Killer's Choice

'Vaguely. Know what kind of work Fetterick did?'

'No. He never said. A bum, I think.'

'Ever see him leave the house with gloves?'

'Yeah. Hey, yeah. Is that important?'

'Not very. He never mentioned his job?'

'No. I figure him for either a bum or something very low. Like a ditch digger. Or a bricklayer.'

'Those are both honest jobs,' Hawes said.

'So? Honest makes them good? A bricklayer is a jerk. Fetterick is a jerk, so he must be a bricklayer.'

'He never said where he worked?'

'No.'

'Did you ever see him leaving for work in the morning?'

'Yeah.'

'What time?'

'Eight, eight-thirty.'

'Did he work in Riverhead?'

'Beats me. Mind if I have another drink?'

'Go right ahead. Did you ever notice any of his friends? People who came or went to the apartment?'

'He was a lone wolf,' Jenny said. She tossed off the shot. 'I better go easy,' she said, grinning. 'I get wild when I'm crocked.'

'Mmm,' Hawes said.

'I get the urge when I'm crocked,' she said, still grinning.

'Then you'd better go easy,' Hawes said. 'Anything else you can tell me about Fetterick?'

'No. A jerk. A bum. A bricklayer. Common. I invited him in for a drink once. He refused. A jerk, huh?'

'Did he have any girl friends?'

'None that I saw. A jerk. Pretty girl asks him into her apartment for a drink, he refuses. What d'you suppose he was afraid of?'

'I can't imagine,' Hawes said. 'You never saw any girls in his place, huh?'

'No. Who'd bother with a bricklayer? I think I'll have another.' She poured another. 'You want one?'

'No, thanks.'

'You might as well make yourself comfortable,' she said.

'I've got a lot of other people to question.'

'That must be a drag,' she answered. 'Specially on Saturday night. Don't you drink?'

'I drink.'

'So have one.'

'Not now, thanks.'

'Look, everybody else on this floor is out. This is Saturday night. This is the night everybody goes out to howl, you know? Saturday, you know? Don't you know what Saturday is?'

'Sure, I know,' Hawes said.

'So don't you know how to howl?'

'Sure, I know how to howl.'

'So have a drink. There ain't nobody on this floor left to question, anyway. 'Cept me. And I'm all alone. Just me, huh? You ask the questions. I got all the answers. Jenny Pelenco's got all the answers.'

'Except the ones I want,' Hawes said.

'Huh?'

'You don't know anything at all about Fetterick, huh?'

'I told you. A jerk. A bum. A bricklayer. A jerk. A guy who lays bricks.'

'Well, thanks a lot,' Hawes said, rising.

Jenny Pelenco drank her whisky and then looked at Hawes steadily. 'What do you lay?' she asked.

Hawes moved to the door. 'Good night, Mrs Pelenco,' he said. 'When you write to your husband, tell him the police department appreciated all the help you gave them. That should please him.' He opened the door.

Jenny Pelenco did not take her eyes from him. 'What do you lay, cop?' she asked.

'Carpets,' Hawes said politely, and he walked out of the apartment.

As he walked down the steps, Jenny yelled after him, 'Carpets?'

They walked on each side of the black coffin, the men who had worked with him. They walked in solemn regularity. The coffin seemed light, but only because its weight was evenly distributed upon the shoulders of the detectives.

They put the coffin into the hearse, and then the black cars followed the hearse out to Sands Spit and the cemetery. There were some of Havilland's relatives there, but not many. Havilland was a man who'd lived almost entirely alone. The priest said some words over the open grave, and then the coffin was lowered on its canvas strips, and the detectives bent their heads and watched their erstwhile colleague enter the ground. It was a beautiful June day. Havilland could not have asked for a nicer day.

The gravediggers began shovelling earth into the hole as the funeral party dispersed.

The cars drove away in the bright June sunshine, and the detectives got back to work. There were still two murders to be solved.

Roger Havilland lay in the ground, no longer a part of it. A stone would be erected over his grave within the next two weeks. Relatives might visit his grave with flowers annually, and then perhaps the relatives might stop their visits, the flowers would stop.

Roger Havilland would never know or care.

Roger Havilland was no longer a part of it.

Roger Havilland was dead and buried.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

If there is anything worse than being interrogated by one cop, it is being interrogated by two cops. There is something unnerving about having to face two men who ask questions with blank faces. It is perhaps this psychological rattling which accounts for detectives working in pairs. The pair facing Patricia Colworthy was composed of Detective Meyer Meyer and Detective Bert Kling. She had never seen a blanker pair of faces in her life. When they first arrived, she'd honestly believed they were undertakers come to announce the death of her long-ailing aunt in Tucson. Instead, they'd turned out to be cops. They didn't look at all like Joe Friday or Frank Smith. They were very disappointing, to tell the truth. The blond one was sort of cute, but his face was as blank as the bald one's. Together, they looked like an advertisement for rivets.

'We got your name from Annie Boone's address book,' the bald one said. 'We assumed she was a friend of yours.'

'Yes,' Patricia Colworthy said.

'How close a friend, Miss Colworthy?' the blond one asked.

'Pretty close.'

'How long have you known her?'

'Two years at least.'

'Did you know she was divorced?' That from the blond one.

'Yes.'

'Did you know her ex-husband?' That from the bald one.

'No.'

'Ted Boone?'

'No.'

'When did you see her last?'

'Two Saturdays ago. We double-dated.'

'With whom?'

'Two fellers.'

'Yes. Who were they?'

'My boy friend. Steve Brasil. And a boy Annie was with.'

'His name?'

'Frank. Frank Abelson.'

'Had you seen Abelson before that Saturday?'

'Yes. She dated with him every once in a while.'

'Anything serious between them?'

'No, I don't think so. Why don't you question her ex-husband? From what Annie told me, he was trying to get the kid back. He had a reason for killing Annie. Abelson had no reason. He's a nice guy.'

'Mr Boone may have had a reason,' the blond one said, 'but not an opportunity. Mr Boone was forty miles away from the city when his ex-wife was killed. A counterman at a diner is ready to identify him. He couldn't have killed Annie.'

'He's out, huh?'

'He's out.'

'Well, Frank Abelson didn't do it, either. I'll bet he has a good alibi, too. You going to question him?'

'Maybe.'

'Why don't you question the right people?'

'Like who?' the blond one asked.

'The right people.'

'Was Annie Boone a drunkard?' the bald one asked.

'A what?'

'A drunkard.'

'Are you kidding?'

'I'm serious.'

'Where'd you hear that?'

'We heard.'

'Boy, is that all wet. Boy, that takes the cake!'

'She wasn't a drunkard?'

'I think the strongest thing she ever drank was sherry. A drunkard! Boy, that's a lulu, all right.'

'Are you sure?'

'Sure, I'm sure. I went out with her a lot. Maybe a glass or two of sherry. Or maybe a cordial. Never whisky. A drunkard! Wow!'