Widows

by Ed McBain

  First they showed him each of the eight mug shots one by one.

  "Recognize any of them?" they asked.

  Assanti did not recognize any of the men in the mug shots.

  He commented once that he would not like to meet this guy in a dark alley.

  Wade and Bent agreed.

  136

  Then they placed the mug shots on the table side by side, all eight of them, and asked him to pick out the three Sonnys who most resembled the Sonny who'd run past him with a gun in his fist on the night of the Carella murder.

  Assanti said none of them looked like the man he'd seen.

  "Are you sure?" Bent asked.

  "I'm positive," Assanti said. "The one I seen had a scar on his face."

  "Ah," Bent said.

  So it was back to the computer again, this time with new information. Recognizing the difficulty of judging a man's age when he's rushing by you at night with a gun in his hand, the gun taking on more immediacy than the year of his birth, they dropped the age qualification. Recognizing, too, that the bakery shop holdup did not necessarily indicate a history of armed robbery, they dropped this qualification as well and ran a citywide search for any black man convicted of a felony within the past five years, provided he was named Sonny and had a scar on his face. They turned up sixty-four of them. This was not surprising.

  It was almost impossible to grow up black in the inner city without one day acquiring a scar of one sort or another. And because keloids - scars that extend and spread beyond the original wound - were more prevalent in black skin than in white, these scars were usually highly visible. The knife scar over Wade's left eye was a keloid. He'd been told it could be treated with radiation therapy combined with surgery and injection of steroids into the lesion. He'd opted to wear the scar for the rest of his life. Actually, it didn't hurt in his line of work.

  They now had sixty-four new mug shots to show Assanti. He pondered the photos long and hard. He was really trying to be cooperative, but he was severely limited in that he was white. In the long run, he simply gave up.

  Bent and Wade hit the streets again.

  137

  Eileen was already there when Kling got to the office at five-ten that Wednesday afternoon. He apologized for being late and then took the chair Karin Lefkowitz offered him. He found it difficult to keep his eyes off Eileen. She was dressed casually - well, almost sloppily, in a faded denim skirt and a cotton sweater that matched her eyes - but she looked fresh and beautiful and radiantly happy. Karin explained that they'd just been talking about Eileen's first success with the hostage negotiating team. Last night, she'd . . .

  "Well, it wasn't a major triumph or anything like that," Eileen said quickly.

  "A baptism of fire, more or less," Karin said, and smiled.

  "Bad word to use," Eileen said. "Fire."

  Both of them were smiling now. Kling felt suddenly like an outsider. He didn't know how Eileen was using the word, and he felt somewhat like a foreigner here in his own country. Fire meant combustion. Fire meant to terminate someone's employment. Fire also meant to shoot. But Karin seemed to know exactly which meaning or meanings Eileen had intended, and this sense of shared intimacy was somehow unsettling to him.

  "So," Karin said, "I'm glad you could make it."

  But what had happened last night? Weren't they going to tell him?

  "Happy to be here," he said, and smiled.

  "I'll tell you where we are," Karin said. "Then maybe you can help us."

  "Happy to," he said, and realized he'd repeated himself, or almost, and suddenly felt foolish. "If I can," he said lamely. Help them with what? he wondered.

  Karin told him where they were.

  Recounted the whole confusing tale of the Halloween night that had only been last year but that seemed centuries ago, when he'd stuck his nose into what was admittedly none of his business, causing Eileen to lose her two backups and placing her in an extremely dangerous and vulnerable position with a serial killer.

  138

  "Since that time," Karin explained, "Eileen has been blaming you for..."

  "Well, you know," Kling started, "I was only trying to . . ."

  "I know that," Eileen said.

  "I mean, the last thing I wanted was to come between you and your backups. I know Annie Rawles," he said, turning back to Karin, "she's a good cop. And whereas this other guy . . ."

  "Shanahan," Eileen said.

  "Shanahan," he said, nodding to her in acknowledgement, "was a stranger to me . . ."

  "Mike Shanahan."

  "Which, by the way, is how the mixup came about. I didn't know him, he didn't know me ..."

  "I know," Eileen said.

  "What I'm saying is I'd rather have cut off my right arm than put you in any kind of situation where you'd have to face down a killer."

  The room went silent.

  "I think Eileen knows that," Karin said.

  "I hope so," Kling said.

  "She also knows . . . don't you, Eileen? . . . that whereas you were to blame for losing her backups ..."

  "Well, as I told you ..."

  "... you were not to blame for her having to kill Bobby Wilson."

  "Well. . . who said I was?"

  "Eileen thought you were."

  "You didn't think that, did you?" he asked, turning to her.

  "Yes, I did."

  "That I was . . . how could you think that? I mean, the guy was coming at you ..."

  "I know."

  "... with a knife ..."

  "I know."

  "So how could I have had anything to do with that? I mean, anybody . . . any police officer ..."

  139

  I "Jesus, I really didn't think you were blaming me for that,

  I Eileen."

  I "It's complicated," she said.

  "Well, I know that. But you can't blame . . ."

  "It's involved with the rape, too."

  "Well, yeah, that," he said.

  Eileen looked at him.

  "Bert. . ." she said. "Don't just dismiss it."

  "I'm not dismissing it, Eileen, you know that."

  "Just don't fucking dismiss it, okay?"

  He felt as if he'd been slapped in the face. He looked at her, stunned.

  "It wasn't well, yeah, that," she said. "It was rapel"

  "Eileen, I didn't mean it that way. I meant. . ."

  He stopped dead, shaking his head.

  "Yes, what did you mean, Mr Kling?" Karin asked.

  "Never mind, forget it."

  "No, I think it may help us here."

  "Help who here?" he asked. "Are you trying to help me, too, or are you trying to blame me for everything that happened since the rape? Or maybe even for the rape itself, who the hell knows, you're blaming me for everything else, why not the rape, too?"

  "No one's blaming you for the rape," Eileen said.

  "Thanks a lot."

  "But, yes, I think you did have a lot to do . . ."

  "Oh, listen. . ."

  "... with what happened since the rape, yes."

  "Okay, I lost your backups, I admit it. I shouldn't have been there, I should have let them handle it. But that's not the crime of the cent..."

  "You're still doing it," Eileen said.

  "Doing what, for Christ's sake?"

  "He doesn't even realize it," she said to Karin.

  "What is it I don't realize? What do you want me to say?

  140

  That I'm the one who really killed that cocks . . .?"

  He cut himself short.

  "Yes?" Karin said.

  "I didn't kill Bobby Wilson," he said. "But if it makes you happier to think I was responsible for it, I'll take the rap, okay?"

  "What were you about to call him?"

  Kling hesitated.

  "Go ahead," Karin said.

  "A cocksucker," he said.

  "Why'd you stop?"

  "Because I don't know you well enough to use such language in your presence."


  Eileen started laughing.

  "What's funny?" he said.

  "You never used that word in my presence, either," she said.

  "Well, I guess that's a sin, too," he said, "watching my language when there's a lady around."

  "If only you could hear yourself," Eileen said, still laughing.

  "I don't know what's so funny here," he said, beginning to get angry again. "Do you know what's so funny?" he asked Karin.

  "Why'd you go to the Canal Zone that night?" Karin asked.

  "I told you."

  "No, you didn't," Eileen said.

  "I went there because I didn't think Annie and Shanahan could handle it."

  "No," Eileen said.

  "Then why'd I. . .?"

  "You thought / couldn't handle it."

  He looked at her.

  "Yes," she said.

  "No. I didn't want to trust your safety to two people ..."

  "You didn't want to trust my safety to me."

  "Eileen, no cop trusts himself alone in a situation ..."

  141

  "I know that."

  "That's why there are backups ..."

  "Yes, yes ..."

  "The more backups the better."

  "But you didn't trust me, Bert. Ever since the rape ..."

  "Oh, Jesus, here's the rape again! Ever since the rape, ever since the rape..."

  "Yes, goddamn it!"

  "No, goddamn it! You're talking about trust? Well, who didn't trust who? I don't like being blamed for something I ..."

  "I blame you for losing faith in me!"

  "No. You blame me for wanting to protect you!"

  "I didn't need your protection! I needed your understanding!"

  "Oh, come on, Eileen. If I'd been any more understanding, I'd have qualified for the priesthood."

  "What does that mean?"

  "Well, you figure it out, okay?"

  "No, what does it mean?"

  "It means who wouldn't let me touch her after the rape?"

  "Oh, is that what it gets down to?"

  "I guess it gets down to I'm not the one who raped you, Eileen. I didn't rape you, and I didn't come at you with a knife, either, and if you've got me mixed up in your head with either of those two . . . cocksuckers, okay? . . . then there's nothing I can do to help you."

  "Who asked for your help?"

  "I thought I was here to ..."

  "Nobody asked for your help."

  "She said maybe I could ..."

  "Nobody needs your goddamn help."

  "Well, okay, I guess I misunderstood."

  "And let's get one thing straight, okay?" Eileen said. "I didn't ask to be a victim."

  "Neither did I," he said.

  She looked at him.

  142

  "The only difference is I haven't made a career of it," he said. "I'm sorry," Karin said, "our time is up."

  The house Tommy was now living in was not quite a mile from the church Carella used to attend when they moved up here to Riverhead. Our Lady of Sorrows, it was called. He'd stopped going to mass when he was fifteen, sixteen, he could hardly remember now, because of something stupid one of the priests had said to him, but that hadn't kept him from attending the Friday night dances in the church basement. Thinking back on it now, it seemed to him that most of his early sex life was defined by those dances in the church basement. Had God known what was happening on that dance floor? All that steamy adolescent activity, had God known what was going on? If so, why hadn't He sent down a lightning bolt or something?

  And if God Himself wasn't noticing, if He was busy someplace else, visiting plagues or something, then couldn't the priest see all that feverishly covert grinding, all that surreptitious clutching of buttock and breast, all that secret dry-humping there in the semi-dark? Standing there beaming at his flock while they slow-danced their way to virtual orgasm, didn't the priest at least suspect that no one was silently saying five Hail Marys? Father Giacomello, his name was. The younger priest. Always smiling. The older one was the one who'd scolded Carella for coming to confession at the busiest time of the year.

  Not a mile from where he stood tonight, watching the garage from the shadow of the trees across the street, waiting for Tommy to come out, if he was coming out. Angela had told Carella that her husband had a bimbo. Well, okay, if there was a bimbo, this was as good a time as any to be seeing her. He'd been kicked out of the nest, this was as good a time as any to seek comfort and solace, //there was a bimbo.

  He waited in the dark.

  Playing cop with his own brother-in-law.

  143

  He shook his head.

  There were roses in bloom, he could smell the roses on the still night air. They used to walk home from those Friday night dances, roses blooming in the soft summer night, he and his sister when she got old enough, walking home together, talking about things, talking about everything. At the time, he was closer to her than to any other human being on earth, he guessed, but he hated it nonetheless when she came to the dances because he felt she was intruding on his sexual freedom. How could a person dry-hump Margie Gannon when a person's own sister was dancing with some guy not four feet away? And, also, how could you keep an eye on your sister to make sure some sex fiend wasn't dry-humping her while you were busy trying to dry-hump Margie Gannon? It got complicated sometimes. Adolescence was complicated.

  He remembered talking things over with his father.

  So many things.

  He remembered telling his father one time - the two of them alone in the shop late at night, the aroma of good things baking in the oven, breads and cakes and pastries and muffins and rolls, he would never forget those smells as long as he lived - he remembered telling him that the longest walk he ever had to make in his life was across a dance floor to ask some girl to dance, any girl, a pretty one, an ugly one, just taking that walk across the floor to where she was sitting, that was the longest walk in the world.

  "It's like torture," he said. "I feel like I'm walking a mile across the desert, you know?"

  "I know."

  "Over hot sand, you know?"

  "Yes, of course."

  "To where she's sitting, Pop. And I hold out my hand, and I say Would you like to dance, or How about the next dance, or whatever, standing there, everybody watching me, everybody knowing that in the next ten seconds she's gonna say Get lost, jerk . . ."

  "No, no," his father said.

  144

  "Sometimes, Pop, yeah, I mean it. Well, not those exact words, but you know they'll say like I'm sorry or I'm tired just now or I already promised this one, whatever, but all it means is Get lost, jerk. And then, Pop, you have to walk back to where you came from, only now everybody knows she turned you down ..."

  "Terrible," his father said, shaking his head.

  "... and the walk back is even longer than the walk when you were coming over, the desert is now a hundred miles long, and the sun is scorching hot, and you're gonna drop dead before you reach the shade, and everybody's laughing at you . . ."

  "Terrible, terrible," his father said, and began laughing to himself.

  "Don't they knowT' Carella said. "Pop, don't they realize?"

  "They don't know," his father said, shaking his head. "But they're so beautiful, even the ugly ones."

  There was activity across the street. The door to the room over the garage opening, a rectangle of light spilling onto the platform just outside the door. Tommy. Reaching inside to snap off the interior lights. Only the spot over the steps shining now. He locked the door and then came down the steps. He was wearing jeans and a striped polo shirt. Head bent, watching the steps as he came down. Carella ducked deeper into the shadows.

  Was there a bimbo?

  He gave him a decent lead, and then fell in behind him. Not too close to be spotted, not too distant to lose him. Tailing my own brother-in-law, he thought, and shook his head again.

  He'd once talked with his father about faithfulness. Or rather listened
to his father talking about it, listened carefully to every word because by then Carella was old enough to realize that his father had come through many of these same things himself and was able to discourse on them without sounding like the wise old man of the world. Without sounding like - a father. Sounding like just another man you happened

  145

  to like a lot. A friend. Possibly the best friend Carella had or ever would have.

  This was just before he married Teddy. A week before the wedding. He and his father were in the bakery shop - all of their important conversations seemed to take place near the ovens, the aroma of baking bread wafting on the air - and Carella was experiencing what he guessed could be denned as prenuptial jitters, wondering out loud whether or not he was about to enter a contract that might be, well, too limiting. Too restrictive, you know what I mean, Pop?

  He guessed he felt the way he had when Angela started coming to those Friday night dances with him, that his turf was being invaded, his space threatened. He'd never told his father that he used to dry-hump Margie Gannon on the dance floor, or that his sister's presence had cramped his style somewhat. Neither had he ever mentioned that he'd later moved onward and upward to the blissful actuality of truly humping Margie in the backseat of the family Dodge, but he suspected his father knew all this, understood that his only son had been leading a fairly active sex life with a wide variety of women before he'd met Teddy Franklin, the woman he was now about to marry, the woman to whom he was about to commit the rest of his life.

  He was troubled, and his father realized it.

  He'd never signed any kind of contract in his entire life, not for a car, not for an apartment, not for anything, and here he was about to sign a contract that would be binding forever. He'd never sworn to anything in public except to uphold the laws of the city, state, and country when he took his oath as a policeman, but now he was about to swear before his relatives and friends and her relatives and friends that he would love her and keep her and all that jazz so long as they both should live. It was scary. In fact, it was terrifying.

  "Do you love her?" his father asked.

  "Yes, I love her, Pop," he said. "I love her very much."

  "Then there's nothing to be scared of. I'll tell you something, Steve. The only time a man considers taking another