Annie read the transcript typed from Haines’s confession.
She read it yet another time.
Haines thought the right was wrong.
The right thought it was right.
Annie thought they were both wrong.
She sometimes wondered what would happen if people just left other people alone.
The wind and the rain had stopped.
In Grover Park, across the street from the 87th Precinct, the trees were bare, the ground covered with lifeless leaves.
“Well,” Meyer said, “at least the rain’s stopped.”
They were all thinking that winter was on the way.
The feelings were mixed in the squadroom that Saturday afternoon. They all knew what had happened to Eileen Burke. They further knew that Annie Rawles had collared the rapist. But they didn’t know what Kling was feeling, or how carefully they might have to tiptoe around him when the matter of Eileen’s rape finally came out into the open. He was at the hospital just now. He’d been there early this morning, and he was there again now, and so there was yet time to explore and consider what their approach might be. You didn’t simply go up to somebody whose girl had been raped, and say, “Hi, Bert, rain seems to have stopped, I hear Eileen got raped.” There were ways of handling this, they were sure, but they still hadn’t figured out how to deal with it.
Until Fat Ollie Weeks called.
“Hey, Steve-a-rino, how you doin’?” he said into the phone.
“Pretty good,” Carella said. “How about you?”
“Oh, fine, fine, usual horseshit up here,” Ollie said. “I got to tell you buddy, I’m seriously thinking of transferring to the Eight-Seven. I really like working with you guys.”
Carella said nothing.
“Did you see the papers today?” Ollie asked.
“No,” Carella said.
“Full of our Road Runner nut,” Ollie said. “All the headlines yelling ‘Lightning Strikes Twice.’ I guess he got what he wanted, huh? He’s famous all over again.”
“If that’s fame,” Carella said.
“Yeah, well, who knows with these nuts?” Ollie said, and then added, quite casually, “I hear Kling’s girl got herself fucked last night.”
There was a silence as vast as Siberia on the line.
At last, Carella said, “Ollie, don’t ever say that again.”
“What?” Ollie said.
“What you just said. Don’t ever let those words pass your lips again, Ollie, do you hear me? Don’t repeat them to anyone in the world. Not even to your mother. Is that...?”
“My mother’s dead,” Ollie said.
“Is that clear?” Carella said.
“What’s the big deal?” Ollie said.
“The big deal is she’s one of ours,” Carella said.
“So she’s a cop, big deal. What’s that...?”
“No, Ollie,” Carella said. “She’s one of ours. Have you got that, Ollie?”
“Yeah, yeah, I got it, relax, willya? My lips are sealed.”
“I hope so,” Carella said.
“Boy, you’re some grump today,” Ollie said. “Give me a call when you’re in a better mood, okay?”
“Sure,” Carella said.
“Ciao, paisan,” Ollie said, and hung up.
Carella gently replaced the receiver on the cradle.
He was thinking that if Kling was hurting, they were all hurting. It was really as simple as that.
“Best thing about Lightning,” Hawes said, “is he wasn’t the Deaf Man.”
“I was afraid it might be him, too,” Meyer said.
“Me, too,” Carella said.
“Seemed like the man’s style,” Brown said.
“Anybody want coffee?” Meyer asked.
“Bad enough as it was,” Hawes said.
“Coulda been worse,” Brown said.
“Coulda really been the Deaf Man,” Carella said.
Miscolo came down the hall from the Clerical Office, pushed his way through the slatted rail divider, and walked directly to Carella’s desk.
“Just the man we want to see,” Meyer said. “You got any coffee brewing in the Clerical Office?”
“I thought you didn’t like my coffee,” Miscolo said.
“We love your coffee,” Brown said.
“Go down the street to the diner, you want coffee,” Miscolo said.
“Getting cold out there,” Hawes said.
“I don’t need fair weather coffee drinkers,” Miscolo said. “This is for you, Steve. Sergeant sent it up a few minutes ago.” He tossed a plain white envelope on the desk. “No return address on it.”
Carella looked at the face of the envelope. It was addressed to him at the 87th Precinct. The envelope carried an Isola postmark.
“Open it,” Miscolo said. “I’m dying of curiosity.”
“Teddy know you got a girlfriend writing to you here?” Hawes asked, and winked at Meyer.
Carella slit open the envelope.
“What’d you do with your rug?” Brown asked Meyer. “You could use it, kind of weather we’ll be having.”
Carella unfolded the single sheet of paper that had been inside the envelope. He looked at it. Meyer noticed that his face went suddenly white.
“What is it?” he said.
The squadroom was silent all at once. The men crowded around Carella’s desk where Carella held the sheet of paper in his hand. It seemed to Hawes that his hand was shaking slightly. They all looked at the sheet of paper:
“Eight black horses,” Meyer said.
“The Deaf Man,” Brown said.
He was back.