There was another click on the line. Carella waited. The rock singer still wanted to know how come the recipient of his lament didn’t love him. “Genero?” Carella called over the din.
“What?” Genero called back.
“Can you hear me?”
“What?” Genero said. He was a wiry man with curly black hair, dark-brown eyes, and a strong Neapolitan nose. He sat hunched over his typewriter, pecking at the keys with the forefingers of both hands.
“I said, can you hear me?” Carella shouted.
“Of course I can hear you,” Genero said, “I’m not deaf,” and then immediately added “Sorry” when he remembered Carella’s wife was a deaf-mute.
“Why don’t you get one of those little ear things?” Carella said.
“What do you mean, one of those little ear things?”
“One of those little things you stick in your ear. So you can hear the radio without the rest of us having to listen.”
“No, they’re no good,” Genero said. “They distort the sound. The acoustics in this room are very good, I like to get the full acoustics.”
“You know what’ll happen if the Loot walks in, don’t you?”
“No, he’s at the ball park,” Genero said.
“How do you know that?” Carella asked, surprised, and thinking maybe Genero was a better detective than he realized.
“He told me he had two tickets for today’s game.”
“Well, could you lower it a little, please?”
“I don’t want to tamper with the acoustics,” Genero said.
“Mr. Carella?” a woman on the phone said.
“Yes, this is Detective Carella.”
“This is the Cashier’s Office,” she said, “I have those telephone charges. Would you like to jot them down?”
“Yes, go ahead,” Carella said.
“I have four long-distance calls charged to Anne Newman’s account during her stay with us. She made one at eight p.m. on the night she checked in, that was August first, the call was made to 765-3811 in Isola, and it lasted for three minutes and seventeen seconds.”
“Go ahead,” Carella said, writing.
“The second call was made on Monday afternoon, August fourth, at four-thirty p.m., to 531-8431, also in Isola. She spoke for twenty-seven minutes and twelve seconds.”
“Go on, I’m listening.”
“She called the 765 number again on Tuesday night, August fifth, at nine-twelve p.m. and spoke for—”
“That would be the 765-3811 number?”
“Yes. She spoke for twelve minutes and seven seconds.”
“And the last call?”
“To 332-0295, also in Isola, on August seventh, at five p.m.”
“Would all those times be local?”
“Yes, sir, California time.”
“Thank you very much,” Carella said.
“Have a nice day,” the woman said, and hung up.
“Genero, turn off that radio!” Carella shouted. “I have some more calls to make.”
“Why don’t you get one of those little things you stick in your ear?” Genero said. “Those little rubber things that block out sound.”
“Genero...” Carella said warningly.
“Italians are supposed to like music,” Genero said, but he turned off the radio.
Only one of the telephone numbers sounded familiar to Carella, and only because he’d called it yesterday, before going to visit Anne Newman at the apartment she was presently sharing with her mother-in-law. He checked his notebook just the same, and verified that the 332-0295 number was indeed Susan Newman’s and wondered why Anne had called her just before she’d left California last Thursday night.
The 765-3811 number was undoubtedly Anne’s home phone number; she’d told Carella that she’d called her husband on Friday night when she checked in, and again on Tuesday night, both calls corroborated by the Beverly Wilshire, if that was the number. He checked the Isola directory and found a listing for Jeremiah R. Newman on Silvermine Oval; the number checked out.
But the last number was still a mystery.
He looked over his notes again.
She had called 531-8431, here in the city, on Monday afternoon, August the fourth, and had spoken to someone there for twenty-seven minutes and twelve seconds. Carella pulled the phone to him and dialed “O” for operator. When she came on the line, he said, “This is Detective Carella at the 87th Squad, I need assistance on a police matter, the callback number is 377-8024, extension four. Can your supervisor get back to me, please?”
“In a moment, sir,” the operator said.
He hung up. He would have to call Mrs. Newman to ask what she and her daughter-in-law had talked about on the night of the seventh. It seemed odd to him that the last call Anne Newman had made before leaving the Coast was to her mother-in-law. She had already phoned home on the fifth to tell her husband she’d be catching the Red Eye back on the seventh, so why another call East? The phone rang. He snatched the receiver from its cradle.
“87th Squad, Carella,” he said.
“Yes, Detective Carella, this is Marjorie Phillips, telephone company.”
“How do you do, Miss Phillips? I need assistance on a telephone listing. I have the number, and I’d like the name and address of the subscriber, please.”
“Here in the city, is it?”
“Yes. It’s an Isola listing.”
“And the number?”
“531-8431.”
“Just a moment, please.”
Carella waited. Canned music floated from the ear-piece. If it wasn’t Genero, then it was the goddamn phone company. A shlock orchestra was playing a string arrangement of “Penny Lane” designed to cause any listening rock fan to jump up and down in rage.
“Mr. Carella?”
“Yes, Miss Phillips.”
“I have that listing for you. Have you got a pencil?”
“Right here in my hand.”
“The number — that’s 531-8431 — is listed to a Dr. James Brolin at 493 Courtenay Plaza in Isola.”
“Thank you,” Carella said. “Miss Phillips, while I have you on the line, I wonder if you can help me with another matter?”
“Yes, what is it?”
“I’d like a record of all the telephone calls made from—”
“I’m sorry,” Miss Phillips said, “you’d have to call the Business Office for that.”
“Yes, but this is Sunday, and I—”
“They’ll be open at eight tomorrow morning.”
“No way you can help me meanwhile?”
“I’m afraid not. I wouldn’t have such records here. I’m sorry.”
“Okay, thanks anyway,” Carella said.
“Glad to be of assistance,” Miss Phillips said, and hung up.
Dr. James Brolin, Carella thought, and opened his notebook again. Beneath the name of the pharmacy that had dispensed the Seconal capsules to Anne Newman, he had jotted the name of the doctor who’d written the prescription: Dr. James Brolin. He picked up the receiver again, and dialed the number. A woman answered the phone.
“Dr. Brolin, please,” he said.
“Who’s calling, please?”
“Detective Carella of the 87th Squad.”
“Just a moment,” she said, “I’ll see if he’s in.”
Which in English meant he was very definitely in and she was checking to see if he wanted to talk to a detective. Carella waited. He heard muted voices in the background, and then the receiver being picked up from wherever it had been dropped.
“Hello?” a man’s voice said.
“Dr. Brolin?” Carella asked.
“Yes?”
“This is Detective Carella of the 87th Squad. I’m investigating an apparent suicide, and I wonder if I may ask you some questions, sir.”
“Yes, certainly.”
“Have you got a few moments?”