"A man I used to know," she said.
"What's his occupation?"
"If you already know, why ask?"
"He's a pimp, isn't he?"
"When I knew him, he was, yes. I haven't seen him in at least six years."
"Make it seven," Willis said. "When he paid a fine for a prostitute named Mary Ann Hollis."
"All right, so what? I told you I'd done some awful things in my life."
"You also said you'd enjoyed them."
"Yes, it was marvelous fun, is that what you want to hear? So that's what friends do, is it?" she said, shaking her head and sounding very, very hurt, poor darling. "Check up on a person's past?"
"That's what cops do," he said.
"You weren't such a cop last night," she said.
"I'm a cop tonight. Is that the name you used in Houston? Where you were hooking?"
"That's my real name," she said.
"Mary Ann Hollis."
"Mary Ann Hollis, yes. I started using Marilyn when I came east."
"Why? Are you wanted for something in Houston?"
"Of course not!" she said.
Which was the correct answer. Colworthy had told him the prostitution arrest was the last thing they had on her.
"Does Jesse Stewart exist?"
"No."
"No millionaire stepfather?"
"No."
"Then who paid for that pad across the street?"
"I did."
She was still holding his arm. He was amazed that she was still holding his arm. Together, they strolled the park's winding path like lovers, which technically they were, moving from one pool of lamplight to the next. A casual passerby might have thought they were quietly discussing plans for the future. Instead, they were discussing a past—and a possible end to the present.
"Where'd you get that kind of money?" he asked.
"I earned it," she said.
"Hooking?"
"That's earning it, believe me."
"That building had to've cost at least a mi…"
"Seven-five," she said.
"Even so. You telling me you earned that kind of money on your back?"
"On my knees, usually."
"You must have been a very busy lady."
"I was at it for a long time."
"Seward let you take home that kind of money?"
"I broke with Seward after the bust."
"He let you walk? Who are you kidding?"
"I didn't walk, I ran. All the way to Buenos Aires."
"Where you earned seven-hundred and fifty…"
"More than that. There are lots of high rollers in Argentina. I was an independent, I kept every penny for myself."
"Are you wanted for something in Argentina?" he asked suddenly.
"I'm not wanted for anything anywhere! What the hell's the matter with you?"
"Then why'd you change your name?"
"Does that make me a wanted desperado? What's that, my only claim to fame? That I changed my name? How about what I've accomplished? I broke with the past, I came here and started a new life…"
"Are you still hooking?"
"I told you no."
"No, you didn't tell me no!"
"I said I started a new life, didn't I? Does that sound like hooking?"
Now they were arguing. Like lovers.
"Was that punk Mickey a John?"
"He was someone a girlfriend asked me to…"
"How about the men on your answering machine?"
"Casual acquaintances."
"That means Johns!"
"It doesn't fucking mean Johns!" she shouted.
"Nice talk on the lady."
"I am!" she said.
"If you're not hooking, how do you support yourself?"
"I left Buenos Aires with two million dollars."
"Busier than I thought."
"Much," she said angrily. "I gave great head. I still do." She paused and then said, softly, "You know that."
"But not professionally, right?"
"How many times do I have to say it?"
"As often as I want to hear it."
"I'm not hooking anymore," she said, and sighed heavily. "I invested what was left over after I bought the house. My broker is a man named…"
"I know. Hadley Fields at Merrill Lynch."
"Yes."
They walked in silence for several moments.
"Why'd you lie to me?" he asked at last.
"Why'd you have to go snooping?"
"Why the fuck did you lie to me?" he said, and shook off the hand on his arm, and stopped dead in the center of the path, and grabbed her by the shoulders. "Why?"
"Because I knew you'd run if I told you the truth. The way you're about to run now."
"Why would that have mattered to you?"
"It mattered. It still matters."
"Why?"
"Why do you think?" she said.
He released his grip on her shoulders. His own shoulders slumped. He felt suddenly very short.
"I don't… I don't know what to think," he said.
"Do we have to discuss this out here in the cold?"
She took a step closer to him. She stood very close to him.
"Hal?" she said. "Will you come inside now?"
He was trembling. He knew it was not from the wind that blew in off the river.
"Hal? Please. Come inside. Let me love you. Please."
"Don't lie to me ever again," he said.
"I promise," she said.
Her hand came up to touch his face. She kissed him gently on the mouth.
"Now come with me," she said. "Come."
And she took his arm again, and led him out of the park, and across the street, and into the house.
Nelson Riley was working when Carella got there the next morning at nine o'clock. It was a Friday, and Riley was annoyed.
"I wrap for the week on Friday," he said. "Try to get a lot of work done, set my ducks in a row for Monday. You should have called first."
Big redheaded giant, green eyes blazing with anger, paint smears on his big-knuckled hands, paint brush clutched like a saber in one of them.
"I'm sorry," Carella said. "But there are a few more questions I'd like to ask."
"Where's the other cop? The little guy. At least he had the decency to call first. You guys think all an artist does is sit around on his ass waiting for inspiration to strike. I'm a working man, same as you."
"I appreciate that," Carella said. "The only difference is I'm working a murder."
He did not mention that he was now working two murders. He was here because he wanted to learn what Riley knew about the second one.
"Who cares what you're working?" Riley said, still angry. "I'm working a nine-by-twelve canvas that's breaking my balls! You think your murder is tough to solve? Try taking a look at that big mother against the wall."
Carella took a look at the big mother against the wall, which wasn't a mother at all, but was instead a ski slope swarming with skiers in motion.
"You get any sense that it's snowing?" Riley asked.
"No," Carella said.
"Neither do I. I want it to be snowing. But each time I lay on the white, I lose color. Those primaries on the skier's costumes, the brilliant purples and greens on the flags from the base lodge, the rich brown chairs on the lift—you see those brilliant colors? I'm an artist who uses color. But I've had to rework all that stuff a dozen times, because the white overlay filters it down to pastels. If I can't make it snow by the end of the day, it'll drive me nuts all weekend. So who gives a shit about your murder? Anyway, I told the other cop everything I knew."
"Mr. Riley," Carella said, "if you don't make it snow, you only go nuts for the weekend. If we don't crack this case, somebody gets away with murder. And that can drive us nuts for a long, long time."