on the telephone?"
"Peculiarly? What do you mean?"
"Well, as if he were trying to hide something from you. Or as if he were worried . . . anything like that. I'm thinking of threatening calls, Mrs. Foster."
"No, I don't ever remember him acting strange on the phone."
"I see. Well . . ." Carella consulted his notes. "I guess that's about it. I want to get going, Mrs. Foster, because there's a lot of work to do. If you could get me that telephone pad..."
"Yes, of course." She rose, and he watched her slight body as she moved out of the cool living room into one of the bedrooms. When she returned, she handed him the pad and said, "Keep it as long as you like."
"Thank you. Mrs. Foster, please know that we all share your sorrow," he said lamely.
"Find my boy's killer," Mrs. Foster said. She extended one of her withered hands and took his hand in a strong, firm grip, and he marvelled at the strength of the grip, and at the strength in her eyes and on her face. Only when he was in the hallway, with the door locked behind him, did he hear the gentle sobs that came from within the apartment.
He went downstairs and out to the car. When he reached the car, he took off his jacket, wiped his face, and then sat behind the wheel to study his worksheet:
statement of eyewitnesses: None.
motive: Revenge? Con? Nut? Tie-in with Mike? Check Ballistics report.
number of murderers: Two? One Mike, one David.
Or tie-in? B.R. again.
weapons: .45 automatic.
route of murderer: ?
diaries, journals, letters, addresses, telephone
numbers, photographs: Check with David's mthr.
associates, relatives, sweethearts, enemies, etc: Ditto.
places frequented, hang-outs: Ditto.
habits: Ditto.
traces and clues found on the scene: Heelprint in dog feces. At lab now. Four shells. Two bullets. Ditto.
fingerprints found: None.
Carella scratched his head, sighed against the heat, and then headed back for the precinct house to see if the new Ballistics report had come in yet.
The widow of Michael Reardon was a full-breasted woman in her late thirties. She had dark hair and green eyes, and an Irish nose spattered with a clicheful of freckles. She had a face for merry-go-rounds and roller-coaster rides, a face that could split in laughter and girlish glee when water was splashed on her at the seashore. She was a girl who could get drunk sniffing the vermouth cork before it was passed over a martini. She was a girl who went to church on Sundays, a girl who'd belonged to the Newman Club when she was younger, a girl who was a virgin two days after Mike had taken her for his bride. She had good legs, very white, and a good body, and her name was May.
She was dressed in black on the hot afternoon of July 25th, and her feet were planted firmly on the floor before her, and her hands were folded in her lap, and there was no laughter on the face made for roller-coaster rides.
"I haven't told the children yet," she said to Bush. "The children don't know. How can I tell them? What can I say?" '
"It's a rough thing," Bush said in his quiet voice. His scalp felt sticky and moist. He needed a haircut, and his wild red hair was shrieking against the heat.
"Yes," May said. "Can I get you a beer or something? It's very hot. Mike used to take a beer when he got home. No matter what time it was, he always took a beer. He was a very well-ordered person. I mean, he did things carefully and on schedule. I think he wouldn't have been able to sleep if he didn't have that glass of beer when he got home."
"Did he ever stop in the neighborhood bars?"
"No. He always drank here, in the house. And never whiskey. Only one or two glasses of beer."
Mike Reardon, Bush thought. He used to be a cop and a friend. Now he's a victim and a corpse, and I ask questions about him.
"We were supposed to get an air-conditioning unit," May said. "At least, we talked about it. This apartment gets awfully hot. That's because we're so close to the
"Peculiarly? What do you mean?"
"Well, as if he were trying to hide something from you. Or as if he were worried . . . anything like that. I'm thinking of threatening calls, Mrs. Foster."
"No, I don't ever remember him acting strange on the phone."
"I see. Well . . ." Carella consulted his notes. "I guess that's about it. I want to get going, Mrs. Foster, because there's a lot of work to do. If you could get me that telephone pad..."
"Yes, of course." She rose, and he watched her slight body as she moved out of the cool living room into one of the bedrooms. When she returned, she handed him the pad and said, "Keep it as long as you like."
"Thank you. Mrs. Foster, please know that we all share your sorrow," he said lamely.
"Find my boy's killer," Mrs. Foster said. She extended one of her withered hands and took his hand in a strong, firm grip, and he marvelled at the strength of the grip, and at the strength in her eyes and on her face. Only when he was in the hallway, with the door locked behind him, did he hear the gentle sobs that came from within the apartment.
He went downstairs and out to the car. When he reached the car, he took off his jacket, wiped his face, and then sat behind the wheel to study his worksheet:
statement of eyewitnesses: None.
motive: Revenge? Con? Nut? Tie-in with Mike? Check Ballistics report.
number of murderers: Two? One Mike, one David.
Or tie-in? B.R. again.
weapons: .45 automatic.
route of murderer: ?
diaries, journals, letters, addresses, telephone
numbers, photographs: Check with David's mthr.
associates, relatives, sweethearts, enemies, etc: Ditto.
places frequented, hang-outs: Ditto.
habits: Ditto.
traces and clues found on the scene: Heelprint in dog feces. At lab now. Four shells. Two bullets. Ditto.
fingerprints found: None.
Carella scratched his head, sighed against the heat, and then headed back for the precinct house to see if the new Ballistics report had come in yet.
The widow of Michael Reardon was a full-breasted woman in her late thirties. She had dark hair and green eyes, and an Irish nose spattered with a clicheful of freckles. She had a face for merry-go-rounds and roller-coaster rides, a face that could split in laughter and girlish glee when water was splashed on her at the seashore. She was a girl who could get drunk sniffing the vermouth cork before it was passed over a martini. She was a girl who went to church on Sundays, a girl who'd belonged to the Newman Club when she was younger, a girl who was a virgin two days after Mike had taken her for his bride. She had good legs, very white, and a good body, and her name was May.
She was dressed in black on the hot afternoon of July 25th, and her feet were planted firmly on the floor before her, and her hands were folded in her lap, and there was no laughter on the face made for roller-coaster rides.
"I haven't told the children yet," she said to Bush. "The children don't know. How can I tell them? What can I say?" '
"It's a rough thing," Bush said in his quiet voice. His scalp felt sticky and moist. He needed a haircut, and his wild red hair was shrieking against the heat.
"Yes," May said. "Can I get you a beer or something? It's very hot. Mike used to take a beer when he got home. No matter what time it was, he always took a beer. He was a very well-ordered person. I mean, he did things carefully and on schedule. I think he wouldn't have been able to sleep if he didn't have that glass of beer when he got home."
"Did he ever stop in the neighborhood bars?"
"No. He always drank here, in the house. And never whiskey. Only one or two glasses of beer."
Mike Reardon, Bush thought. He used to be a cop and a friend. Now he's a victim and a corpse, and I ask questions about him.
"We were supposed to get an air-conditioning unit," May said. "At least, we talked about it. This apartment gets awfully hot. That's because we're so close to the
Similar Books
