"I just got a call from Boy Two," Murchison said. "It looks like we maybe got an ID on that body been turning up in bits and pieces. A couple found the lower half in their building, in the elevator. If it's the same body. Wallet in the guy's hip pocket, driver's license in it. You better run on over there, I'll notify Homicide."
"What's the address?" Brown asked, and listened. "Got it," he said, writing. "And the couple's name?" He listened again. "Okay. And the name on the license? Okay," he said, "we're rolling." He put the receiver back on the cradle. "Let's go, Genero," he said, "the pieces are coming together. We just got ourselves the lower half. Name tag on it, this time."
"This trick is called The Mystic Prediction," Marie said, and began shuffling the cards.
"What do you mean, name tag?" Genero asked.
"The dead man's carrying a wallet," Brown said.
"How?"
"What do you mean how? In his pocket is how."
"I'm going to ask any one of you to write down a three-figure number for me," Marie said.
"You mean he's wearing pants?" Genero said.
"Unless there's a pocket sewn on his ass," Brown said.
"You mean there's pants on the lower half of the body?"
"Whyn't we run on over and see for ourselves, okay?"
"Who wants to write down three numbers for me?" Marie asked. "Any three numbers?"
"And his name's in the wallet?" Genero said.
"On his driver's license," Brown said. "Let's go."
Both men started for the railing. Kling was coming back from the men's room down the hall. He opened the gate and made a low bow, sweeping his arm across his body, ushering them through.
"So what's his name?" Genero asked.
"Frank Sebastiani," Brown said.
And Marie fainted into Kling's arms.
Annie Rawles was already in place when Eileen pulled up outside Larry's. The clock behind the bar, a big ornate thing rimmed with orange neon, read five minutes to nine. Through the plate-glass window, Annie could see the white Cadillac edging into the curb. The bartender could see it, too. They both watched with casual interest as the driver cut the engine, Annie nursing a beer, the bartender polishing glasses. The man behind the wheel of the car was big and black and wearing pimp threads.
They both watched as Eileen got out of the car on the curb side, long legs flashing and signaling, little hidden pistol tucked into one of those soft sexy boots, high-stepping her way toward the entrance door now.
Mr. Pimp leaned across the seat, rolled down the window on the curb side.
Yelled something to Eileen.
Eileen sashayed back, bent over to look in the window.
Short skirt tight across her ass, flashing, advertising.
Started shaking her head, waving her arms around.
"She's givin' him sass," the bartender said.
Southern accent you could cut with a butter knife. Maybe this wasn't so far from Houston after all.
"An' he don't like it none," the bartender said.
Mr. Pimp came storming out of the car on the driver's side, walked around the car, stood yelling at her on the sidewalk.
Eileen kept shaking her head, hands on her hips.
"Won't stop sassin' him, will she?" the bartender said.
And suddenly Mr. Pimp slapped her.
"Whomp her good," the bartender said, nodding encouragement.
Eileen staggered back from the blow, her green eyes blazing. She bunched her fists and went at him as if she'd kill him, but he shoved her away, turned her toward the bar, shoved her again, toward the door of the bar this time, and then strutted back to the Caddy, lord of all he surveyed. Eileen was nursing her cheek. She glared at the Caddy as it pulled away from the curb.
Act One had begun.
Four pieces had become one piece.
Maybe.
They showed her the bundle of clothing first.
Black shoes, blue socks. Blue trousers. Black belt. White Jockey undershorts. Blood stains on the waistband of the trousers and the shorts.
"I… I think those are Frank's clothes," Marie said.
Some coins in one of the pants pockets. A quarter, two dimes, and a penny.
No keys. Neither house keys nor car keys.
A handkerchief in another pocket.
And a wallet.
Black leather.
"Is this your husband's wallet?" Brown asked.
"Yes."
Her voice very soft. As if what they were showing her demanded reverence.
In the wallet, a driver's license issued to Frank Sebastiani of 604 Eden Lane, Collinsworth. No credit cards. Voters Registration card, same name, same address. A hundred and twenty dollars in twenties, fives, and singles. Tucked into one of the little pockets was a green slip of paper with the words MARIE'S SIZES hand-lettered onto it, and beneath that:
Hat:
22
Dress:
8
Bra:
36B
Belt:
26
Panties:
5
Ring:
5
Gloves:
6½
Stockings:
9½(Medium)
Shoes:
6½
"Is this your husband's handwriting?" Brown asked.
"Yes," Marie said. Same soft reverential voice.
They led her inside.
The morgue stank.
She reeled back from the stench of human gasses and flesh.
They walked her past a stainless-steel table upon which the charred remains of a burn-victim's body lay trapped in a pugilistic pose, as though still trying to fight off the flames that had consumed it.
The four pieces of the dismembered corpse were on another stainless-steel table. They were casually assembled, not quite joining. Lying there on the table like an incomplete jigsaw puzzle.
She looked down at the pieces.
"There's no question they're the same body," Carl Blaney said.
Lavender-eyed, white-smocked. Standing under the fluorescent lights, seeming neither to notice nor to be bothered by the intolerable stink in the place.
"As for identification…"
He shrugged.
"As you see, we don't have the hands or the head yet."
He addressed this to the policemen in the room. Ignoring the woman for the time being. Afraid she might puke on his polished tile floor. Or in one of the stainless-steel basins containing internal organs. Three cops now. Hawes, Brown, and Genero. Two cases about to become one. Maybe.
The lower half of the torso was naked now.
She kept looking down at it.
"Would you know his blood type?" Blaney asked.
"Yes," Marie said. "B."
"Well, that's what we've got here."
Hawes knew about the appendectomy and meniscectomy scars because she'd mentioned them while describing her husband. He said nothing now. First rule of identification, you didn't prompt the witness. Let them come to it on their own. He waited.
"Recognize anything?" Brown asked.
She nodded.
"What do you recognize, ma'am?"
"The scars," she said.
"Would you know what kind of scars those are?" Blaney asked.
"The one on the belly is an appendectomy scar."
Blaney nodded.
"The one on the left knee is from when he had the cartilage removed."
"That's what those scars are," Blaney said to the detectives.
"Anything else, ma'am?" Brown asked.
"His penis," she said.
Neither Blaney nor any of the detectives blinked. This wasn't the Meese Commission standing around the pieces of a corpse, this was a group of professionals trying to make positive identification.
"What about it?" Blaney asked.
"There should be a small… well, a beauty spot, I guess you'd call it," Marie said. "On the underside. On the foreskin."
Blaney lifted the corpse's limp penis in one rubber-gloved hand. He turned it slightly.