Well, not so innocent that they couldn't steal the place from the Indians.
They had tried to reach Martin Bowles at home last night, but there'd been no answer on the phone. When Meyer called his office this morning, he was told that Mr. Bowles could not see him until eleven A.M., after his morning meeting. Now, as Carella and Meyer walked through the narrow streets of the Old City, they went over it one more time. Police work was ever and always a matter of going over it one more time. And then one more time after that. And again and again after that, until it began to make sense.
"I admit it looks different with money involved," Meyer said.
"Very different," Carella said.
"It eliminates a crazy.”
"It also eliminates a dope angle.”
"What it gets down to is Bowles owed Tilly money.”
"One of the two basics, Meyer. Love or money. Now why do you think Bowles owed Tilly money?”
"Ask me a hard one.”
"Okay, how do these contracts work?”
"It's usually half on agreement, remainder on delivery.”
"Usually.”
"But Tilly didn't deliver. He fumbled two attempts.”
"And still wanted the rest.”
"Which is maybe why he ended up in a basement with a bullet in his head and a rope around his neck.”
"Which is why we're here to see Bowles,”
Carella said. - The offices of Laub, Kramer, Steele and Worth seemed a trifle cold and modern. A foot-high electronic ticker tape ran incessantly on the wall opposite the thick glass entrance doors, racing from right to left with symbols neither Carella nor Meyer understood.
Lower on that same wall were paintings Carella recognized as enormously valuable, even though he could not for the life of him have identified the individual artists. A very beautiful black woman in a severe black dress sat behind a rosewood desk trimmed with stainless steel. One slender hand was resting on a console that looked as if it could launch nuclear weapons to any nation on earth. The nails on that hand were very long and very red. Her lips were painted the same color as the nails. As the detectives came into the reception area, she turned languid brown eyes toward them. Behind her, the ticker tape kept spilling quotes across the narrow electronic screen on the wall opposite.
"Mr. Bowles, please," Carella said, and flipped open a small leather case to show her his shield and his ID card.
"Do you have an appointment?" she asked.
"Yes, we do," Meyer said.
"May I have your names, please?" she said, and tapped a button on the console and picked up a telephone receiver.
"Tell him Detectives Meyer and Carella are here.”
The woman nodded noncommittally.
"Two gentlemen to see Mr. Bowles," she said into the phone. "A Detective Meyer and ...”
Slight arching of one eyebrow ...
"Detective Carella," Carella said.
"... Detective Carella," she said into the phone, and listened. "Thank you," she said at last, and put the phone back on the console.
"Someone will be out to show you in," she said. "Won't you have a seat, please?”
They both took seats.
They felt uncomfortable here, these cops.
They didn't know what all those symbols meant, running across that high-tech electronic thing up there ... AGC and BHC and FAL and JNJ and DIS ... what the hell were all those letters? They were cops who didn't have disposable income to invest anywhere. The way they disposed of their income was in feeding and clothing their families and maybe taking them out to a movie every now and then. So they sat there feeling uncomfortable.
And because they were uncomfortable, sitting there in their cop clothes and feeling like cops, they didn't say anything to each other until a statuesque blonde wearing a business suit and high heels suddenly appeared in the reception area and said, "Mr. Carella, Mr. Meyer?" and they both leaped to their feet as if called upon by an arithmetic teacher to recite a solution to a long-division problem-"Yes," they both said together-and the glacial blonde said, "This way, please, gentlemen," and led them past the desk where Nefertiti with her long red nails and her languid look and her luscious red lips sat deciding whether she should throw her brother to the crocodiles. And down those long, mean corridors they followed the blonde until she stopped at a door with a little brass plaque on it etched with the name MARTIN J. BOWLES.
She knocked.
"Come in," he said.
Martin J. Bowles.
Some six feet one, six feet two inches tall, a good-looking man with dark hair and brown eyes, a smile on his face, hand extended, wearing what looked like a designer suit.
"Gentlemen," he said, "how are you?”
Hand still extended.
"Mr. Bowles," Carella said, taking his hand, "I'm Detective Carella, this is my partner, Detective Meyer.”
Still feeling clumsy.
"How do you do?" Bowles said, shaking hands vigorously. "How can I help you? Is this about the attempts that were made on my wife's life?”
"Yes, sir, it is," Carella said.
"I thought so," Bowles said, and nodded.
"We understand a man named Roger Turner Tilly once worked for you as a chauffeur,”
Carella said.
"Well, he worked for a limousine company, actually," Bowles said. "Executive Limousine. But he was my regular driver, yes.”
"Until last spring sometime, isn't that so?”
"Yes. He got into some kind of trouble ...”
"Yes, and was sent to prison.”
“Yes, that's my understanding of what happened.”
"Have you seen him since his release from prison?”
"No, I haven't.”
"You know that he's dead, don't you?”
"Yes. My wife mentioned that you'd called yesterday morning ...”
"Yes.”
"... to inform her.”
"Yes. When's the last time you saw him alive, Mr. Bowles?”
"Before he went to prison. M/'ve been last February sometime.”
"Did you know he'd been released on parole?”
"Yes.”
"How'd you happen to know that, Mr. Bowles?”
"Well, I've spoken to him.”
"When would that have been?”
"The first time was last week sometime.”
"Last week?" Carella said, surprised.
"When last week?”
"Friday, I guess it was. I remember I was just on my way out at the end of the day.
Emma and I ... my wife ...”
Carella nodded.
"Had theater tickets, and we were going to dinner beforehand. Tilly called at around five-thirty, it must have been.”
"What was the purpose of his call?" Carella asked.
"He said I owed him money.”
"Oh?" Carella said, surprised again. "For what?”
"He said I'd hired him to take me to a seminar upstate last year-hired him personally, you understand, not through Executive-and that I'd only given him half the money for the trip and still owed him the rest. I told him I was on my way out, and he gave me a number where I could reach him. I didn't call him back until Monday morning.”
The day Tilly got killed, Meyer thought.
"Why'd you call him?" Carella asked.
"To settle this thing. I had, in fact, hired him to drive me up there-he'd rented a limo someplace, I really don't know the details, I'm sure he made more than if I'd gone through Executive. But I'd paid him in full, and I wanted to clear this up. I didn't - want the man thinking I'd stiffed him.”