"Then there is no question in your mind that the pistol you seized from Samson Cole on the morning of August first is the same pistol received by Detective Haggerty later that morning.”
"No question whatever.”
"After Detective Haggerty received this pistol, did you have any conversation with him?”
"I did.”
"Can you tell me the nature of that conversation?”
"I told him we wanted him to test-fire the gun and compare the bullets and spent shells with the ones my partner had sent him earlier. The bullets and casings in the Carella murder.”
"Did he do that?”
"He did.”
"Did you have a subsequent conversation about his results?”
"I did. He gave me a verbal report on his findings.”
"What did he say?”
"The bullets and casings matched.”
"That is to say, the test-firing showed that the gun you had seized from Mr. Cole was the same gun used in the Carella murder.”
"Yes.”
“Was this later confirmed in writing?”
"We received the Ballistics report the very next day. It confirmed what Detective Haggerty had told me on the telephone.”
"Which was what?”
"That the gun recovered from Mr. Cole was the same gun used in the Carella murder.”
"Thank you, no further questions.”
Margins was a restaurant large enough for a bar mitzvah celebration, but small enough to provide privacy for any couple seeking a quiet little nook in a hidden corner. It was entirely possible that Bowles and the so-called flower-shop lady had been here on Monday without anyone having seen them. If that turned out to be the case, then the alibi held, and Parker was probably right in thinking that the next thing to do was lean on the lady.
The headwaiter was a man named Frank Giglio.
Jacketless, wearing black trousers, a ruffled white shirt, a black bow tie hanging loose around his neck, black suspenders, black socks, and highly polished black shoes, he pushed open one of the swinging doors leading from the kitchen and immediately apologized for having kept Meyer waiting so long.
"I was getting ready for lunch," he said, and looked at his watch.
It was ten minutes to eleven. The tables were set with pristine white tablecloths and sparkling glassware. Sunlight streamed through the leaded windows, touching with a cold, flat silvery light the silverware set at each place.
"Mr. Giglio," Meyer said, "I wonder if I could see your reservations book for this past Monday, the seventh of January.”
"Why, yes, certainly," Giglio said.
"Was there anything in particular you were looking for?”
"Yes, a twelve o'clock reservation for a Mr.
Martin Bowles.”
"Oh, yes, of course," Giglio said.
Meyer looked at him.
"Mr. Bowles of Laub, Kramer," he said. "Yes, he was here on Monday. I took the reservation myself.”
"Are you sure?”
"Positive," he said. "But let me check my book.”
He went to a podium near the entrance, where two brass stanchions some four feet apart supported a red velvet rope.
Reaching into a little shelf under the slanting top surface of the podium, he pulled out a long book bound in black, opened it wide, and ran his finger down the page for Monday, January 7.
His finger stopped.
"Twelve noon," he said. "Martin Bowles. Reservation for two.”
"Do you know who was with him?" Meyer asked.
"A woman," Giglio said. "I don't know her name. He's been here with her before.”
"What did she look like?”
"A tall, very pretty blonde woman.”
"How old would you say?”
"In her forties.”
"What time did they leave?”
"One-thirty? Two o'clock? I can't say for sure.”
"Thank you," Meyer said.
He was thinking none of them are ever easy.
"If you don't mind, Mr. Wade,”
Addison said affably, "I'd like to go over this one more time.”
"Objection, Your Honor," Lowell said, unfolding his long body, and coming to his feet, and managing to convey to the jury the impression that he was exceedingly weary and beginning to lose patience.
"Detective Wade has answered the same questions, by my count, at least three times now. The same questions over and over again, Your Honor. Now I don't know what purpose it serves to keep going over the same ground incessantly ...”
The way he says that word makes him sound very British, Carella thought.
"... except to harangue the witness, which I hope is not my learned colleague's ...”
Those words, too.
"... intention. But unless ...”
"Want to come up here, please?" Di Pasco said.
Both attorneys approached the bench.
"You do seem to be covering the same ground repeatedly, Mr. Addison," Di Pasco said.
"I am merely trying to make the facts clear to the jury, Your Honor.”
"Begging my colleague's pardon, Your Honor, and not wishing to impute an - ulterior motive to him ...”
"Well, thank you for that," Addison said.
"But it seems to me his insistence on reliving the arrest of Mr. Cole on the night of August first is merely an attempt to circumvent ...”
"Oh, come now," Addison said.
"Yes, go on," Di Pasco said.
"... to circumvent, I was about to say, Your Honor's pretrial finding on admission of the pistol as evidence. I think Mr. Addison is trying to plant doubt in the jury's mind as concerns the legality of the seizure, despite the fact that Your Honor found ...”
"Do you intend to put questions as to the legality of the seizure?" Di Pasco asked.
"I intend to put questions that go to the officer's credibility.”
"But as his credibility pertains to the seizure of this weapon?”
"As it may or may not pertain, Your Honor.”
"Then I would have to object," Lowell said.
"The issue here is credibility," Addison insisted.
Shaking his head, raising his eyebrows in disbelief, Lowell said, "Your Honor, I would like a ruling on this, please.”
"It's not up to any jury to discount evidence because they may believe it was illegally seized," Di Pasco said. "The jury finds only on facts. You know that, Mr. Addison. It's the judge who makes the legal findings. And in this case, I've already found that the pistol was legally seized and could be admitted as evidence. My pretrial finding stands. I'll allow the questioning to continue, but only as it pertains to credibility.
Justice doesn't require or allow the relitigation of a suppression issue.”
"Thank you, Your Honor," Addison said, and smiled sourly.
Carella saw him smile, and wondered what they'd been talking about up there.
They were in the museum when she asked him what the middle initial in his name stood for: Andrew N.
Darrow. A new exhibit had opened yesterday, and though she'd told him there was no longer any need for his services now that Tilly was dead, he'd insisted that until he was dismissed by Martin Bowles himself, he intended to stick to her like glue.
As they moved through the galleries, he mentioned that Chicago had a very good museum called the Art Institute, but he'd never been to it. There was something totally disarming about his confessions of ignorance. The new exhibit concerned itself with adventurous forms of sculpture, one of which he almost stepped onto, or into, because it did sort of resemble a ladder, a pile of bricks, and a trowel lying there on the floor. Some ten minutes later, as they wandered through the permanent collection, he stopped before a massive Seurat, and said it was completely amazing how a man could make a whole painting from just all those little colored dots.
When she asked if he'd seen Sunday in the Park with George, he looked totally bewildered, and she realized he didn't know what on earth she was talking about.
Changing the subject, she said, "What does the N stand for?”