"What I'm saying, in a situation like this one, the telephone company will usually ...”
"Illinois Bell handles some eight- to nine-thousand such requests every year, sir. You'll still need a court order.”
"Don't you have some sort of liaison with the Chicago PAID?" he asked. "Down here, we ...”
"Are you with the Chicago PAID, sir?”
"No, I told you ...”
"Then you'll need a court order, sir.”
"Thank you," he said, and hung up.
He went back to his personal directory, found a listing for Police Headquarters in Chicago, dialed the number there, and told the sergeant who answered the phone what he needed.
The sergeant put him through to a detective named Riley. He explained it to Riley all over again. Told him all about his conversation with Mrs.
Fisher.
"Yeah, they can get snotty when they want to," Riley said. "But here's what you do. You get in touch with our Field Inquiry Section.
Look up the teletype number in your Leads Network directory. Tell them what you're working and why you need the information. The Chief of Detectives'll turn it over to the Detective Division, and somebody'll take care of it.”
"You'll get that subpoena for me?”
"No, no, that's bullshit.”
"She said ...”
"Yeah, but we got a special guy in their security office, he works with us all the time. In an active investigation ... you did say homicide, didn't you?”
"I said homicide.”
"He'll usually give us the information right on the phone.”
"Good," Carella said. "How long will it take?”
"Later this afternoon sound okay?" Riley asked.
The teletype from the Chicago PAID came in half an hour later. It told Carella only two things: The unpublished telephone number printed on Andrew Darrow's supposed business card was billed to a man named Andrew Denker at an address not on South Clark but instead on West Wellington.
7.
The meeting took place in Lieutenant Byrnes's corner office on Thursday morning, the tenth day of January.
Meyer and Carella sat side by side in hard-backed wooden chairs near the windows, winter-backlighted, ready to make their presentation, both of them looking spruce and chipper. It was snowing behind them. Byrnes hated it when it snowed. It made response times longer and often gave criminals an edge they didn't need.
Cotton Hawes looked pinkish from a skiing vacation in Colorado, his red hair seeming to reflect onto his cheeks. He was badly in need of a haircut; Byrnes wondered if he should mention it. Hawes sat on one corner of Byrnes's desk, partially blocking his view of Arthur Brown, who stood hulking near the door as if blocking entrance to any unwanted arrival.
If Byrnes had to walk unarmed down any dark alley at two in the morning, he would choose Brown as his partner. Andy Parker sat in a chair next to him. Unshaven, as usual. - Plant him on a park bench, you'd think he was one of the city's homeless. Plant him in Miami, you'd think he was with Vice.
Bert Kling leaned against the wall beside him, no doubt trying to figure out how to get his girlfriend back. Eyes a hundred miles away, Byrnes felt like kicking him in the ass. He knew the full story. Knew Kling was the reason Eileen had lost her backups on a job tracking a serial killer. Knew she'd had to shoot the man to death. One in the chest, another in the shoulder, and then emptying the gun into his back for good measure. Tough lady, Eileen Burke.
Good cop. Working with the Hostage Negotiating Team now. Byrnes wanted to kick Kling in the ass, tell him to get on with life again.
Bob O'Brien sat in a chair to Kling's right, arms folded across his chest, long legs stretched toward the desk. Bad Luck Bob.
Respond to a call with him, and there'd be shooting nine times out of ten. Go figure. You got yourself partnered with O'Brien, some dumb bastard was going to pull a gun and start shooting at you. He'd killed six men in the line of duty. Byrnes thought he ought to ask O'Brien to sit down with Eileen Burke one day, pour out his Irish heart to her, mick to mick, tell her what it was like to really kill people. You want killing people? Try six for size. Tell her how he cried inside every time it happened. Tell her just what he'd told the lieutenant one rainy day, right here in this office. I cry inside, Pete. Every time. I cry inside.
"Ready to start?" Byrnes said. The clock on the wall read ten minutes past eight. The Graveyard Shift had been relieved twenty-five minutes ago. It had been snowing since midnight. "I want to make this fast, Steve has to get downtown to the courthouse. This is the case him and Meyer've been working since the end of December. It turned into a homicide this past Monday.”
"What was it before then?" Hawes asked.
"Attempted murder," Carella said.
"Of the homicide victim?”
"No. He was the guy trying to kill her. Or so she says.”
"I'm lost," Hawes said.
"Go back to Aspen," Parker told him.
"Vail.”
“Wherever.”
"I wish I could.”
"Tell him he can go back, Loot.”
Byrnes glared at both of them.
"Why don't you take it from the top, Steve?”
he said, and leaned back in his swivel chair and laced his fingers across his chest. Carella filled them in. Every now and then, Meyer broke in to correct a time or a date, but for the most part it was a solo recitation, Carella telling them everything that had happened on the case since the twenty-ninth of December, when Emma Bowles walked into the squadroom to report two attempts on her life, taking them through the murder of Roger Turner Tilly and the First Man Up dispute with Fat Ollie Weeks ...
"Yeah, that's Ollie for you," Parker said, chuckling.
... and the discovery of the gun in the basement, and the conversations with both Martin Bowles and the client he was presumably lunching with on the day of the murder, and the news that he'd hired a private eye who was using a phony name.
"That's it so far," Carella said.
"Questions?" Byrnes said.
"Have you got anything on the gun yet?”
Hawes asked.
"Ballistics is supposed to be getting back to us today.”
"It's a thirty-two for sure," Meyer said.
"A Hi-Standard Sentinel," Carella said.
"That the one with the snub barrel?”
"Yes.”
"What was this guy's name again?”
"Roger Turner Tilly.”
"Sounds black," Parker said.
"No, he's white.”
"Only people in this city who have white names anymore are black," Parker said. He seemed not to realize that Brown was standing near the door, looking as tall and as wide as a mountain. Brown said nothing. He felt like throwing Parker out the window, but he didn't say a word.
"So what's your thinking?" O'Brien asked.
"That the husband is involved?”
"Yes. We found his card in Tilly's wallet. ...”
"Well, there's your positive link," Parker said. - "And we've got him talking to Tilly on the morning he was killed.”
"At the scene, you mean?”
"No. On the phone.”
"What about?" Brown asked.
"Tilly claimed he owed him money.”
"Uh-oh.”
"Yeah. According to Bowles, Tilly drove him upstate last year sometime ...”
"Now we're into ancient history, right?”
Parker said.
"... and still owed him the rest of the money for the trip. This was before he got sent up for assault last spring.”
"I hate stories with ancient history in them," Parker said.
"The victim was in the slammer?" Hawes asked.
"Pay attention," Parker said.
"I didn't know if it was the husband in the slammer or the victim.”
"The victim, the victim," Parker said.
"I just wanted to get it straight.”
Parker nodded sourly and turned to Carella.