Til Death by Ed McBain Page B

Steve. But I didn’t guess a phone call would bring you into the rectory.”
    “Two things I never discuss are politics and religion,” Carella answered. “Is the call from the squad, Father?”
    “A man named Meyer Meyer,” Father Paul said.
    “Thank you,” Carella said, and he took the receiver from the priest’s hand. “Hello, Meyer. Steve.”
    “Hello, boy. How goes the wedding?”
    “So far, so good. The knot’s been tied.”
    “I’ve been doing a little further checking on this Sokolin character. Are you still interested?”
    “Very much so.”
    “Okay. I checked with his parole officer. He’s been leading an exemplary life, working as a salesman in a department store downtown. But two weeks ago, he moved from Isola to Riverhead. I’ve got the address, Steve. From what the map tells me, it looks as if it’s eleven blocks from your father’s house.”
    Carella thought for a moment and then said, “Meyer, will you do me a favor? We had an accident a little while ago that stank to high heaven. Will you put a pickup-and-hold on this character? I’d feel a hell of a lot safer.” He suddenly remembered he was in a church rectory and glanced sheepishly at Father Paul.
    “Sure thing. It’s kind of slow around here, anyway. I may go out on it myself.”
    “Will you let me know when you’ve got him? We’re heading for the photographer’s right now, but I’ll be at my father’s place in about an hour. You can reach me there.”
    “Right. Kiss the bride for me, will you?”
    “I will. Thanks again, Meyer.” He hung up.
    Father Paul looked at him and said, “Trouble?”
    “No. Nothing serious.”
    “I’ve been told about the automobile accident,” he said. “Quite a freak occurrence.”
    “Yes.”
    “But there’s no trouble?”
    “No.”
    “Even though the accident, to quote you, stank to high heaven?”
    Carella smiled. “Father,” he said, “you’ve got me inside the church, but you’re not going to get me into the confessional.” He shook hands with the priest. “It was a beautiful ceremony. Thank you, Father.”
    Outside, the limousines were waiting.
    Carella walked over to where Kling was standing with Teddy.
    “That was Meyer,” he said. “I’ve got a pickup-and-hold on Sokolin. I think that’s wise, don’t you?”
    “I suppose.”
    Carella looked around. “Where’s our friend Jonesy?”
    “He went back to the house.”
    “Oh.”
    “If you’re thinking what I’m thinking, don’t worry about it. Cotton left right after him.”
    “Good.” He took Teddy’s arm. “Honey, you look about ready to drop. Come on. Get inside that nice air-cooled Cadillac.” He held the door open for her. “Some day,” he said, “when I get to be commissioner, I’m going to buy you one of these all for yourself.”
    Ben Darcy and Sam Jones were talking to the caterers when Hawes and Christine pulled up in a taxicab. Hawes paid the driver, and then walked around to the back of the Carella house. A huge framework was in its last stages of construction at the far end of the plot, just inside the row of hedges that divided the Carella property from Birnbaum’s.
    Jonesy stopped talking when he saw Christine Maxwell. Wearing an ice-blue chiffon, she rustled across the lawn clinging to Hawes’s arm, and Jonesy followed her progress through the grass with unabashed and open admiration. When they were close enough, his eyes still on Christine, he said, “I don’t believe we’ve met. My name is Sam Jones. Call me Jonesy.”
    “I’m Cotton Hawes,” Hawes said. “This is Christine Maxwell.”
    “Pleased to meet you,” he said, taking Christine’s hand. Belatedly, he added, “Both.”
    “What’s this monster creation?” Hawes asked, indicating the huge wooden grid.
    “For the fireworks display,” one of the caterers explained.
    “It looks like the launching platform for a three-stage rocket,” Hawes commented, aware of the sledgehammer subtlety of Jonesy’s ogling and