He watched her hands, watched her lips mouthing the words.
“How do you know he was a detective?” he asked.
First off, he was very handsome…
“I don’t know any detectives who are handsome,” he said.
I know one,she said.
He took her hands, kissed first one, and then the other.
“I have to make one phone call,” he said. “Then we can have some lunch and start home. Will you be okay here?”
If I have any more coffee, I won’t beableto eat lunch,she said.
“This’ll take maybe ten, fifteen minutes,” he said.
Morgan found him a phone in a private little office, and provided him with an 800 number to call for American Express. The woman at the other end wanted to know how she could tell for sure he was a police detective. He gave her his shield number, gave her the number at the precinct, gave her his lieutenant’s name, even gave her the name of the Chief of Detectives and the number to call at Headquarters to verify that he was for real. She asked him to hold while she talked to her supervisor.
Carella waited.
The woman came back some five minutes later.
“Sorry, Detective Carella,” she said, “we have to check. What can I do for you?”
He explained what she could do for him.
AT LUNCH, he told Teddy what he had learned today.
“He was definitely here with the girl. One of the maids saw him kissing her while they were waiting for an elevator.”
Romantic,Teddy signed.
“Very. Unless you’re married to someone else.”
You’d better never,she said.
“My guess is she checked into a separate room, snuck down the hall each night to sleep with him.”
Like the English do,Teddy said.At country houses on weekends down from London.
“Yes, exactly like the English do,” he said. “How do you know what the English do in country houses on weekends?”
Movies,she said, and shrugged.
“His Sunday morning room service charge was fortwobreakfasts. Bit careless, huh?”
Not if you don’t think anyone’ll come around checking.
“American Express gave me two restaurant charges for him. One for dinner on Saturday night, the other for dinner on Sunday. Nothing for lunch Saturday, that’s when he was with the Governor. The Saturday night dinner cost two hundred bucks…”
Teddy rolled her eyes.
“You said it. Dinner on Sunday was a hundred and eighty. These were the best restaurants in town, but he couldn’t have been alone unless he had an enormous appetite.”
Teddy nodded agreement.
“I’d like to check both restaurants, if you still have the patience. What it looks like, he sent his aide home, dallied with the blonde on Saturday and Sunday nights, and then…”
You didn’t mention she was a blonde.
“A blonde, yes.”
Do you like blondes?
“Everyone likes blondes.”
How aboutyou?We’re talking aboutyouhere. Doyoulike blondes?
“I like brunettes with big brown eyes and enormous appetites.”
Am I eating too much?
“Not if you’re hungry.”
I’m very hungry. How about one of these women who sign to the deaf on television shows? The ones you see on the side of the screen in a little box?
“Hey,” he said. “Nowthat’sa good idea.”
You think so?
“I really do.”
Wouldn’t I have to hear what the anchors are saying?
“They work from scripts. You’ll have a script.”
Is that what they do?
“Absolutely.”
The problem is…
Her hands stopped.
“What?” he said.
I’m not pretty enough,she said, and shrugged.
“You’re beautiful,” he said.
Her eyes were suddenly brimming with tears.
But worthless,she signed.
He reached across the table and took her hands.
“Beautiful and valuable,” he said.
To you.
“To anyone with any sense at all,” he said, and got up in the crowded restaurant and walked around the table and tilted her face to his, and kissed her on the lips.
Someone across the room applauded.
THE MAITRE D’ ATAmboise, the restaurant Henderson and his little blond friend had dined at on Saturday night, remembered the couple well.
“Yes indeed,” he said. “He was a man in his late forties, I’d say, short, slim, with one of those haircuts you see on all those television politicians. They ought to get new barbers, don’t you think?”
“And the woman with him?”
“Oh, very pretty. Very. A young blond girl, I thought at first she was his daughter.”
“What changed your mind?”
“Well, to begin with, he asked for a quiet table. And the girl said, ‘Aromantictable, please,’ and squeezed his arm, you know the way they do. He ordered a bottle of champagne before dinner, and when they toasted, they looped their arms through each other, you know, hooked their arms together, and brought their heads close over the table, whispering to each other, you know the way they do. And they were holding hands all through dinner, and…well, to put it plainly, they were behaving like sweethearts. I’ve never seen a father and daughter behave that way, and I’ve been in this business thirty-one years now.”
“How old would you say she was?”
“Eighteen? Nineteen? No older than that.”
“You didn’t happen to hear her name, did you?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Wouldn’t have heard him calling her ‘Carrie,’ would you?”
“I’m sorry, no.”
“What time did they leave here?”
“Well, the reservation was for eight, I think they left at around nine-thirty, it must have been. He had his arm around her. They were definitely not father and daughter. He told me the food had been delicious, and the girl said, ‘Oh, yesss,’ gushing, you know the way they do. Well, I’msureshe enjoyed the meal, she came back for lunch the next day.”
“What do you mean? He brought her here again on Sun…?”
“No, no. She was here alone. The girl. She came back alone. Walked in at about twelve-thirty, asked for the same table they’d had the night before. I was happy to oblige. We don’t get much of a lunch crowd.”
“How did she pay?” Carella asked.
“Credit card,” the maitre d’ said.
“I don’t suppose…”
“Let me check.”
THE NAME ONthe credit card was Carolyn Harris.
This did not jibe with the JSH monogram on the stationery, but then again it never had, and now at least they had a last name.
And a first one, too, for that matter.
Carella called Kling from the train station and told him what he had. Kling said he’d get on it right away. The time was four fifty-nine, and the clock was ticking: Carella’s train left at five-oh-seven.
Kling could find no listing for a Carolyn Harris in any of the city’s phone directories.
Her credit card company adamantly refused to reveal her address. Kling told a supervisor in Arizona or wherever the hell she was that he would have to petition for a court order. She told him she was sorry he felt that way, but she had to protect the confidentiality of their clients, and so on and so forth, but at least she was live, which was better than listening to a menu with four hundred choices. But she knew damn well he would not petition for a court order.
Instead, he went down the list of the stores carrying Letter Perfect stationery, dialing each one in order, this time asking each and every one of them to please check for any monogrammed stationery order with the last name “Harris,” the first initial “J,” and the middle initial “S.”
Each of the stores promised to get back to him.
One of them phoned at six-thirty that Saturday night, just as Kling was about to leave the squadroom.