philadelphia?”
“It’s a lame excuse, I know—”
“No, it happens to be true,” Carella said. “But usually, the only people who behave strangely are the ones with something to hide. I still think you have something to hide.”
“Nothing, believe me,” Carter said.
“Did you, in fact, see Sally at that party last Sunday night?”
“I did.”
“Did you talk to her?”
“I did.”
“What about?”
“I don’t remember. The show, I suppose. When people are involved in a show—”
“Anything besides the show?”
“No.”
“Were you present when Sally and some other people began snorting cocaine?”
“I was not.”
“Then how do you know they were doing it?”
“What I’m saying is I didn’t see anyone doing anything of the sort. Not while I was there.”
“What time did you leave the party, Mr. Carter?”
“At about midnight.”
“With Tina Wong?”
“Yes, with Tina.”
“Where’d you go from there?”
“To Tina’s place.”
“How long did you stay there?”
“All night long.”
“Tina saw Sally Anderson snorting. Together with a group of other people including Mike Roldan, who’s also in your show. If Tina saw them, how come you didn’t see them?”
“Tina and I are not Siamese twins. We are not joined at the hip.”
“Meaning what?”
“Lonnie has one of these big old rent-controlled apartments on the park. There were sixty or seventy people there that night. It’s entirely possible that Tina was in one part of the apartment while I was in another.”
“Yes, that’s entirely possible,” Carella said. “And I guess Tina would be willing to swear you weren’t with her when she witnessed Sally Anderson using cocaine.”
“I don’t know what Tina would be willing to swear.”
“Do you use cocaine, Mr. Carter?”
“I certainly do not!”
“Do you know who was supplying Sally?”
“I do not.”
“Do you know a man named Paco Lopez?”
“No.”
“Where were you last Friday night between eleven and twelve midnight?”
“I told you. In Philadelphia.”
“Where were you on Tuesday night at about the same time?”
“Philadelphia.”
“I suppose there are any number of people—”
“Any number.”
“What are you trying to hide, Mr. Carter?”
“Nothing,” Carter said.
At St. Jude’s Hospital—familiarly called St. Juke’s by the cops, because of the many knifing victims carted there day and night—Judite Quadrado kept calling for a priest. At least that’s what they thought she wanted. They thought she knew she was dying and wanted a priest to administer the rites of extreme unction. Actually, she was trying to tell them that a priest had come into her apartment together with a fat woman and that the two of them had done this terrible thing to her.
Judite was in the Intensive Care Unit, with tubes coming out of her nose and her mouth, and tubes running from her arms to a galaxy of machines that beeped and glowed with electronic oranges and blues all around her bed. It was difficult to talk around the tube in her mouth. When she tried to say “Brother Anthony,” which was the name the priest had given her, it came out as a scrambled “Branny,” and when she tried to say “Emma Forbes,” which had been the fat woman’s name, it came out only as what sounded like a cross between a mumble and a hum. She went back to saying “priest,” which came out as “preese,” but which at least they seemed to understand.
The priest came into the unit at seven minutes past eleven that Monday morning.
He was a little too late.
Judite Quadrado had died six minutes earlier.
If there is one thing criminals and cops alike share—aside from the symbiotic relationship that makes each of their jobs possible—it is the sense of smell that tells them when someone is frightened. The moment they catch that whiff, cops and criminals alike turn into savage beasts of prey, ready to tear out the throat and devour the entrails. Miguel Roldan and Antonio Asensio were scared witless, and Meyer smelled their fear the instant Roldan, unsolicited, told him that he and Asensio had been living together as man and wife for the past three years. Meyer didn’t care what their persuasion was. The offered information told him only that the two men were frightened. He knew they weren’t afraid they’d be busted as homosexuals; not in this city. So what were they afraid of? Until that moment, he had been calling them, respectively and respectfully, Mr. Roldan and Mr. Asensio. He now switched to “Mike” and “Tony,” an old cop trick designed to place any suspect at a disadvantage, a ploy somewhat similar to the one nurses used in hospitals. “Hello, Jimmy, how are we feeling this morning?” they would say to the chairman of the board of a vast conglomerate, immediately letting him know who was boss around here, and who was privileged to take your rectal temperature. It worked even better with policemen and anyone who came into their purlieu. Calling a man Johnny instead of Mr. Fuller was the same thing as calling him Boy. It put him in his place at once, and instantly made him feel (a) inferior, (b) defensive, and (c) oddly dependent.
“Mike,” Meyer said, “why do you think I’m here?”
They were sitting in the living room of the brownstone Roldan and Asensio shared. The room was pleasantly furnished with antiques Meyer wished he could have affo
rded. A fire was going on the hearth. The fire crackled and spit into the room.
“You’re here about Sally, of course,” Roldan said.
“Is that what you think, Tony?”
“Yes, of course,” Asensio said.
Meyer wasted no time.
“You know she was using cocaine, don’t you?” he said.
“Well…no,” Roldan said. “How would we know that?”
“Well, come on, Mike,” Meyer said, and smiled knowingly. “You were at a party with her a week ago Sunday, and she was doing cocaine, so you must know she was a user, right?”
Roldan looked at Asensio.
“You were using it that night, too, weren’t you, Mike?”
“Well—”
“I know you were,” Meyer said.
“Well—”
“How about you, Tony? You snort a few lines last Sunday night?”
Asensio looked at Roldan.
“Who were you and Sally getting your stuff from?” Meyer asked.
“Listen,” Roldan said.
“I’m listening.”
“We had nothing to do with her murder.”
“Didn’t you?” Meyer said.
“We didn’t,” Asensio said, shaking his head, and then looking at Roldan. Meyer wondered which of them was the wife and which was the husband. They both seemed very demure. He tried to reconcile this with the fact that the homosexual murders in the precinct were among the most vicious and brutal the cops investigated.
“Do you know who might have killed her?” he asked.
“No, we don’t,” Roldan said.
“We don’t,” Asensio agreed.
“So who do you get your stuff from?” Meyer asked again.
“Why is that important?” Roldan asked.
“That’s assuming we’re users,” Asensio said quickly.
“Yes,” Roldan said, “If we’re users—”
“You are,” Meyer said, and again smiled knowingly.
“Well, if we are, what does it matter who we were getting it from?”
“Were?” Meyer asked at once.
“Are,” Roldan said, correcting himself.
“Assuming we’re users, that is,” Asensio said.
“Did something happen to your dealer?” Meyer asked.
“No, no,” Roldan said.
“That’s assuming we even needed a dealer,” Asensio said.
