“377-8024,” he said. “But—”
“Is that a business or a residence?”
“Neither,” Carella said.
“Sir?”
“It’s a police station.”
“Well, that’s a business, I suppose,” she said.
He had never thought of criminal investigation as a business, but maybe the lady was right. “In any event,” he said, “I need—”
“Is this a billing matter, sir?”
“No, it’s a police matter.”
“What is it you wish, sir?” the woman said.
“I need a record of calls made from a number here in Isola...”
“What number is that, sir?”
“Just a moment,” Carella said, and consulted his notebook, his finger traveling down the page. “That’s 765-3811, the phone is listed to Jeremiah R. Newman, at 74 Silvermine Oval.”
“Yes, sir, and what was it you wished, sir?”
“A record of calls made from that number, starting on the first of August and continuing through the eighth.”
“Then this is a billing matter, isn’t it?”
“No, it’s a police matter.”
“The only reason we keep a record of calls is for billing purposes. And those are only long-distance calls. The local calls...”
“Well, fine, whatever. Can you get me a...?”
“You’d want a duplicate bill, isn’t that it?”
“No, all I want is whatever record you’ve got of the calls made...”
“That would be on the bill, sir. Let me pull that file, can you hold a moment, please?”
He held.
“Hello?” the woman said.
“Yes, I’m here.”
“Sir, we don’t bill to that number until the seventeenth of the month.”
“I don’t want a bill,” Carella said. “All I want is a record of the calls made from—”
“Yes, that would be on the bill, sir.”
“Are you looking at the bill now?”
“No, sir, the bill won’t be mailed till the seventeenth. It’ll be prepared on the fourteenth, and it’ll include all calls made up to and including that date.”
“Today’s the eleventh,” Carella said.
“That’s right, sir,”
“I can’t wait on this till the fourteenth,” Carella said. “I need—”
“The seventeenth, sir. The bill won’t be mailed to Mr. Newman till the seventeenth.”
“Mr. Newman—”
“Why don’t you simply check with him when he receives the bill?”
“He’s not going to receive the bill,” Carella said. “He’s dead.”
“In that case, sir, I don’t know how I can help you.”
“You can help me by putting on your supervisor,” Carella said.
“Yes, sir, just a moment, please.”
Carella waited.
“Good morning, Miss Schulz here,” a cheery voice said.
“Good morning, this is Detective Carella of the 87th Squad here in Isola. I’ve just had a less than satisfying conversation with—”
“Oh, I’m sorry, sir.”
“I need a record of calls made from 765-3811 between the first of August and the eighth of August, and I’ve just been told—”
“Yes, Miss Corning filled me in,” Miss Schulz said. “We bill to that number on the seventeenth.”
“I understand that. But this is a police matter, and time is of the essence, and I’d like a copy of that record as soon as possible.”
“Mm,” Miss Schulz said.
“So if you don’t mind, if someone can make a photocopy for me, I’ll have it picked up sometime later to—”
“I’m not sure we’re authorized to release a record of calls to anyone but the subscriber, sir.”
“I’m a policeman,” Carella said.
“Yes, I realize that. But you see, sir, an individual’s privacy—”
“The individual is dead,” Carella said. “Listen, what is this? I’m making a routine request, and I’m getting a runaround like I’ve never—”
“I’m sorry you think it’s a runaround, sir.”
“Yes, that’s just what I think it is,” Carella said. “When can I pick up that record? Or do I have to get a goddamn court order for it?”
“Don’t curse, sir,” Miss Schulz said.
“When can I pick it up?”
“Just a moment, please,” Miss Schulz said.
Carella waited. One of these days, he thought, the people of the United States are going to declare war on the telephone company. Tanks will go rolling up the avenue to the business off—
“Mr. Carella?”
“Yes?” he said.
“I can mail that to you sometime tomorrow.”
“No, I don’t want it mailed,” Carella said. “I want to send a messenger for it.”
“I was told it would be mailed, sir.”
“Who told you it would be mailed?”
“My superior, sir.”
“Well, you tell your superior it will not be mailed, you tell your superior I’ll be sending a patrolman to the business office — What’s your address there, give me your address.”
“Sir—”
“Give me your goddamn address!”
“Please don’t curse, sir.”
“What’s the address there?”
“384 Benedict.”
“384 Benedict, right,” Carella said. “A patrolman will be there at two p.m. sharp, Miss Schulz, and he’ll ask for you personally, and I suggest you let him have a record of those calls, for which he will properly sign a receipt, because if he doesn’t get it, the next step is to go before a magistrate to ask for a court order to—”
“Just a moment, please,” Miss Schulz said.
Carella waited again.
He kept waiting.
“Hello?” Miss Schulz said.
“Yes, I’m still here,” Carella said.
“We’ll need a written request,” Miss Schulz said.
“Okay, forget it. I’ll go downtown myself, I’ll get a goddamn court order—”
“Please sir, I wish you wouldn’t curse,” Miss Schulz said. “If you can send someone down with a written request, I can have a transcript of those calls ready for pickup tomorrow morning. I’m sorry I can’t do it sooner than that, but we’re computerized, sir, and this would mean—”
“Tomorrow morning will be fine,” Carella said.
“But we’ll need your written request today.”
“A patrolman will hand-deliver it.”
“Thank you, sir,” Miss Schulz said. “Have a nice day.”
When the call from the Hack Bureau came not ten minutes later, Carella expected more trouble. Make a simple request in this damn city, you got involved with all kinds of bureaucratic bullshit that made your job impossible to do. But the woman he spoke to there told him they had run a routine check on their licensed taxi drivers’ call sheets for the first of August, when Anne Newman said she’d left for Los Angeles, and the eighth of August, when she’d returned. Sure enough, the records showed an August 1, 8:45 a.m. pickup at 74 Silvermine Oval for a passenger going to the city’s international airport, and an August 8, 7:30 a.m. pickup at the airport for a passenger the driver dropped off at 74 Silvermine Oval.
There was no way of ascertaining that the passenger had indeed been Anne Newman, but given the corroborating evidence Genero had garnered (after calling three of the airlines flying to Los Angeles, and finally learning from a fourth airline that their manifests for those dates showed an Anne Newman traveling to and from that city), it seemed certain she’d been in California at the time of her husband’s death. Despite the nagging air-conditioner problem — and maybe Kling was right, maybe Newman had been dead-drunk when he swallowed those capsules — Carella was about to close out the case as a suicide.