"What time did you call him?”
"Eleven, eleven-thirty, somewhere in there.”
"What'd you talk about this time?”
"Well, it was ridiculous. He kept insisting that I owed him money, virtually demanded that I go up there to Diamondback, meet him uptown at twelve sharp with the rest of the money. I never heard such nonsense in my life. As if I'd go to Diamondback under any circumstances.”
"But did you go up there to meet him?”
"Of course not!”
"Did you tell him you'd be there?”
"Yes, I did. To get him off my back.”
"Did you plan to let us know you'd had these two telephone conversations with him?”
"Frankly, no.”
"Did you mention them to your wife?”
"No, I didn't.”
"Mr. Bowles, I suppose you know that your wife identified the man trying to kill her ...”
"Yes, I know all ...”
"... as Roger Tilly.”
"Yes. But I don't know where she got that idea. The man had no reason to ...”
"You don't think he was the man she saw, huh?”
"I think she was mistaken. He had no reason for wanting to do anything like that.”
"How about this money he claimed you owed him?
Could he have been angry about that?”
"That occurred to me, but then why didn't he talk to me before these attempts were made on Emma's life? It just doesn't jibe, you see.”
Carella was thinking that none of it jibed. He was thinking Bowles was lying in his teeth.
"So you don't think this money you owed him ...”
"Money he said I owed him.”
"Yes, excuse me, you don't think that had anything to do with whoever was trying to kill your wife.”
"Nothing whatever.”
"How'd you get along with Tilly personally?”
Meyer asked, taking another tack. He, too, thought Bowles was lying. There was a feel here. It came from years of talking to killers and nonkillers alike. You just knew when someone was leading you down the garden.
"We got along fine," Bowles said. "He was one of the best drivers Executive ever sent me. Well, that's why I kept him as a regular. I didn't know he was going to go crazy in prison.”
"You think he went crazy in prison,”
Meyer said, nodding.
"Well, this whole business about the money,”
Bowles said, and shook his head.
"You didn't owe him any money, right?”
"Not a penny.”
"Before these two phone conversations," Carella said, "had there ever been any harsh words between you?”
"Never.”
"Did you have any reason to think he may have been harboring a grudge?”
"No, nothing like that.”
"Yet your wife felt certain he was the man who shoved her off a subway platform ...”
"I know, but ...”
"... and later tried to run her over.”
"I'm sure she was mistaken.”
"And you're sure you didn't owe him this money he claimed you ...?was "Yes, how many times do I have to ...?was "Did you have reason to give him a business card lately?" Carella asked.
"No. I told you, I hadn't seen him since last February.”
"Mr. Bowles, can you tell us where you were this past Monday at noon? That would've been the day before yesterday, the seventh.”
Bowles looked at him sharply.
"Am I going to need a lawyer here?" he asked.
"Not unless you feel you need one.”
"I mean, what is this, where was I? What the hell is this?" Bowles said, pulling his appointment calendar to him, and angrily leafing through it. "Here it is," he said, snapping the page, and then looking up. "I had a client with me until eleven or so," he said, "after which I placed the call to Tilly. Then I left the office ...”
"To go where?”
"I had a lunch date.”
"With whom?”
"Another client.”
"What's his name?”
"It was a woman.”
"Her name then.”
"Lydia Raines.”
“What time was your date?”
"Twelve noon.”
"Where?”
"A restaurant called Margins.”
"Where's that?”
"On Zwaan.”
The word was Dutch, a holdover from the days of Peter Stuyvesant. Bowles pronounced it the way most natives of this city did: Zwayne.
"Where can we reach this woman?" Carella asked.
"She's a valuable client, I don't want her ...”
"Mr. Bowles, I'm not sure you understand the serious ...”
"I do indeed. I also understand the importance of ...”
"Do you know this is a murder case?”
Carella said.
"Yes, I do," Bowles said. "I'm merely suggesting that there may be some other way to confirm that I was there with her. I don't want her to know that a police investigation is under way. Investors hear police, they immediately believe the firm's involved in some wrongdoing. I expect to be promoted in May. If a client as important as Ms. Raines ...”
"What other way are you suggesting?" Meyer asked pleasantly.
"I just don't want to get her involved in this.”
"But she's already involved," Meyer said gently. "Don't you see?”
"I suppose so.”
"So can you tell us where she lives, sir?”
"Well ...”
"Please," Meyer said. "It'll make it a lot easier for all of us.”
"She lives on Chase. 475 Chase Avenue.”
"Thank you, sir," Meyer said.
"I'd appreciate it if you didn't mention you're investigating a murder.”
"We'll try not to," Meyer said, and again smiled pleasantly.
Lydia Raines owned a flower shop called The Raines Forest, on Davidson and Parade.
The name of the place might have worked as a cutesy-poo pun, except for the fact that none of Lydia's customers knew her last name. As a result, not too many people gave a passing thought to the cleverness on the front plate-glass window.
Most passersby figured the middle word had been misspelled. As a matter of fact, the doorman at her building on Chase had told the detectives that the name of her shop was The Rain Forest.
The window was full of exotic blooming plants, surprising at any time of the year, absolutely startling for January. Carella recognized the orchids, but there were other plants he could not have guessed at, all purple and yellow and orange and gold, most of them looking phallic. Meyer was thinking about the name of the place and wondering what other businesses Lydia Raines could have gone into, and what other variations she might have worked on her name. If she imported venison from the Wild West, for example, might she have called her business Home on the Raines? Or if she made bridles and such for the horsey set, would her business be called Saddles and Raines?
"Or how about It Never Raines?" he asked Carella out loud.
"Huh?" Carella said.
"For a salt manufacturer," Meyer said.
"Huh?" Carella said again, and opened the front door to the shop.
"But it pours," Meyer explained, and shrugged.
Once, a long time ago, Carella and Meyer had gone together to Puerto Rico, to extradite a man wanted for a double murder. The moment they'd stepped off the plane in San Juan, they'd known they were in the tropics. Their perception had nothing to do with the brilliant sunshine, or the heat, or the humidity. It came instead from the heady scent in the air, a fetid mix of mildew and perfume, rot and riotous growth, an aroma neither of the men had ever before inhaled. There was the same aroma here in Lydia Raines's private little forest. Mist should have been rising from the giant leafy plants that crowded the walls and cluttered the narrow aisles of the shop. Tiny bright birds should have been twittering about the open blooms that stridently trumpeted their colors. There should have been the incessant sound of insects. And in the distance, the lazy whisper of the ocean.
Lydia Raines-if such the lady was- stood behind the counter at the rear of the shop, fussing over an arrangement, tucking in a purple flower here, moving a red to another position, fanning out a spray of fern. Carella guessed she was in her mid-forties, a tall, slender woman who resembled one of her own exotic plants.