"No, I think she's clean, Steve."
"So you said."
"But let's assume for the moment… well, where's the motive, Steve? Why would the two of them, her and the artist—he'd have to be in it if they're lying about that ski weekend…"
"He would."
"So why would they knock off two people who were close friends of hers? I mean, I genuinely believe they were friends, Steve. I think she's telling the truth about that."
"Maybe she's mentioned in both their wills, who knows?" Carella said.
"Come on," Willis said, "the girl's independently wealthy. Her stepfather's an oil millionaire in…"
"Oh? He's her stepfather?"
"Yes."
"And he set her up in that swanky place on the Lane?"
"Well, yes, they're very close, from what I could gather. That's not unusual, Steve. Sometimes the relationship between a stepfather and…"
"Sure," Carella said.
"What I'm saying is… even if there are these wills you were talking about, which I don't think you really believe…"
"We can check with Probate," Carella said, and shrugged.
"Well, I just don't think money is the motive here. I really don't."
"There are only two motives for murder," Carella said. "Love or money. Unless we're dealing with a crazy, in which case we can throw away the manual."
"Well, I don't think this was money."
"That leaves love."
"Or a crazy."
"So which do you think it is?" Carella asked.
"I don't know. But I've got a gut feeling the girl is clean."
"Do you have a gut feeling about Riley, too?"
"Well, if he was up skiing with her that weekend… I mean, if she's clean and telling the truth…"
"Then Riley's clean, too."
"Yes."
"Which leaves us with nobody."
"Or anybody. Anybody connected with McKennon or Hollander. The possibility exists, you know, that these are unrelated. That's not so far-fetched, Steve. A poisoning and a knifing are worlds apart."
"Tell me all about it," Carella said, and sighed.
The telephone rang.
Carella picked up the receiver.
"Eighty-seventh Squad, Carella," he said.
"You got a Willis there?" the voice on the other end said.
"Who's this, please?"
"Detective Colworthy, Houston Central."
"Just a second," Carella said, and covered the mouthpiece. "You place a call to Houston?" he asked Willis.
"Yeah," Willis said, and took the receiver. "Detective Thurston?" he said. "This is Hal Willis, what'd you…?"
"It's Detective Colworthy here, Thurston passed this on to me. You wanted a check on somebody named Jesse Stewart?"
"That's right," Willis said.
"S'posed to be an oil millionaire down here?"
"Yes?"
"We got nobody by that name's an oil millionaire down here," Colworthy said.
"Have you got any Jesse Stewarts at all?" Willis asked.
"We got a shitpot full of 'em," Colworthy said. "Jesse's a common name down here, and so's the last name. That includes two or three dozen assholes doing hard time. But none of them's an oil millionaire."
"What are they then?"
"Buddy, you asked us to check oil millionaires, and what we checked was oil millionaires. You want a census by occupation, you picked the wrong people to call."
On impulse, Willis asked, "Have you got anything on a woman named Marilyn Hollis?"
"What do you mean by 'anything'? We ain't about to go through the phone book again."
"Criminal," he said, and immediately wondered why the word had popped into his head. Not five minutes ago, he'd been telling Carella she was as pure as the driven snow.
"You wanna hold while I punch up the computer?"
"I'll hold," Willis said, and turned to Carella. "Nothing on Jesse Stewart," he said.
"Who's Jesse Stewart?"
"Her stepfather," Willis said. "The oil millionaire who set her up in that townhouse."
"Willis?" Colworthy said. "You there?"
"I'm here."
"Nothing on a Marilyn Hollis."
Good, Willis thought.
"But we got a one-time sheet on a Mary Ann Hollis, if that's any help to you. Picked her up on a 43.02 seven years back."
"What's a 43.02?" Willis asked.
"Prostitution," Colworthy said. "Her pimp paid the fine, and she's never been heard from since."
"You got a description there?" Willis asked, and held his breath.
"White Caucasian," Colworthy said, "seventeen years old at the time. Blonde hair, blue eyes, five feet eight inches tall, weight a hun' eighteen, no visible scars or tattoos."
Willis sighed heavily.
"What was her pimp's name?" he asked.
"Joseph Seward," Colworthy said.
CHAPTER 8
Never mind tomorrow morning at ten o'clock, never mind saving it for her till then. This had to be now, he had to talk to her now about Mary Ann Hollis whose description fit her to the toe-nails. Mary Ann Hollis who'd been picked up on a 43.02 seven years back, and whose pimp's name was Joseph Seward, not a far stretch from Jesse Stewart, why did criminals have no imagination at all? Talk to her right this goddamn minute and get a few things straight.
It was a little past nine when he got to the townhouse on Harborside Lane.
Springtime in the Rockies maybe, but still a wintry chill on the nighttime air, enough to cause him to raise the collar on his coat as he walked from the car to the front door. He rang the doorbell. No answer. He rang it again. Oooo, I wish I could, sweetie, but I'm busy all day. Busy all night, too? He kept his forefinger pressed insistently to the button. Still no answer. Okay, he thought, I've got all the time in the world. Or maybe not. Maybe time was running out for him and Marilyn Hollis both, though he wondered why he should give a damn.
He crossed the street to where he'd parked the car, unlocked it, got in, closed the door behind him, and hunkered down behind the wheel, watching the door to 1211 Harborside. At ten minutes to ten by the dashboard clock, a taxi pulled up to the building. Marilyn got out, wearing a light topcoat over what she'd been wearing this morning when she'd left the apartment. She paid the cabbie and started for the front door searching in her bag for her keys. Willis came out of the car in a wink, slamming the door behind him. She turned at once.
As he came across the street toward her, she said, "Hey, hi, what a surprise."
"Yeah," he said.
She kissed him on the cheek. "You're early," she said.
"By almost twelve hours."
"But come in anyway."
"No, let's take a walk," he said.
"Bit chilly for a walk, isn't it?" she said, and smiled.
"We can use a little fresh air," he said. "All around."
She studied his face, tried to read his eyes in the illumination coming from the street lamp.
"Sure," she said, and took his arm.
They walked down toward the river.
This city wasted the river running along its northern edge. Bordered by a highway that made no allowance for a walking path, the Harb could have taken lessons from the Thames or the Seine or the Arno. No river for lovers, this one, though tonight he wasn't here as a yesterday lover, merely as a cop doing his job. I like it much better when you're not a cop doing his job. I'll bet, he thought. As they entered the small park across the street from her building, a fresh gust of wind blew up off the river far below, and she tightened her grip on his arm. Lady, you better hang on real tight, he thought.
"Who's Joseph Seward?" he asked.
Straight for the jugular.
No answer for several moments. No tightening of the hand on his arm, no expression on her face, very cool, this one.