“I’m trying to get a line on an automobile.”
“Stolen?”
“No.”
“What then?”
“I want to know if it was in here Sunday night.”
“What kind of car?”
“A blue Buick station wagon.”
“What year?”
‘“71. It belongs to a woman named Natalie Fletcher.”
“Oh, yeah. Cleo the Nut.”
“You know her?”
“Everybody in the neighborhood knows her. She’s a lunatic.”
“Was the car here Sunday night?”
“It’s here every night. This is where she parks it. Or used to park it, I mean. You can’t leave a car on the street around here. They’ll rip off the radio and the tires and the battery, they’ll leave you with nothing but the shell.”
“When you say she used to park it here…”
“Right, she moved away. Had three valises and a trunk in the car when she brought it in Sunday night. Gave me a fin to keep an eye on them.”
“What time was that?”
“A little after midnight. I come on at eleven and quit at eight in the morning.”
“What time did she come back for the car?”
“Around seven-thirty. Checked to see everything was still in it, and drove off.”
“Did she say where she was going?”
“Nope. Just said she was moving out.”
“Would you know the license number of the car?”
“I had it written on the tag with the extra set of keys,” he said. “I threw the tag out when she picked up the car. The first part of it was 83L. That’s how I remember the license plates, by the first three numbers or letters. That’s how I write them on the board, like if somebody wants the car picked up or delivered. In this neighborhood, people don’t like to go wandering too far from their houses. They give me a call, tell me they want the car brought over, I write down the first three numbers of the plate on the blackboard there, and Frankie—he’s the one washing the cars outside—he drives it over, or picks it up, or whatever. Sometimes people get home late, they lock the car and leave it on the street outside their door, and give me a call when they get upstairs. We got duplicate sets of keys, so Frankie runs over and picks up the car and brings it here safe and sound. You be surprised how many people still live in this shitty neighborhood. How many cars you think we park here every night?”
“How many?”
“A hundred and twenty-two. That’s pretty good, don’t you think? I mean, for this shitty neighborhood? We got four Caddys, would you believe it? Four of them!”
“You wouldn’t have thrown out that tag in the trash basket there, would you?”
“What tag?”
“The one with the license-plate number.”
“Oh. Yeah, that’s where I threw it. But I think that can’s already been emptied.”
“Would you mind if I checked it?”
“What do you mean?”
“Would it be all right if I went through that trash basket?”
“Sure, help yourself,” he said. “It’s 83L, that much I’m sure of.”
“Are you through with that newspaper?” I said.
“I’m still reading it.”
“I don’t want to get your floor messed up.”
“Try the barrel outside,” he said. “Might be something there.”
I went out into the garage and found a large barrel near the open door to the toilet. A copy of the city’s tabloid newspaper was buried under a pile of greasy rags. I dug it out, carried it back to the office, and spread it on the floor. The radio was on again; rock-and-roll music blared from the speaker. The attendant ignored me as I went through the trash. He sat reading his newspaper and listening to the music. The trash here was not as messy as it had been in Natalie’s apartment, but it was messy enough. When I reached the bottom of the basket, I became suddenly grateful for the mess. I had found no trace of the tag till then, and was ready to accept the fact that the basket had indeed been emptied sometime between nine o’clock this morning and now. But there was a sticky stain—syrup or oil—on the bottom of the basket, and stuck to it was a small white tag on a string. I plucked it out gingerly and looked at it. The ink was somewhat smeared from its contact with whatever viscous glop was on the bottom of the basket, but it was still clearly legible.
“This it?” I asked. “83L-4710?”
“That’s it,” the attendant said, without looking up from his newspaper.
“This wasn’t an out-of-town plate, was it?”
“No, no.”
I wrapped up the trash, put it back in the basket, thanked him for his time, and then went to the pay phone on the wall near the toilet. The door to the toilet was open, and the stench of stale urine wafted out to me as I dialed the Twelfth Precinct. It was my guess that Horowitz would be back in the squadroom by now, and would probably be up till dawn—this was a homicide. The desk sergeant put me through. Horowitz sounded very tired.
“Dave,” I said, “I’ve got something for you.”
“Yeah, Ben?”
“Natalie Fletcher, the name on the ...”
“Yeah?”
“Her address was 420 Oberlin Crescent...”
“What do you mean was?”
“She moved out early this morning.”
“Shit,” Horowitz said. “I just sent O’Neil over there.”
“Place is empty except for some junk,” I said.
“You’ve been in there?”
“Yes, Dave.”
“Ben, I don’t think you should have done that.”
“I knew you’d be busy at the scene for a while. I thought I’d save you some time.”
“Where’d you get her address?”
“From the phone book. Same as you.”
“Yeah,” Horowitz said somewhat mournfully. “Well, is that it?”
“No, there’s more. She left driving a ‘71 blue Buick station wagon, registration 83L dash 4710.”
“This state?”
“Yes, Dave.”
“That’s good,” Horowitz said, “I’ll get on it right away.” He paused, and then said, “I guess I owe you one.”
“Did you find any prints on the pendant or the crowbar?” I asked immediately.
“Lab’s checking them out now. I should have something by morning. What the hell time is it, anyway?”
“Quarter past two,” I said.
“I feel like I’ve been up for a week,” Horowitz said. “Anything else, Ben?”
“That’s it. I’ll keep in touch. Oh, one other thing, Dave. The lady’s a bedbug. She thinks she’s Cleopatra.”
“How come I always get the fucking lunatics?” Horowitz said.
“Talk to you later,” I said.
“So long,” he said, and hung up.
I debated waiting till a more respectable hour before hitting Violet Fletcher, but time is of the essence in a homicide investigation. Out of courtesy, and because I didn’t want to startle anyone’s mother out of her wits by rapping on her door in the empty hours of the night, I looked up her number in the directory hanging from a chain on the wall, and then dialed it. She answered on the fifth ring. Her voice was fuzzy with sleep.
“Hello?” she said.
“Mrs. Fletcher?”
“Yes?”
“This is Lieutenant Smoke of the Police Department,” I said. (A lie.) “I hope I didn’t wake you, but a man’s been killed, and I’ve been assigned to the investigation.” (A partial lie.)
She was silent for a moment. When her voice came back on the line, she sounded decidedly awake. And decidedly skeptical. “What is this?” she asked. “A crank call?”
“No, Mrs. Fletcher, this is legitimate. If you’d like to call me back here at the squadroom, the number is Field-stone 8-0765,” I said, reading the number from the dial on the wall phone.