by Ed McBain
"I don't know," she said.
"Would there be any problem with that? I know my client-"
"Well, I can't see any problem as such," May said. "Your client was paying Otto to make that tape, so I guess you're entitled to it. It's just…"
"Yes?"
"Well, the detectives asked me…"
"Oh? Have they been here?"
"Been here all morning," May said. "Left just a few minutes ago."
"Who? Which ones?"
"Hacker and Rawles."
"Have they sealed the office?"
"Well, this isn't a crime scene, I don't suppose they'll be sealing it, do you? It's just… they want me to gather all the current files, the cases Otto was working on when he got killed." She shook her head. "I still can't say those words. I get a lump in my throat if I even think those words."
"Yes," Matthew said.
"So I guess that includes the tape, don't you?"
"I would guess so. When will they be coming back for the files, did they say?"
"I told them it'd take me a while. The phone's been ringing off the hook all morning. He had a lot of friends, Otto."
"But will they be coming back later today?"
"I told them around five, five-thirty."
"I wonder if you'd do me a favor, Miss Hennessy."
"You want to hear that tape, don't you?" she said. "Before I give it to the police."
"Please."
"I can't see any harm in that," she said.
"May I take it with me? I'll bring it back in an hour or so."
"You can listen right here," she said. "If you're worried about me, I've already heard anything that could be on that tape a hundred times before. I've been working with Otto for ten years now, Mr. Hope. There's no more dirty surprises for me."
Matthew hesitated.
"You can go in his office and close the door if you think I'll be embarrassed," May said. "The recorder's on his desk. I'll get the tape for you."
"Thank you," he said. "And Miss Hennessy… these cases Otto was working? The current ones?"
"Yes?"
"How many were there?"
"Just yours and one other."
"Both here in Calusa?"
"Yes."
"Are the files very thick?"
"How could they be? He only started working yours a few weeks ago and the other one around the end of April."
"Miss Hennessy… I wonder… after I hear the tape, would you mind very much if I Xeroxed those files?"
"It's a free country," May said, "and so far nothing's been impounded."
"Thank you," he said.
"I'll get that tape," she said.
A taped conversation somehow always sounded more immediate and real than a live one. Matthew didn't know why that was so. He guessed that when people were actually engaged in a conversation, they didn't notice how sloppy and ragged it was. Like life itself, he guessed. But listening to a conversation on tape, you realized that continuity and order were for novels and movies. In real-life conversation, people invariably meandered far afield, sometimes returning to a point minutes later, often seeming to forget it altogether. Interruptions were frequent, overlapping was common, entire passages sometimes made no sense at all. Listening to a taped conversation was compelling because, first of all, it was so shockingly real, and second, the listener was unquestionably eavesdropping. The conversation between Daniel Nettington and a woman identified on Otto's hand-lettered cassette label as Rita Kirkman (but only as "Rita" on the tape itself) was even more compelling because the people talking were lovers.
Otto's private office was larger than the reception area- eight by ten as opposed to six by eight-but just as cluttered. It enjoyed the advantage of a window, however, which, combined with its few extra feet, made it seem spacious by comparison, even if the only view from the window was of a bank building across the street. The desk, a twin sister to the one in the reception room, was piled high with papers. There were bookshelves and filing cabinets and a standing electric fan and a small-screen television set and a radio and two wooden chairs with arms and a typewriter on a stand and, on the wall opposite the desk and surrounded by charcoal drawings of nudes, Otto's framed Class-A license to operate a private investigative agency in the state of Florida.
In accordance with Chapter 493 of the Florida Statutes, such a license granted to its recipient the right to investigate, and to gather information on, a wide range of matters that included:
-The credibility of witnesses or other persons…
-The whereabouts of missing persons…
-The location or recovery of lost or stolen property, and…
- The causes and origin of fires, libels and slanders.
The license further permitted the investigator to:
-Secure evidence to be used in the trial of civil or criminal cases, and…
-When operating under express written authority of the governmental official responsible, to investigate crimes or wrongdoings against the United States or any state or territory of the United States.
All for a hundred bucks.
Which was what the license cost annually.
Renewable before midnight on the thirtieth day of June.
This year, Otto Samalson would not be renewing his license. Nor would he be posting the five-thousand-dollar bond required by subsections 493.08 and 493.09.
Matthew took the cassette May had given him, inserted it into the recorder, sat down behind Otto's desk-feeing the wall with its framed license and its charcoal nudes-and pressed the play button.
… of getting away for at least a weekend.
I don't know, Rita. I'll have to see.
I don't want to force you into doing anything you-
He hit the stop button. Obviously, he'd started the tape someplace beyond the beginning. He rewound it now, pressed the stop button again, and then the play button.
… of getting away for at least a weekend.
I don't know, Rita. I'll have to see.
I don't want to force-
He hit the stop button again. Okay, he had it now. The recorder Otto had planted under the bed was voice-activated. It probably had a good pickup range, and it had begun taping as they came into the bedroom, Rita continuing a sentence she had already started before entering the room. Nodding, Matthew rewound the tape, and started it all over again.
… of getting away for at least a weekend.
I don't know, Rita. I'll have to see.
I don't want to force you into doing anything you don't want to-
You're not forcing me into-
It's just…
That's the thing of it.
Meeting here all the time.
I know.
Silence.
Matthew listened.
Suddenly:
Mmm.
Yeah.
And another long silence.
He guessed they were kissing.
The silence lengthened. Then:
Don't you think I want to get away?
I know you do, Dan.
Take this off, okay? But I don't have the kind of job…
I know.
Some guys travel all the time, you know.
It's difficult for you, I know.
Guys in sales…
They go all over, I know.
The bra, too.
I'm not saying we should go away for two, three weeks…
Two, three…?
I know, did I…?
Impossible.
Did I say two, three weeks?
Two, three weeks, whoo.
Impossible, I know.
Impossible.
I said a weekend is what I said.
Another silence.
Matthew listened.
Murmurs on the tape.
Then:
God, you're gorgeous.
Silence again.
Then the woman's voice:
Ooooo, yes.
And more silence.
Matthew
sighed.
Careful, they're a little sore.
Sorry.
I'm about to get my period.
Silence.
Then the man's voice:
I'd better take these pants off.
Yeah.
Don't want to go home wrinkled.
That's what I mean.
What do you mean?
About a weekend.
Yeah, what?
All I'm asking is a weekend.
I know that. Look, if I had Freddie's job-
Because if we went away, you wouldn't have to worry about getting wrinkled or getting lipstick on you or smelling of perfume or-
Away three, four months out of the year, Freddie.
Yeah, but you haven't.
I know I haven't. Los Angeles, Houston, Phoenix.
Sure, that'd be ideal.
You could meet me anywhere.
Maybe I oughta give Freddie a call, huh?
Oh, sure.
Meet him in Los Angeles sometime.
Yeah, sure.
Silence.
Then the woman's voice:
Oh my, where'd that come from?
You like that, hmm?
I love it. Bring it over here.
The creak of bed springs.
Mmmm.
And again… silence.
Matthew looked at the charcoal drawings of the nudes. He looked at Otto's framed license. He looked at the bank building across the street. He listened to the sounds coming from the recorder. Suddenly-
Nettington's voice:
Don't stop, Rita.
And more sounds.
Deeper, honey.
And heavy breathing.
That's it.
And a gasp.
Jesus. Oh, Jesus. Oh, God.
And a moan.
And a sigh.
And silence.
The tape kept unreeling.
Silence.
Another sigh. Heavier.
Then Rita again:
Was that good, baby?
Nobody does that like you.
How about Carla?
Make me so flickin'-
How about your wife, baby?
-big.
Mmm.
Silence.
Matthew listened.
You want a cigarette?
Please. What do you think of the Fourth?
The sound of a match striking.
Someone exhaling.
Thanks.
Let me get an ashtray.
For our weekend. The Fourth falls on a Friday this year. Silence.
Then Nettington's voice, distant at first:
I don't think we ought to…
And then coming closer, probably as he carried an ashtray back to the bed:
… take any chances right now.
We could leave late Thursday night, come back late Sunday.
Too risky.
Be a nice long weekend, Dan.
Not right now. I think she's getting suspicious.
Oh?
Yeah, I think she suspects some…
What makes you…?
Just a feeling.
Has she said anything?
No, no.
Anyway, who gives a fuck, actually?
Well, I don't want to…
I mean, I just don't give a fuck if she knows or she doesn't know.
This isn't the right time, that's all. I just don't want her to find out right now, that's all.
When is the right time, Dan?
Not now. If we're gonna do this, we have to prepare for it. Sure, prepare.
Otherwise she walks off with everything I've got.
You'll never be ready to leave her.
That's not true, Rita.
It's true. You can't take me away for a weekend, you're going to leave her?
Well…
You can't even take me out to dinner.
Not right now, Rita.
I must be dreaming.
It's too dangerous right now.
Why? If she hasn't said anything…
She hasn't, but…
Then what makes you think…?
Just a feeling. I thought I saw somebody.
What do you mean?
I don't know. Just a feeling.
You saw somebody? Here? Tonight?
I'm not even sure.
But here?
No. The past couple of days. Just a feeling.
Silence.
Then:
I don't want to get caught, Rita.
We won't get caught.
I don't want to.
We won't.
A deep sigh. Silence.
Matthew listened.
How much time have we got?
The woman. No answer from Nettington.
Dan?
Mmm.
What are you doing there?
Looking.
At what?
That car across the street. Was it here when I got here?
What car?
Across the street.
What kind of car?
I can't tell from here.
Well, what color is it?
Blue? Green? Come take a look.
I don't want to take a look.
Does anybody across the street own a blue car? Or a green one?
I don't know what they own. What time do you have to leave?
I've got an hour or so.
Then come here.
Silence.
The tape unreeled.
There were only sounds on it now.
Harsh breathing.
Rita moaning.
And at last:
Oh, Jesus, give it to me!
And she screamed.
And the tape ended.
3
At three o'clock that Monday afternoon, the Cubans who'd been looking for Alice Carmody finally found her. One of the Cubans asked her, "Where's Jody?" but his accent was so thick that Alice didn't know who he meant at first. She said, "Who?" and he smacked her.
She thought Boy, what a shame it is, these fucking spies taking over Miami Beach, next thing you know they'll be taking over Kansas. She didn't even know where Kansas was. She was in a cheap hotel on Collins and Sixth, that's where Alice was when they found her. Alice was a junkie, and she hadn't had a fix since ten o'clock this morning, and they were asking her questions she couldn't understand, these two fuckin' spies.
"You seest'," one of them said.
"What?" Alice said.
"Tu hermana," the other one said.
Alice gathered he didn't speak English, the other one. Fuckin' spic, she thought, and he smacked her, as if he could read her mind. He said something in rapid-fire Spanish to the one who spoke English. Must've been three thousand words he spewed at him, but all Alice caught was the name Ernesto. She figured the one who spoke English-not that he'd get a prize, but at least it was English-was named Ernesto. The greaseball she didn't know his name yet.
Ernesto said, "Listen, okay?"
"I'm listening," she said.
"Wha' we wann to know ees where ees you seest'."
"My what?" she said.
"You seest', you seest'," he said, patiently.
"Oh," Alice said.
"Ah," he said.
"My sister, you mean?"
"Ah," he said, and spread his arms wide to the greaseball.
"Which sister?" Alice said. "I got two. One's in Orlando, the other's in L.A."
Ernesto smacked her again.
"Here," he said, "Miami. Never mine nowheres else."
"I got no sister here in Miami," she said.
This time the greaseball smacked her. They were taking turns smacking her.
"Listen," she said, "stop hitting me, okay? Who the fuck are you? What right do you have…?"
One of them smacked her again, she didn't know which one.
"Listen," Ernesto said. "You unnerstan' English?"
What a fuckin' question, she thought. Coming
from him.
She just looked at him.
"Okay," he said. "You got a sister, she's a blonde, she's here in Miami, and we want to know where, okay, 'cause we got to find her, okay? So-you want your teeth knocked out, or you want to tell us?"
She was beginning to understand him. All at once, it sounded as if he was talking almost perfect English. Even "seest' " sounded like "sister."
"Oh, you mean Jenny" she said.
Ernesto looked at the fucking greaseball. "Domingo?" he said. "Se llama Jenny?"
The greaseball shrugged. Domingo. A fuckin' dance team, she had here. Ernesto and Domingo.
"We're talking about a girl named Jody," Ernesto said, "we know she's your sister, so where is she?"
"That's a name she uses," Alice said.
"What name?"
"Jody. But Jenny's her real name. But you won't find her under Jenny, either, 'cause she uses a lot of different names."
The two men looked at her.
Ernesto nodded at Domingo.
Domingo took a switchblade knife from his pocket and snapped it open.
"So what's that supposed to be?" Alice asked, but all at once she was scared.
"Jenny what?" Ernesto said.
"That depends. You want her square handle or the hundred other names she's been using? Her last name ain't the same as mine, you know, she's my step-"
Ernesto smacked her.
"For favor" he said patiently and pleasantly. "No bullshit." „ "She's my fuckin' stepsister! Listen, you smack me one more time-"
He smacked her one more time. Her lip split open. Blood spilled onto her blouse. She thought, Boy.
"Listen," he said. "You want to get cut?"
"No," she said. Like a little girl. Looking at the knife in Domingo's fuckin' fist. Eyes wide. "No," she said again.
"Okay." Pause. "Jenny, Jody, whoever." Pause. "Your sister."
"Yes." Eyes still wide, entire face attentive.
"Her last name is not Carmody?"
"She was born Santoro," Alice said quickly, "that was my stepfather's name, Santoro, Dominick Santoro, he was a big contractor here in Miami, ask anybody. The Santoro Brothers? That was my stepfather."
"Es Latino?" Ernesto said. "Santoro? Es un nombre Latino? He's Spanish, your stepfather?"
"No, Italian," Alice said. "My mother's Italian, maybe that's why she married him when my father died, who knows? My father was Irish," she said proudly. And immediately thought, My father would kill me if he knew I was doing drugs. But her father was dead.
"Jenny Santoro," Ernesto said, trying the name for size. Even though she could understand his English now, it still came out "Henny," as if he was clearing his throat to spit.
"Yes," Alice said, nodding, eager to please. "That's what she was when she came to us. That was her father's name, a wop, and he married my mother, but me and my sister didn't take the name, we kept our own names. So that's the story. I'm Alice Carmody, and my sister is Kate Carmody, and Jenny is Jenny Santoro, but sometimes she calls herself Jody Carmody. So now you got what you want, right?"
