The offer surprised him. You didn't hand a man his hat and offer him a drink in the same breath.
"Or are you still on duty?" she asked.
"Sort of."
"At eight-fifteen?"
"Long day," he said.
"Name your poison," she said, and for a moment he thought she was making a deliberate if somewhat grisly joke, but she was heading obliviously for the bar unit across the room.
"Scotch," he said.
"Ah, he's corruptible," she said, and turned to glance over her shoulder, smiling. "Anything with it?"
"Ice, please."
He watched her as she dropped ice cubes into two short glasses, poured scotch for him, gin for herself. He watched her as she carried the drinks to where he was sitting. Pale horse, pale rider, pale good looks.
"Come sit by the fire," she said, "it'll be cozier," and started across the room toward a sofa upholstered in the same red crushed velvet. He rose, moved toward the sofa, waited for her to sit, and then sat beside her. She crossed her legs. There was a quick glimpse of nylon-sleek knees, the suggestion of a thigh, and then she lowered her skirt as demurely as a nun. In an almost subliminal flash, he wondered why she had chosen a word like "cozier."
"Mickey who?" he asked.
"Mouse," she said, and smiled again.
"A male acquaintance then."
"No, I was making a joke. Mickey's a girlfriend. We're going out to dinner." A look at her watch. "Provided we're through here before midnight. I said I'd call her back."
"I won't be long," he said.
"So," she said. "What's so urgent?"
"Not urgent," he said.
Just a few things bothering
"Pressing then?"
"Not pressing, either. Just a few things bothering me."
"Like what?"
"Your friends."
"Tom, Dick and Harry?" she asked, and smiled again.
She was making reference to their first somewhat irritating meeting, but she was making sport of it now, seemingly trying to put him at ease. He thought at once that he was being conned. And this led to the further thought that she had something to hide.
"I'm talking about the list you gave us," he said. "The men you consider close friends."
"Yes, they are," she said.
"Yes, so they told me." He paused. "That's what's bothering me."
"What is it, exactly, that's bothering you, Mr. Willis?" She shifted her weight on the sofa, adjusted her skirt again.
"Nelson Riley," he said. "Chip Endicott. Basil Hollander."
"Yes, yes, I know the names."
Basil Hollander was the man who'd left a message on her answering machine saying he had tickets for the Philharmonic. His comments to Willis were echoes of what Nelson Riley and Chip Endicott had already told him. He considered Marilyn Hollis one of his very best friends. Terrific girl. Great fun to be with. But Hollander (who'd identified himself as "Baz" on Marilyn's answering machine) was a "Yes-No-Well" respondent, the kind detectives the world over dreaded. Getting him to amplify was like pulling teeth.
"Have you known her a long time?"
"Yes."
"How long?"
"Well…"
"A year?"
"No."
"Longer?"
"No."
"Ten months?"
"No."
"Less than ten months?"
"Yes."
"Five months?"
"No."
"Less than ten months but more than five months?"
"Yes."
"Eight months?"
"Yes."
"How well did you know her?"
"Well…"
"For example, were you sleeping with her?"
"Yes."
"Regularly?"
"No."
"Frequently?"
"No."
"Occasionally?"
"Yes."
"Do you know anyone named Jerry McKennon?"
"No."
And like that.
The thing that troubled Willis was that the men had sounded identical.
Taking into allowance their different verbal styles (Hollander, for example, had interrupted the questioning with a surprisingly eloquent and exuberant sidebar on a pianist Willis had never heard of), accepting, too, the differences in their life styles and vocations (Hollander was an accountant, Riley a painter, Endicott a lawyer), and their ages (Endicott was fifty-seven, Riley thirty-eight or -nine, Hollander forty-two), taking all this into account, Willis nonetheless came away with the feeling that he could have tape-recorded his first conversation with Marilyn and saved himself the trouble of talking to the three men on her list.
We're very good friends, the lady had said.
We sleep together occasionally.
We have a lot of fun.
They do not know Jerry McKennon.
They do not know each other.
Yet three different men who did not know each other had defined their relationship with Marilyn Hollis exactly as she had described it. And each of them had come up with substantial alibis for Sunday night and Monday morning—while McKennon was either killing himself or getting himself killed:
Nelson Riley was with the lady in Vermont on Sunday night—or so he'd said. He was still there on Monday morning, taking a few final runs with her on icy slopes before starting the long drive back to the city.
Chip Endicott was at a Bar Association dinner on Sunday night, and at his desk bright and early Monday morning.
On Sunday night, Hollander had been to a chamber music recital at Randall Forbes Hall in the Springfield Center complex downtown. On Monday morning at eight o'clock, while McKennon was presumably gasping his life out to an answering machine, Hollander was on the subway, commuting to his job at the accounting offices of Kiley, Benson, Marx and Rudolph.
All present and accounted for.
But Willis could not shake the feeling that he'd seen the same play three different times, with three different people playing the same character and repeating the playwright's lines in their own individual acting styles.
Had Marilyn Hollis been the playwright?
Had she picked up the phone the moment the detectives left her and told Nelson, Chip, Baz—mustn't forget old taciturn Baz—that the police were just there, and she'd appreciate it if they said they were dear good buddies who never heard of anyone named Jerry McKennon, thanks a lot, catch you in the sack sometime.
But if so—why?
Her alibi was airtight.
But so were the others.
If only they hadn't sounded so very much alike.
Well, look, maybe the relationships were identical.
Maybe Marilyn Hollis defined the exact course a "friendship" would take and God help the poor bastard who strayed an inch from that prescribed path.
Maybe.
"Tell me more about them," he said.
"There's nothing more to tell," she said, "they're good friends."
And then, suddenly and unexpectedly: "Have you ever killed anyone?"
He looked at her, surprised.
"Why do you ask?"
"Just curious."
He hesitated a moment, and then said, "Yes."
"How did it feel?"
"I thought I was asking the questions," he said.
"Oh, the hell with the questions," she said. "I've already talked to all three of them, I know exactly what you said and exactly what they said, so why go through it all over again? You're here because they all gave you the same story, isn't that right?"