She was a small dark-haired girl with wet brown eyes, holding a bath towel to cover her nakedness.
“He’s got a warrant, Felice,” Douglas said behind him.
The girl kept weeping.
“Anybody else here?” Kling asked. He felt suddenly like a horse’s ass.
“Nobody,” Douglas said.
“I want to check the other rooms.”
“Go ahead.”
He went through the apartment, turning on lights ahead of him. He checked each room and every closet. There was no one else in the apartment. When he went back into the bedroom again, both Douglas and the girl had dressed. She sat on the edge of the bed, still weeping. Douglas stood beside her, trying to comfort her.
“When I was here Tuesday night, you told me you’d had a visitor the day before,” Kling said. “Who was your visitor?”
“Where does it say in your warrant...?”
“Mr. Douglas,” Kling said, “I don’t want to hear any more bullshit about the warrant. All I want to know is who was here in this apartment between twelve-thirty and one-forty-five last Monday.”
“I... I’d feel funny telling you that.”
“You’ll feel a lot funnier if I have to ask a grand jury to subpoena you,” Kling said. “Who was it?”
“A friend of mine.”
“Male or female?”
“Male.”
“What was he doing here?”
“I told him he could use the apartment.”
“What for?”
“He’s... there’s a girl he’s been seeing.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know her name.”
“Have you ever met her?”
“No.”
“Then you don’t know what she looks like.”
“Larry says she’s gorgeous.”
“Larry?”
“My friend.”
“Larry who?” Kling said at once.
“Larry Patterson.”
Kling nodded.
“He’s married, so’s the broad,” Douglas said. “He needed a place to shack up, I’ve been lending him the pad here. I do a lot of work for him. He’s one of the creative people at—”
“Chelsea TV,” Kling said. “Thanks, Mr. Douglas, I’m sorry for the intrusion.” He looked at the weeping girl. “I’m sorry, Miss,” he mumbled, and quickly left the apartment.
He had not called ahead to tell her he was coming. He’d been in bed when he placed the call to Grossman, and he’d dressed hastily afterward, and left the apartment without waking Teddy, who’d been asleep beside him. Now, as he walked past the smiling statue of General Richard Joseph Condon, he weighed the possibility that there might be a reasonable explanation for that bottle to have been wiped clean — and decided there could not be one.
He identified himself to the doorman in the lobby of Susan Newman’s building on Charlotte Terrace, and asked the man not to announce him. The doorman balked, citing rules and regulations. Carella told him he would hate like hell to bring charges for Hindering Prosecution, Section 205.55 of the Penal Law, and began quoting, “A person renders criminal assistance when, with intent to prevent, hinder or delay the discovery or apprehension—”
“Criminal assistance?” the doorman said. “Huh?”
“Stay off the phone,” Carella said, and started for the elevator.
He got off on the third floor, and walked swiftly to Apartment 3G. He listened outside the door, and then rang the bell.
“Who is it?” a woman’s voice asked.
Anne Newman.
“Police,” he said. “Detective Carella.”
“Oh.” The single word, and then silence. He waited. “Just a minute,” she said.
When she opened the door, she was wearing a long blue robe over a pink nightgown he could see in the V-necked throat. She was barefooted.
“I’m sorry to be bothering you so late at night but...”
“That’s all right,” she said. “Please come in.”
He went into the small entrance foyer behind her, and waited while she locked the door again. As they moved together into the living room, he asked, “Is your mother-in-law home?”
“She’s asleep,” Anne said. “It’s almost eleven, Mr. Carella, I was getting ready for bed myself.”
“Yes, well, I’m awfully sorry, Mrs. Newman, but we’re trying to close this out, and there are just a few more questions I’d like to ask.”
“Yes, of course,” she said. “But I have an early appointment in the morning—”
“I’ll try to make it brief. Mrs. Newman, are you aware that your husband left a will?”
“Yes.”
“When did you learn about it?”
“Monday morning. Our attorney called to inform me.”
“By your attorney...”
“Charles Weber. At Weber, Herzog, and Llewellyn.”
“And this is the first you knew of it?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know when the will was drawn?”
“No.”
“Three weeks before your husband died, Mrs. Newman.”
“Oh? Jerry never mentioned it.”
“Are you familiar with the terms of the will?”
“Yes, Charlie spelled them out for me.”
“You know then that your husband left more than two million dollars...”
“Yes, I know that.”
“And that you weren’t named in the will at all?”
“I’m the beneficiary of an insurance policy.”
“Which leaves you a hundred thousand dollars.”
“Yes, so I understand.”
“How do you feel about that, Mrs. Newman?”
“About what?”
“Your getting a hundred thousand and a stranger getting two million.”
“I don’t know how I feel, actually,” she said.
“Well, you must feel something,” Carella said.
“Disappointment?” she said, smiling wanly. “Sadness?”
“But not anger?”
“Anger? No, not anger. Only sadness and disappointment. I was a loving and loyal wife for almost fifteen years, Mr. Carella. To think that... well, it doesn’t matter. What’s done is done. I don’t need two million dollars, I’m not an extravagant person, I have my own work, I can get by very nicely on what I earn, even without what the insurance policy will bring.”
“Do you know Mr. Kern?” Carella asked.
“Yes. My father-in-law exhibited his work at the Kern Gallery. It was Louis, in fact, who appraised the paintings my husband inherited.”
“Did you know that Mr. Kern was aware of the will’s contents before your husband died?”
“No, I didn’t know that. How...?”
“He was informed.”
“By whom?”
“Your husband’s former wife. Jessica Herzog.”
“How did... oh, I see, yes. Her brother works for the firm, doesn’t he?”
“He’s a partner there.”
“Yes, of course. But I had no idea she even knew Louis.”
“They’re lovers,” Carella said.
“Louis and Jessica? You’re joking,” she said, and smiled. “But that’s too comical for words!”
“It’s a fact,” Carella said.
“Well, stranger things do happen, I suppose,” Anne said, and shook her head. “Louis and Jessica. My, my.”
“Could either of them have known you were leaving for California?”
“Louis, do you mean? Jessica?”
“Yes.”
“No, of course not. I haven’t seen Louis in years, and Jessica... well, surely you must understand there was no love lost between us.”
“And you say you had no knowledge of the will before Monday morning, is that correct?” Carella asked.
“That’s correct.”
“Your husband never mentioned it to you?”
“Never.”
“Isn’t that a bit odd?”
“Jerry was a bit odd.”