She was one of those creamy blondes with a flawless complexion usually attributed to British women who ride horses. Her eyes were a brilliant green fringed with lashes as blonde as her hair; her face was somewhat narrow, with high cheekbones and a generous mouth that looked richly appointed even without lipstick. Her upper lip flared a bit, showing perfect white teeth even when she wasn’t speaking. Hawes loved the ones with an overbite. Hawes wished they were here to exchange Christmas gifts instead of to ask questions about a dead man who seemed to hold little or no interest for the cool beauty who sat opposite him in brown high-heeled boots, her legs crossed.
“I’m sorry I have to rush you,” she said, “but my appointment is at noon, and Antoine is clear across town.”
“We’re sorry to break in like this,” Hawes said, and smiled. Carella looked at him. They hadn’t broken in at all. They had called a half hour ago and carefully prepared her for their visit.
“Miss Craig,” Carella said, “when did you last see your father alive?”
“A year ago,” she said, startling him.
“And not since?”
“Not since.”
“How come?”
“How come?” Abigail said, and arched one eyebrow. “I’m not sure I know what you mean.” Her voice was Vassar or Bryn Mawr out of Rosemary Hall or Westover. Her manner was irritated and impatient. Carella had never felt comfortable with these long, cool, poised types, and she was doing little now to ease his distress. He looked at her for a moment and debated his approach. He decided to lay it on the line.
“I mean,” he said, “isn’t that a bit unusual? An only daughter…”
“He has another daughter,” she said flatly.
“Another daughter? I was under the impression…”
“More or less,” Abigail said. “She’s young enough to be his daughter anyway.”
“Who’s that?” Carella asked.
“Hillary.”
“Do you mean Hillary Scott?”
“Yes.”
“I see.”
“Do you?” Abigail said, and reached for a cigarette in an enameled box on the end table. Lighting it, she said, “Let me put it to you simply,” and blew out a stream of smoke, and then put the gold lighter back on the table. “Ever since the divorce my father and I haven’t got along. When he took up with the Spook, that was the end. Period. Finis. Curtain.”
“By the Spook…”
“Hillary.”
“And when did he…take up with her, Miss Craig?”
“Shortly after Shades was published—when all the creeps in the universe were coming out of the woodwork with ghosts of their own.”
“You’re referring to Deadly Shades?”
“My father’s big moneymaking masterpiece,” Abigail said, and crushed out the cigarette.
“It was published when?”
“The hardcover edition? A year and a half ago.”
“And he met Hillary Scott shortly after that?”
“I don’t know when he met her. I didn’t find out about them until Thanksgiving a year ago. God knows how long they’d been living together by then. Invited me over for the big turkey dinner. ‘Hello, darling,’” she said, mimicking broadly, “‘I’d like you to meet Hillary Scott, my lady friend.’ His lady friend!” she said, her eyes flashing.
“Fucking little twenty-two-year-old spook hunter.”
Carella blinked. He was used to all sorts of language in the squadroom and on the streets; you couldn’t be a cop for as long as he’d been one and still expect people to say “darn” and “shucks.” But the obscenity had sounded completely out of place in this festively decorated living room on Hall Avenue. Hawes, on the other hand, was watching Abigail with an intensity bordering on instant obsession; he loved the ones who said “fuck” through their overbites.
“So, uh, the last time you saw your father,” Carella said, “was…”
“Thanksgiving last year. When he introduced me to the Spook. That was it. The last straw.”
“What were the other straws?”
“The divorce was the big thing.”
“And when was that?”
“Seven years ago. Right after Knights and Knaves was published.”
“That’s one of his novels, isn’t it?”
“His best novel. And his last one.” She took another cigarette from the enameled box, held the lighter to it, and blew out a stream of smoke in Hawes’s direction. “The critics savaged it. So naturally, he took it out on Mother. Decided that Stephanie Craig, poor soul, was somehow to blame for what the critics had said about his book. Never once realized that the book was truly a marvelous one. Oh, no. Figured if the critics said it was awful, why, then, it had to be awful. And blamed Mother. Blamed her for the lifestyle—one of his favorite words—that had caused him to write his universally panned novel. Said he wanted out.” Abigail shrugged. “Said he needed to ‘rediscover’ himself—another favorite Gregory Craig utterance.” She dragged on the cigarette again. “So he rediscovered himself with a piece of crap like Shades.”
“Is your mother still alive?” Hawes asked.
“No.”
“When did she die?”
“Three summers ago.”
“How?”
“She drowned. They said it was an accident.”
“They?”
“The Coroner’s Office in Hampstead, Massachusetts.”
“Massachusetts,” Carella said.
“Yes. She drowned in the Bight, two miles from where my father was renting his famous haunted house.”
“This was how many years after the divorce?”
“Four.”
“And they spent their summer vacations in the same town?”
“She never got over it,” Abigail said. “She wanted to be near him. Wherever he went…” She shook her head.
“A minute ago, Miss Craig, you said the Coroner’s Office…”
“Yes.”
“Do you believe your mother’s death was accidental?”
“She was on the swimming team at Holman U when she was a student there,” Abigail said flatly. “She won three gold medals.”
The report from the Mobile Crime Lab was waiting on Carella’s desk when they got back to the squadroom. It stated that the lock on the door to the Craig apartment was a Weiser deadbolt, meaning that it could be unlocked on both sides—inside and out—only with a key. There had been no key in the lock on the inside of the door. There were no jimmy marks on the jamb, no scratches on the perimeter of the lock or around the keyway, no signs of forced entry. The apartment’s service entrance—opening into the kitchen from a small alcove lined with garbage cans—was similarly equipped with a Weiser deadbolt. Again, there were no signs of forced entry. A check of the lock on the big door leading to the rear ramp of the building showed no signs of forced entry. Whoever had killed Gregory Craig was a person who either lived in the building and was known to the security guard on duty or was someone known to Craig himself. If the killer had first been announced by the security guard who was off skiing his brains out someplace, then Craig had given the okay to send him upstairs. There were sixty apartments in the Harborview complex. Carella made a note to begin a door-to-door canvass of the tenants, and he made a further note to ask Byrnes for additional manpower on the case—fat chance of getting it three days before Christmas.
At 12:20 that afternoon he called the Craig apartment, hoping to catch Hillary Scott there. He let the phone ring an even dozen times, replaced the cradle on its receiver, looked up the number for the Parapsychological Society in Isola, and dialed it.
“I’ve been trying to reach you,” Hillary said.
“What about, Miss Scott?”