Carella could still remember the women keening.
The women keening were more frightening than the fact that his dear Aunt Katie lay young and dead in a coffin in the west wing.
Today, there was no keening. The old ways had become American, and Americans did not keen. Today, there was
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only the hush of death in this silent place where two black cops tiptoed around a white cop because his father had been killed by two black men like themselves.
"The witness seems reliable," Bent said softly. "We've been showing him ..."
"When did he see these two men?" Carella asked.
"Coming out," Wade said.
"He was in the liquor store next door. He thought he heard shots, and when he turned around to look, he saw these guys ..."
"What time was this?"
"Around nine-thirty. Your sister told us your father sometimes worked late."
"Yes," Carella said.
"Alone," Bent said.
"Yes," Carella said. "Baking."
"Anyway," Wade said, "he saw them plain as day under the street lamp ..."
"Getting into a car, or what?"
"No, they were on foot."
"They'd been cruising, we figure, looking for a mark."
"They had to pick my father, huh?"
"Yeah, well," Bent said sympathetically, and shook his head. "We've got the witness looking through mug shots, and we've got an artist working up a drawing, so maybe we'll come up with some kind of positive ID. We're also checking the MO file, but there's nothing special about the style of this one, we figure it was maybe two crack addicts cruising for an easy score."
Nothing special about it, Carella thought.
Except that it was my father.
"They're both black," Bent said. "I guess your sister told you that."
"She told me," Carella said.
"We want you to know that our being black ..."
"You don't have to say it," Carella said.
Both men looked at him.
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"No need," he said.
"We'll be doing our best," Wade said.
"I know that."
"We'll keep you informed every step of the way," Bent said.
"I'd appreciate that."
"Meanwhile, anything we can do to help your family, look in on your mother, whatever you need, just let us know."
"Thanks," Carella said. "Whenever you have anything ..."
"We'll let you know."
"Even if it seems unimportant..."
"The minute we get anything."
"Thanks," Carella said.
"My father was killed in a mugging," Wade said out of the blue.
"I'm sorry," Carella said.
"Reason I became a cop," Wade said, and looked suddenly embarrassed.
"This city ..." Bent started, and let the sentence trail.
Brown had been in the apartment for an hour before Kling arrived to lend a hand. Kling apologized for getting there so late, but he didn't get the call from the lieutenant till half an hour ago, while he was still in bed. This was supposed to be his day off, but with Carella's father getting shot and all -
"Are they any good up there?" he asked Brown. "The Four-Five?"
"I don't know anything about them," Brown said.
"That's like the boonies up there, isn't it?"
"Well, I think they have crime up there," Brown said dryly.
"Sure, but what kind of crime? Do they ever have murders up there?"
"I think they have murders up there," Brown said.
Kling had taken off his jacket and was looking for a place to hang it. He knew the techs were finished in here and it was okay to touch anything he liked. But he would feel funny
20
putting his jacket in a closet with the dead woman's clothes. He settled for tossing it over the back of the living-room sofa.
He was wearing brown tropical-weight slacks and a tan sports shirt that complemented his hazel eyes and blond hair. Loafers, too, Brown noticed. Mr College Boy. They made a good pair, these two. Most thieves figured Kling for an innocent young rookie who'd just got the gold shield last week. With all that blond hair and that shit-kicking, apple-cheeked style, it was hard to guess he was a seasoned cop who'd seen more than his share of it. Your average thief mistook him for somebody he could jerk around, play on his sympathies, get him to talk Big Bad Leroy here into looking the other way. Kling and Brown played the Good Cop/Bad Cop routine for all it was worth, Kling restraining Brown from committing murder with his bare hands, Brown acting like an animal just let out of his cage. It worked each and every time.
Well, once it hadn't.
"How's Steve taking it?" Kling asked.
"I haven't seen him this morning," Brown said. "He was pretty shook up last night."
"Yeah, I can imagine," Kling said. "Is your father alive?"
"Yes. Is yours?"
"No."
"So I guess you know."
"Yeah."
"Did the lieutenant say how long you'd be on this?"
"Just till Steve's done with the funeral and everything. He pulled me off a stakeout me and Genero are working on Culver. These grocery-store holdups."
"Yeah," Brown said.
"What are we looking for?" Kling asked.
"Anything that'll give us a line on the guy who wrote these letters," Brown said, and tossed the packet to Kling. Kling sat on the sofa and undid the blue ribbon around the envelopes. He unfolded the first letter and began reading it.
"Don't get too involved there," Brown said.
"Pretty steamy stuff here, Artie."
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"I think you may be too young for that kind of stuff."
"Yeah, I agree," Kling said, and fell silent, reading. "Very good stuff here," he said.
"It gets better."
"You go on and do whatever you have to do, I'll see you next week sometime."
"Just read the last letter."
"I thought I might read all of them."
"Last one's got everything you need to know."
Kling read the last letter.
"Paying for the apartment here, huh?" he said.
"Looks that way."
"He sounds old, don't you think?"
"What's old to you?"
"In his fifties, maybe. Doesn't he sound that way to you?"
"Maybe."
"Just the words he uses. And the tone. How old was this girl?"
"Twenty-two."
"That sounds very young for this guy."
"You might want to look through some of that stuff in her desk, see if you find anything about anyone named Arthur. I think his name might be Arthur."
"That's your name," Kling said.
"No kidding?"
"You sure you didn't write these letters? Listen to this," Kling said, and began quoting. "And afterward, I'll pour oil onto your flaming cheeks, and should any of this oil accidentally flow into your..."
"Yeah," Brown said.
"Some imagination, this guy."
"Check out the desk, will you?"
Kling folded the letter, put it back into its envelope, retied the bundle, and tossed it onto the coffee table. The desk was on the wall opposite the sofa. The drawer over the kneehole was unlocked. He reached into it for a checkbook in a green plastic cover.
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"What makes you think his name is Arthur?" he asked.
"I've been going through her appointment calendar. Lots of stuff about Arthur in it. Arthur this, Arthur that. Arthur here at nine, Arthur at Sookie's, call Arthur . . ."
"That's a restaurant on The Stem," Kling said. "Sookie's. He probably figured the turf up here was safe."