‘You name them.’
‘Is he still here in this country, or did he go back home?’
‘Who knows? She divorced him, it’s got to be ten, twelve years ago. I never liked him. He played trumpet.’
‘Is that why you didn’t like him?’
‘I got nothing against trumpet players. I’m just saying he played trumpet, is all.’
‘So that’s the bad company she kept, right?’ Genero said. ‘These two husbands. Al Dalton and Ricky Montero.’
‘I didn’t say “bad.” That’s your word.’
‘You said half of her friends should be in here doing time.’
‘That don’t make them bad.’
‘No, that makes them sweethearts.’
‘I’m doing time, and I ain’t bad.’
‘No, all you did was stab somebody twelve years ago, and then stab somebody else, right here in jail, two years ago.’
‘That don’t make you bad at all,’ Genero said.
‘That makes you an angel,’ Parker said.
‘You done breaking my balls? Cause I don’t know who killed my sister, and I don’t give a shit who did.’
‘Sit down,’ Parker said.
‘Sit down,’ Genero said.
‘Tell us who these other friends of hers were.’
‘From days of yore.’
‘These people who should be in here doing time.’
‘My sister started young,’ Hendricks said.
‘Started what young? Dabbling in dope?’
‘Started everything young. You consider thirteen early?’
‘You consider junior high early?’
‘That would’ve been Mercer, right? You both went to the same junior high, right?’
‘I was a year behind her.’
‘Where’d she go after she left high school?’
‘She got a job. My father was dead, my mother…”
‘Job doing what?’
‘Waitressing.’
‘Where, would you know?’
‘A neighborhood restaurant.’
‘What neighborhood?’
‘The Laurelwood section of Riverhead.’
‘That where you were living at the time?’
‘That’s where.’
‘Remember the name of the restaurant?’
‘Sure. Rocco’s.’
‘What’d you do after high school?’
‘I went to jail.’
The detectives looked at each other.
‘I was sixteen when I took my first fall.’
‘What for?’
‘Aggravated assault. I’ve been in and out all my life. Fifty-four years old, if I spent twenty of those years on the outside, that’s a lot.’
‘Tell us some more about these friends of your sister’s.’
‘Go ask her husbands,’ Hendricks said.
* * * *
Kling was hovering.
It was close to eight P.M. and he was still in the squadroom, wandering from the watercooler to the bulletin board, glancing toward Carella’s desk, where he was busy rereading his DD reports, trying to make some sense of this damn case. Strolling over to the open bank of windows, Kling looked down into the street at the early evening traffic, shot another covert glance at Carella, walked back to his own desk, began typing, stopped typing, stood up, stretched, started wandering the room again, hovering. Something was on the man’s mind, no question.
Carella looked up at the clock.
‘I’d better get out of here,’ he said.
‘Me, too,’ Kling answered, too eagerly, and immediately went to Carella’s desk. ‘How’s it going?’ he asked.
‘Nothing yet,’ Carella said. ‘But we’re on it.’
‘Give it time,’ Kling said.
Idle talk. Not at all what was really on his mind.
‘Sure,’ Carella said.
Both men fell silent. Kling pulled up a chair, sat. ‘Mind if I ask you something?’ he said.
Carella looked across the desk at him.
‘I’ve had a serious argument with Sharyn.’
Carella nodded.
‘I thought she was running around behind my back. Turned out she and this colleague, handsome black doctor, were trying to help another colleague, a woman who… well, it’s a long story.’
‘What was the argument about?’
‘Sharyn thinks I betrayed her.’
‘How?’
‘By following her. By not trusting her.’
Carella nodded again.
‘You agree with her, huh?’
‘I’ve never followed Teddy in my life. Never will.’
‘Yeah,’ Kling said. ‘But I thought…’
‘Whatever you thought.’
‘Yeah.’
They were silent for another moment.
‘She doesn’t want me to call her.’
‘So don’t.’
‘For a while, anyway.’
‘Is that what she said?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, that’s a good sign.’
He was thinking, Man, you don’t tail a woman you love.
‘I want this to work,’ Kling said.
‘Then make sure it does,’ Carella said.
‘I love her, Steve.’
‘Tell her.’
Again and again and again, he thought.
‘When do you think I should call her again?’
‘Was me?’
‘Yeah?’
‘I’d call her every minute of every hour of every day until she knew how much I loved her.’
‘I’m afraid she’ll…”
He shook his head.
‘I’m afraid I’ll lose her,’ he said.
‘Tell her.’
Kling nodded.
He was already trying to think what he might say the next time he phoned.
* * * *
Ollie Weeks was still thinking about last Friday night. The dinner with Patricia and her family. Or, more accurately, what had happened in the parking lot after dinner. That was almost a week ago, and all he could do was still think about Patricia Gomez.
To tell the truth, he was beginning to feel a bit conflicted, so to speak. This was probably because Patricia had kissed him good night on the lips. This after her brother had clapped him on the shoulder and said, ‘You got cool chops, dude.’ Meaning the way he played piano. This after her father had told him, ‘I like a man with a hearty appetite.’ Meaning the way he ate.
Ollie had told Patricia she didn’t have to come downstairs with him, it was late, and she’d said, ‘Hey, I’m a cop.’ Took the elevator down with him, the hallways and the elevator doors all covered with graffiti, salsa music coming from inside all the apartments. Walked him to his car, and kissed him before he even unlocked the door. On the lips. With her mouth open. And her tongue working.
Which was why he felt so conflicted, so to speak, this Monday evening, when he was about to call Patricia to propose a quiet little dinner alone in his apartment, which he himself would prepare.
Was he merely out to lay Patricia Gomez?
Or was this something more serious, God forbid?
He wished he had someone he could discuss this with.
He wished he knew Steve Carella better.
Only other person he could think of was Andy Parker.
* * * *
The two men met for a drink at nine that night. Parker suspected something was on Ollie’s mind, but he couldn’t imagine what it was until Ollie began talking about this great Spanish dinner he’d had last week up Patricia Gomez’s house.
‘You still seeing her, huh?’ Parker said.
‘Well, yeah, every now and then,’ Ollie said.
‘Is that why you’re on this diet of yours?’
‘What diet?’ Ollie asked.
‘Or maybe not, a Spanish dinner.’
‘Patricia says it’s okay to go off it every now and then.’
‘So it was her idea, is that right?’
‘No, no, her idea. Come on.’
‘Then whose idea was it, if not hers? If she’s the one can say it’s okay to stay on it or go off it, then whose idea was it? The Pope’s?’