Harborside Lane was much farther uptown than Silvermine Road, but adjacent to the River Harb nonetheless and affording an equally splendid view of the high-rise buildings springing up along the shore in the next state. A lane it wasn't. It was, instead, as wide as any other city street (as opposed to its avenues) and lined with what had once been luxurious brownstones, now covered with graffiti and occupied by upward-striving yuppies.
In this city, the graffiti looked as if it were scrawled in Cyrillic letters. One might have been in Russia—except that in Russia no one wrote on the walls of buildings unless he wanted a vacation in Siberia. The purveyors of graffiti called themselves "writers." What they wrote was a mystery in that it was illegible and therefore unintelligible. A recent law made it mandatory for any retail merchant to keep under lock and key his spray cans of paint. To date, there had been no surveys made as to the law's efficacy. In the meantime, the writers continued writing, and no one understood what they wrote, but perhaps they were hoping to be considered by the Nobel Prize Committee.
1211 Harborside Lane was in a row of brownstones adorned with inaccessible scribblings. A wrought iron gate to the right of the building guarded the entrance to a driveway that led to a garage set some fifty feet back from the pavement; the gate was padlocked. There were wrought iron grilles on the ground-floor and first-floor windows, and razor wire on the roof overhanging the third floor. There was only one name in the directory set beside the bell buttons: M. Hollis. Apparently she occupied all three floors of the building. Willis rang the bell.
No answering buzz.
"Think she ran?" he asked, and rang the bell again.
A small loudspeaker above the directory erupted with sound.
"Yes?" a woman's voice said.
"Miss Hollis?" Willis said.
"Yes?"
"Police," he said. "We called you a little while…"
"Yes, come in," she said.
A long, loud buzz unlocked the street-level door. The buzzer continued nagging long after they had let themselves in. They were facing a wood-paneled inner door, a brass escutcheon set in the doorframe at eye level, the name MARILYN HOLLIS engraved on it, a bell-button under it. Willis hit this button, too. The door was a thick one; they could not hear the bell ringing inside the apartment.
The woman who answered the door was somewhere in her mid-to-late twenties, Willis guessed, some five feet eight inches tall, with long blonde hair, angry blue eyes, and a complexion as flawlessly pale as a dipper of milk. She was wearing a bulky blue, man's cardigan sweater over blue jeans and a white T-shirt. Pale horse, pale rider, Willis thought, pale good looks.
"Identification," she said flatly.
A native, Willis thought.
Carella showed her his shield and his ID card.
"I'm on my way out," she said, handing the leather case back to him. "This better not take long."
She made her annoyance even more clear with an exaggerated curtsy that ushered them into the apartment. The entry foyer and the living room beyond were paneled in mahogany. Old thick wooden beams crossed the ceiling. The furnishings were Victorian and fussy. For an instant, Carella was transported back to a time when the city was young and people lived in luxury in buildings now covered with graffiti.
"Miss Hollis," he said, "can you tell us whether you spoke to Mr. McKennon at any time last night?"
"No, I didn't," she said. "And I really would appreciate knowing what this is all about. You call while I'm dressing, you tell me nothing at all on the phone…"
"He's dead," Carella said.
The blue eyes opened wide.
"What?" she said.
"I'm sorry, but…"
"God, what the hell are you saying? Jerry? Dead? What?"
"I'm sorry."
"God, what…?"
The blue eyes even wider now. Shock apparent in them. Or perhaps only apparent shock in them.
"How?" she said.
"We don't know yet," he said.
He was lying, but nowhere was it written that a cop had to play fair with a person he was questioning.
"Well, was he murdered?" Marilyn said. "You're policemen, this is police business, you're not here 'cause he died in his sleep."
"No, he didn't die in his sleep."
"Well, was he shot, was he stabbed, did he get hit by a car?"
"We won't know the cause of death till we have an autopsy report," Carella said.
Sometimes you told them everything you knew, sometimes you told them nothing, and sometimes—like now—you told them just enough to start them running down the field with the ball. She seemed to be turning over possibilities now, her mind working rapidly, playing amateur detective for them, doing it all out loud, helpful little Miss Hollis, though not so little at five eight. But they weren't forgetting that the last phone call Jerome McKennon had made was to this apartment.
"When did this happen?" she asked.
"Sometime this morning."
"Where?"
"His apartment."
"You found him dead in his apartment?"
"His cleaning lady found him."
"What time?"
"Around nine," Carella said.
"How well did you know him?" Willis asked.
"Then it was murder, huh?" she said.
"Nobody said…"
"No? Then why do you want to know how well I knew him?"
"Because the call to your apartment was the last one he made."
"Why is that important if he wasn't killed?"
"It could've been suicide," Willis said.
Giving her a little more rope. Testing her. Maybe she'd jump on it, expand on the theory. Instead, she contradicted it.
"Jerry a suicide? That's ridiculous."
"How so, Miss Hollis?" Carella said.
"He had everything going for him. Good looks, a new job—"
"Doing what?" Willis said.
"Vice president in charge of marketing for Eastec Systems."
"What do they do?" Carella asked.
"Security."
"A burglar-alarm company?"
"Well, radio telemetry and digital monitoring. For burglary, yes, but also fire, freeze… well, total security systems."
"Here in the city?"
"Yes. On Avenue J."
"And you say this was a new job?"
"Relatively new. He started shortly after we met."
Now they were getting there.
"And when was that, Miss Hollis?"
"Just before Christmas."
Willis started counting in his head. This was close to the end of March. Three months, give or take. "Been seeing him ever since?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Can you tell us how well you knew him?"
"Is that a euphemism?"
"I don't know. Is it?"
"I mean, are you trying to ask if we were sleeping together?"
"Were you?"
"Yes. Which in itself is a euphemism."
Willis was thinking he'd have to look up "euphemism" when he got home, make sure it meant what he thought it meant.
"Would you say it was a serious relationship?" he asked.
Marilyn shrugged. "What do you consider serious?"
"What do you consider serious?"
She shrugged again. "We had some good times together," she said.
"Was he the only man in your life?"
"No."
"Then it wasn't serious."
"If serious means Jerry making undying declarations of love and modest proposals of marriage, then it wasn't serious, no. That may be your definition of serious, but it isn't mine." She paused. Then she said, "I liked him a lot. We had some good times together. I'm sorry he's dead."
"Miss Hollis," Carella said, "when's the last time you spoke to Mr. McKennon on the telephone?"