“How long have you been married?”
“Five years.”
“What was your maiden name?”
“Isabel Cartwright.”
“Mrs. Harris...” he said, and hesitated. “Was your husband involved with another woman?”
“No.”
“Are you involved with another man?”
“No.”
“How did your relatives feel about the marriage?”
“My father loved Jimmy. He died two years ago. Jimmy was there at his bedside in Tennessee.”
“And your mother?”
“I never knew my mother. She died in childbirth.”
“Were you born blind?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
“No.”
“How about your husband?”
“He has one sister. Chrissie. Christine. Are you writing this down?”
“Yes, I am. Does that bother you? I can stop if—”
“No, I don’t mind.”
“Are his parents alive?”
“His mother is. Sophie Harris. She still lives in Diamondback.”
“Do you get along well with her?”
“Yes.”
“Mrs. Harris, can you think of anything that’s happened in recent weeks, anything that might have caused anyone to bear a grudge or—”
“No.”
“However impossible it may seem?”
“I can’t think of anything.”
“All right, then,” he said, “thank you very much,” and closed his notebook.
Ordinarily, he’d have asked the wife of a murder victim to accompany him to the morgue for identification purposes. He hesitated now, wondering what to do. Isabel Harris could no doubt explore her husband’s face with her hands and identify him as positively as could a sighted person. But identifying a corpse was a trying experience for anyone, and he could only imagine how emotionally unsettling it would be for someone who had to touch the body. He thought he might call Jimmy’s mother instead, ask her to meet him at the morgue in the morning. Sophie Harris in Diamondback. He’d written her name in his book, he’d give her a call later tonight. But then he wondered whether he wasn’t denying Isabel Harris a right that was exclusively hers — and denying it only because she was blind. He decided to play it straight. He had learned over the years that playing it straight was the best way — and maybe the only way.
“Mrs. Harris,” he said, “when a murder victim is married, it’s usually the husband or wife who identifies the body.” He hesitated. “I don’t know whether you want to do that or not.”
“I‘ll do it, yes,” she said. “Did you mean now?”
“The morning will be fine.”
“What time?”
“I’ll pick you up at ten.”
“Ten o’clock, yes,” she said, and nodded.
He walked to the door, turned toward her again. Behind her, the snow was still falling silently.
“Mrs. Harris?” he said.
“Yes?”
“Will you be all right? Is there anything I can do?”
“I’ll be fine,” she said.
When the knock sounded on the door, she was already in bed.
She lifted the cover on her watch and felt for the raised Braille dots. The time was twenty minutes to twelve. She thought immediately that it was the detective coming back; he had probably sensed that she was lying. He had heard something in her voice or seen something flicker on her face. She had lied to him deliberately, had given him a flat “No” answer to the question he’d asked. And now he was back, of course; now he would want to know why she had lied. It made no difference any more. Jimmy was dead, she might just as well have told him the truth from the beginning. She would tell him now.
She was wearing a long flannel nightgown, she always wore a gown in the winter months, slept naked the minute it got to be spring; Jimmy said he liked to find her boobs without going through a yard of dry goods. She got out of bed now, her feet touching the cold wooden floor. They turned off the heat at eleven, and by midnight it was fiercely cold in the apartment. She put on a robe and walked toward the bedroom doorway, avoiding the chair on the right, her hand outstretched; she did not need her cane in the apartment. She went through the doorway into the parlor, the sill between the rooms squeaking, past the piano Jimmy loved to play, played by ear, said he was the Art Tatum of his time, fat chance. It was funny the way she’d cried. She had stopped loving him a year ago — but her tears had been genuine enough.
She was in the kitchen now. She stopped just inside the door. Whoever was out there was still knocking. The knocking stopped the moment she spoke.
“Who is it?” she said.
“Mrs. Harris?”
“Yes?”
“Police Department,” the voice said.
“Detective Carella?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Who is it, then?”
“Sergeant Romney. Would you open the door, please? We think we’ve found your husband’s murderer.”
“Just a minute,” she said, and took off the night chain.
He came into the apartment and closed the door behind him. She heard the door whispering into the jamb, and then she heard the lock being turned, the tumblers falling. Movement. Floorboards creaking. He was standing just in front of her now.
“Where is it?”
She did not understand him.
“Where did he put it?”
“Put what? Who... who are you?”
“Tell me where it is,” he said, “and you won’t get hurt.”
“I don’t know what you... I don’t...”
She was about to scream. Trembling, she backed away from him and collided with the wall behind her. She heard the sound of metal scraping against metal, sensed the sudden motion he took toward her, and then felt the tip of something pointed and sharp in the hollow of her throat.
“Don’t even breathe,” he said. “Where is it?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Do you want me to kill you?”
“No, please, but I don’t know what—”
“Then where is it?” he said.
“Please, I...”
“Where?” he said, and slapped her suddenly and viciously, knocking the sunglasses from her face. “Where?” he said, and slapped her again. “Where?” he said.“Where?”
Three
“You can’t explain to anyone about seasons,” Meyer said. “You take your average man who lives in Florida or California, he doesn’t know from seasons. He thinks the weather’s supposed to be the same — day in, day out.”
He did not look much like a sidewalk philosopher, though he was indeed on the sidewalk, walking briskly beside Carella, philosophizing as they approached the Harris apartment. Instead, he looked like what he was: a working cop. Tall, burly, with china-blue eyes in a face that appeared rounder than it was, perhaps because he was totally bald and had been that way since before his thirtieth birthday.
The baldness was a result of his monumental patience. He had been born the son of a Jewish tailor in a predominantly Gentile neighborhood. Old Max Meyer had a good sense of humor. He named his son Meyer. Meyer Meyer, it came out. Very comical. “Meyer Meyer, Jew on fire,” the neighborhood kids called him. Tried to prove the chant one day by tying him to a post and setting a fire at his sneakered feet. Meyer patiently prayed for rain. Meyer patiently prayed for someone to come piss on the flames. It rained at last, but not before he’d decided irrevocably that the world was full of comedians. Eventually, he learned to live with his name and the taunts, jibes, wisecracks and tittering comments it more often than not provoked. Patience. But something had to give. His hair began falling out. By thirty his pate was as clean as a honey-dew melon. And now there were other problems. Now there was a television cop with a bald pate. If one more guy in the department called him...