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  'Meyer, meet Cotton Hawes, just assigned to the squad. Cotton, this is Meyer Meyer.'

  Meyer extended his hand and started to say, 'How do you…' and then he cut himself short and asked, 'How was that again?'

  'Cotton Hawes,' Hawes said.

  'Oh. How do you do?' He took Hawes's hand.

  'Meyer is the only man in the world with two first names,' Carella said. 'Or two last names, depending now you look at it.'

  'With the exception of Harry James,' Hawes said.

  'Huh? Harry…? Oh, Harry James. Two first names. Yes. Yes,' Carella said. He cleared his throat. 'What are you working on, Harry… uh… Meyer?'

  'This liquor store kill,' Meyer said. 'I just interrogated the owner. I'm going to miss my bar mitzvah.'

  'How come?'

  'Time I get finished typing up this report.' He looked at his watch.

  'Hell, it shouldn't take that long,' Carella said.

  'Don't rush me,' Meyer said. 'I think maybe I want to miss that lousy bar mitzvah.'

  'Well, you'll be seeing Cotton around,' Carella said. 'I know you'll make him at home.'

  'Sure,' Meyer said indifferently, and he went back to typing up his report.

  'Through the railing here is the corridor leading to the locker room. On your left is the Clerical Office, the latrine… you an Army man?'

  'Navy,' Hawes said.

  'Oh. Did they teach you any judo?'

  'A little.'

  'We've got a whiz working with us. Fellow named Hal Willis. You'll have a lot to talk about.'

  'Will we?' Hawes said.

  'Just don't shake hands with him,' Carella said jokingly. 'He can have you on your back in three seconds.'

  'Can he?' Hawes asked dryly.

  'Well, he…' Carella cleared his throat again. 'Interrogation is at the end of the hall, if you feel you need privacy. We generally question suspects in the squad room. The Skipper doesn't like rough stuff.'

  'I never saw a prisoner maltreated all the while I was with the 30th squad,' Hawes said.

  'Well, that's a pretty good neighbourhood, isn't it?' Carella said.

  'We had our share of crime,' Hawes said.

  'Sure, I didn't doubt…' Carella let the sentence trail. 'Locker room is right there at the end of the hall. Steps here lead to the desk downstairs and the Waldorf Suite at the back of the building.'

  'The what?'

  'Detention cells.'

  'Oh.'

  'Come on down, I'll introduce you to the desk sergeant. Then we can take a walk around the precinct if you like.'

  'Whatever you say,' Hawes said.

  'Oh, it's my pleasure,' Carella answered, in his first display of sarcasm all day. Hawes chose to ignore the thrust. Together they walked down the steps to the ground floor, silently.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The woman who sat in the small living room was fifty-four years old, and had once had hair as bright and as red as her daughter's. The hair was now streaked with grey, but it did not give the impression of red hair turning. Instead, and paradoxically, it looked like iron grey hair streaked with rust.

  The woman's face was streaked with tears. The tears had destroyed the mascara around her eyes, sent it trickling down her cheeks, and was now demolishing the pancake makeup on her face. The woman was no beauty to begin with, and sorrow had stabbed at her eyes and was now trickling down her face, disintegrating the mask of beauty she donned for the world, the mask of beauty which news of death was ripping away piece by crumbling piece.

  Detective Bert Kling sat opposite her and watched her. He did not like questioning women, and he did not like questioning women who cried. In homicides, in suicides, the women always cried. He felt uncomfortable in the presence of a crying woman. He was a new detective, and a very young detective, and he had not yet acquired either the sympathy or the savoir faire of a man like Carella. And so the woman's tears dissolved more than her carefully made-up face. They also dissolved the external facade of one Bert Kling, so that he sat like a dumbstruck schoolboy, unable to utter a syllable.

  The living-room was furnished comfortably and tastefully. The furniture was not expensive, but it boasted clean modern lines without the cumbersome heavy look of furniture that hugs the floor, furniture that crowds a small apartment. The upholstery was light and gay, too, in sharp contrast to the woman who sat on the couch daubing at her brown-streaked eyes and face. There was a huge photograph of a vivacious redhead on the wall over the couch. The redhead had been photographed in a field of waving wheat, her head thrown back to the skies, the red hair streaming over her shoulders. There was pure soaring joy on her face, and Kling thought back to the face he had seen pressed against the wooden floor of the liquor shop, and he thought fleetingly of life and death, of joy and sorrow.

  'Annie,' the woman said, following his glance.

  'Yes,' Kling answered.

  'That was taken seven years ago. On her honeymoon. They went to his father's farm in Indiana. Stayed a month. She was happy.'

  'Ted Boone,' Kling said. 'That was her husband's name, wasn't it?'

  'Theodore, yes. I always called him Theodore. He was a nice boy. A photographer, you know. He took that picture. Blew it up from a small Kodachrome. He's very talented.'

  'Do you have any idea why they got divorced?'

  'Yes.'

  'Why?'

  'He outgrew my daughter.' The words were delivered flatly with no emotion, a flat statement of fact.

  'How do you mean, Mrs Travail?'

  'He just outgrew her. Annie wasn't very bright. She's… she was my daughter, but not very bright. Always full of fun, though, and spirit, do you know the kind of girl I mean? Dancing, and laughing, and well… gay. And a boy like Theodore found her attractive. A lot of boys found her attractive. After a while, though…' Mrs Travail paused, and there was grief on her face still, but she was not thinking of death now. She was trying to vocalize things she had probably never said to anyone, things a mother doesn't say even to her daughter, except when the stranger Death intrudes, and then there are no secrets, then there are no feelings to protect, no pride to fear injuring. 'Theodore grew. Not only with his photography. I knew he would grow with that. But here.' She tapped her temple. 'He wanted more. He was hungry for learning, and experience, and stimulation. Annie couldn't give it to him. He asked her for a divorce.'

  'Did she grant it?'

  'Yes. She didn't like the idea. They'd had Monica by then—the girl, my granddaughter—and a woman gets afraid, Mr Kling. A woman who's been married for five years, living with a man, becoming a wife and a mother, she gets afraid. She doesn't know the… the game any more. The game the single ones play. It isn't easy to think you'll have to get back into the game again.' Mrs Travail sighed. 'But she let him go. You can't hold an eagle if you're a sparrow, Mr Kling. You just can't.'

  'Did they part amicably?'

  'Does any divorced couple ever part amicably?'

  'Well, I…'

  'Oh, yes, yes, very modern about it. Friends. And, of course, he visited Monica. But it's hard, Mr Kling, for two people who have known each other intimately, who have known each other's desires and thoughts and dreams, to suddenly part and pretend they are strangers. It's… you resent someone who knows you too well. You have asked him to no longer share, and you resent the fact that he once shared.'

  'I suppose that's true. But there was never any open breach? On his visits, I mean. They didn't argue or anything?'

  'Theodore is not a killer,' Mrs Travail said flatly.

  'We have to consider every angle, Mrs Travail.'

  'I know that. My daughter was murdered, Mr Kling. She was not a very bright girl, but you mustn't think I didn't care for her deeply. I did. Deeply. And I want the police to consider every angle. But Theodore is not a killer. He is a creator. Creators do not destroy.'

  'I see,' Kling sighed. He knew they would have to question Boone, anyway, creator, destroyer, or both. He had learned, however, that one can explain pol
ice technique only so far, and then only if one is in a generous mood. The best technique of explaining police technique, he had discovered, was not to explain it at all. Listen, observe, remember, take suggestions. And then go about the job the way it had to be done.

  'She was divorced when?'

  'Two years ago.'

  'In this city?'

  'No. There was no adultery. Theodore lived by the rules as long as there was a contract.'

  'I see. Did your daughter go to Reno?'

  'Las Vegas.' Mrs Travail paused. 'Theodore paid for it.'

  'And the child?'

  'Monica stayed with me while Annie went west.'

  'Do you have any other children, Mrs Travail? Did Annie have a brother or sister?'

  'A brother.'

  'Where can I reach him, Mrs Travail?'

  'He's dead.'

  'Oh. Oh, I'm sorry.'

  'He was killed in the Second World War. He was a gunner on a navy plane.'

  'I'm sorry.'

  'He was nineteen when he died. First I lost my husband, and then my only son. All I… all I had was Annie. And Theodore, of course, later. Then… then Theodore was gone and now… now I'm alone again. Except for the child. I have the child. I have the little girl.'

  'Yes,' Kling said.

  'But a woman needs… needs men around her, Mr Kling. A woman needs men.'

  'Yes.'

  'Theodore was a good man.'

  'Your daughter, Mrs Travail,' Kling reminded.

  'Yes?'

  'Had she been seeing any men lately?'

  'Yes.'

  'Who?'

  'Several.'

  'Do you want to give me their names?'

  'Yes, surely. She was seeing a man named Arthur Cordis. She saw him… oh… every other week perhaps.'

  'He called for her here?'

  'Yes.'

  'Would you know where he lives?'

  'In Isola some place. I don't know the address. He's a bank teller.'

  'Who else?'

  'Frank Abelson.'

  'How often did she see him?'

  'On and off. None of them really meant anything to her. They were just… companions, I suppose you would call them.'

  'And he lives?'

  'Isola, too.'

  'Who else?'

  'A boy named Jamie.'

  'Jamie what?'

  'I don't know. I only spoke to him on the phone. He'd never been here.'

  'But your daughter was seeing him?'

  'Yes. They met somewhere. I don't know why he never called for her.'

  'You're sure about this?'

  'Yes. He called her on the phone often. She spoke of him, too. She said he was a very nice boy.'

  'How about girl friends, Mrs Travail?'

  'Oh, Annie had quite a few. Do you want me to name them all? Wouldn't it be easier if you took her address book?'

  'Do you have it?'

  'Yes.'

  'When I leave, then.'

  'Certainly.'

  'Now, let's see,' Kling said, consulting his notes. 'She had been working at the liquor store for a year, is that right?'

  'Yes. She had another job after the divorce. When she left that, she went to work for Mr Phelps.'

  'Did she get on well with Mr Phelps?'

  'Oh, yes. He was a very considerate man.'

  'How?'

  'As an employer, I mean. Very considerate.'

  'Mmm,' Kling said, thinking of what Meyer had told him of Phelps. 'How do you mean, considerate?'

  'Well, she always spoke kindly of him. And once, I remember, she was home sick with a virus and he sent her flowers.'

  'Oh?'

  'Yes. A dozen red roses.'

  'Isn't that a little unusual?'

  'Women like flowers,' Mrs Travail said. 'Annie was a good worker.'

  'Where did she work last, Mrs Travail? Before the liquor store?'

  'A furniture house. Herman Dodson, Inc.'

  'Would you happen to know what she did there?'

  'She was a saleslady.'

  'Why did she leave?'

  'I don't know. We never discussed it. I think the salary wasn't high enough.'

  'How did she get the job at the liquor store?'

  'I don't know. She just heard of it somehow.'

  'I see.'

  'Do you have any idea who did this, Mr Kling?'

  'No. Not yet. We're just beginning, Mrs Travail. It sometimes takes a long while. You can understand that.'

  'Yes, certainly. Of course, I can understand that.'

  'Do you want to get that address book for me?'

  'Yes, certainly. She kept it in her room, on her desk. I'll get it for you.'

  Mrs Travail wiped at her mascara-running eyes and then left the room. Kling sat. When the front door opened, he turned automatically to face it, and his hand edged slightly toward the .38 Detective's Special in his shoulder holster. When he saw who was in the doorframe, his hand relaxed.

  'Hello,' the girl said.

  'Hello, Monica,' he answered, smiling.

  The girl looked puzzled. She had bright red hair braided into pigtails. She wore a plaid skirt with shoulder straps and a white blouse. Her legs were straight and her teeth were good, and she looked at Kling with the wide-eyed candour of a child. 'How do you know my name?'

  'I just do,' Kling said.

  'Is Granma home?'

  'Yes. She went to get something for me. From Mommy's room.'

  'I don't call her Mommy,' Monica confided. 'Granma doesn't like that. I call her Mother.'

  'Don't you call Granma Grandmother?'

  'Only when she's around,' Monica said, giggling and then stifling the laugh with a cupped hand. 'What's your name?'

  'Bert.'

  'Are you one of Mother's boy friends?'

  'No.' Kling said.

  'What are you?'

  'I'm a cop.'

  'Really?' Monica asked, her eyes wider. 'Like on Dragnet!'

  'Better than Dragnet,' Kling said, modestly.

  'Do you have a gun?'

  'Sure.'

  'Could I see it?'

  Kling unholstered the .38 and checked the safety to make sure it was on. Monica came close to the gun, but Kling did not let it out of his hand.

  'Is it real?'

  'Certainly,' Kling said.

  'Where'd you get it?'

  'In a box of Rice Krispies.'

  'You didn't!'

  'No, not really. How old are you, Monica?'

  'Five. I'll be six soon.'

  Kling bolstered the gun. 'Are you just getting home from school?'

  'Yes. I only go half a day because I'm still in kindergarten. Next term I'll be in the first grade. Then I'll go all day, and I'll have books. I never met a cop before.'

  'I never met a little girl in kindergarten before.'

  'Oh, we're nothing special.'

  'Everybody's something special, Monica.'

  'Why are you here?'

  'Oh, just a routine check.'

  'That's what they say on Dragnet.'

  'Well, they're right.'

  'A routine check on what?' Monica asked.

  'On five-year-old girls who are in kindergarten.'

  'Why?' Monica asked seriously. 'Did one do something?'

  Kling burst out laughing. 'No, honey,' he said. 'I was only joking.'

  'Then why are you here?'

  'Routine,' he said.

  This was not his job. Telling a five-year-old button that her mother had been shot dead was not his job. He had sworn the oath, and he believed he was a good cop, but this was action far above and beyond the call of duty, and maybe Carella could take a five-year-old redhead on his knee and gently and patiently explain to her that her mother had been shot four times in the chest, but Kling could not. Not yet. Maybe years from now. But not yet.

  'What kind of routine?' Monica asked persistently, and Kling was extremely grateful for Mrs Travail who entered the room at that moment.

  'Here's th
e… oh!' She saw Monica and her eyes fled instantly to Kling's face. 'You didn't…'

  'No,' Kling said.

  'Didn't what?' Monica asked.

  'Nothing, darling. Have you met Detective Kling?'

  'His name is Bert,' Monica said.

  'Then you have met.'

  'Sure. He's here on routine.'

  'Yes,' Mrs Travail said. 'How was school today, darling?'

  'Oh, the same old jazz,' Monica said.

  'Monica!'

  Kling tried to suppress his smile.

  'Why don't you go to your room, Monica?' Mrs Travail said. 'Mr Kling and I have some business to finish.'

  'Sure,' Monica said. She turned to Kling and said, 'Where's Frank Smith?'

  'Out on a 365 W,' Kling said, and Monica laughed in delight.

  'Will you call me when you're through, Grandmother?' she said politely.

  'Yes, dear.'

  'Good-bye, Mr Kling. I hope you find her.'

  'I hope so, too.'

  Monica left the room. Mrs Travail waited for her to leave and then said, 'She wasn't referring to…'

  'No. A private joke between us.'

  'Do you think a woman might have killed my daughter?'

  'It's possible.'

  'Here's the address book. All her girl friends are in it.' She handed Kling the book.

  'Thank you, Mrs Travail,' he said. 'And thank you for your cooperation.'

  At the door, Mrs Travail said, 'You are going to visit Theodore, aren't you?'

  'Yes,' Kling said. 'We are.'

  'He didn't do it,' Mrs Travail said evenly. 'Good day, Mr Kling.'

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Herman Dodson, Inc.

  Fine Furnitures

  June 1957

  Detective Bertram Kling 87th Detective Squad

  457 Parkside

  Isola

  Dear Detective Kling:

  In answer to your telephone query of yesterday, I asked our Personnel Manager to consult our files on the employment of Anne Carolyn Boone. He has done so, and given me a full report, and I pass this on to you for whatever it is worth.

  Miss Boone answered a blind advertisement in a local daily run on Sunday, 13 March 1955. The advertisement read: