Evan Hunter - Candyland

"I realize."

"That a little homicide isn't the first thing on these guys' minds."

"How about the ME?" Emma asks. "Is a little homicide the first thing on his mind?"

"Listen, at least he told us she's dead. Maybe he thinks that's enough."

"Can one of your people give him another call?"

"Sure," Manzetti says, but the weariness in his voice indicates his people have already made enough calls to the Medical Examiner's Office.

"We're here at the One-Nine," Emma says. "If you get anything, let us know."

"You, too," Manzetti says, and hangs up.

There are four listings in the Manhattan Directory for the Screen Actors Guild at 1515 Broadway. They would go there in person, but in any homicide investigation, time is of the essence and if they can get what they want on the phone, they'd much prefer it. Cathy Frese's body was found by a woman walking her dog at six this morning. If indeed someone had seen a man assaulting her at four-fifteen a.m., chances are she was killed not too long afterward. They will know more positively once they get the autopsy report, although an accurate post-mortem interval is often difficult to establish, especially during the summer months when the body is slow to cool. It is now eleven-fifteen a.m. If indeed Cathy was killed sometime between four-thirty and five o'clock, the killer already has a lead time of six to seven hours. In police work, such a lead is often conclusive: the killer can be lost to them forever.

Morgan dials the general listing for the Guild while Emma dials the listing for the Guild's Membership Department. At the very moment she is being connected to a man named Nelson Shears, Morgan is being told by a receptionist on another line that he can get the information he needs from a Mr Nelson Shears in the Membership Department. He hangs up and listens to Emma.

"This is Detective Boyle," she says, "Special Victims Squad." She listens. "N.Y.P.D.," she says. "We're trying to locate an actor who may have been an extra on both The Sixth Sense and Saving Private Ryan. Well, that's just it," she says, "we don't have his name. Not his full name, anyway." She listens, and then says, "I would imagine quite a few. Though possibly not on The Sixth Sense. That wasn't as massive a movie, was it? We have a first name for him, if that's any help. Well, wouldn't he have to join the Guild to work as an extra? That's what I thought. So isn't there a record someplace of who got paid for working on those films? These people pay social security, don't they? Even if they're only extras? Gee, I'm terribly sorry if I sound snippy, Mr Shears, is that the word you just used, snippy? I sure hope there wasn't anything sexist intended in the choice of that word, snippy. This is a homicide we're investigating, you see, and I would sincerely appreciate your cooperation here. Yes, I'll wait, sure I will. Thank you."

She looks at Morgan, rolls her eyes. Morgan nods sympathetically. She waits. Taps her fingers on the desktop. Continues to wait.

"Hello?" she says. "Yes, who am I speaking to now, please? Miss Hennings, how do you do, this is Detective Boyle, I'm investigating a homicide, and I'm trying to get the name of a man who may have done extra work on two… yes, may have done. That's what I said. And may also have committed murder, as I mentioned. We have a first name for him and we have the two movies he says he worked on…" She listens. " The Sixth Sense. And Saving Private Ryan." She listens again. "I would imagine so, yes. Well, whichever would be easier for you, we're really trying to get to this man as soon as we can." She listens again. "Stanley," she says. "I'm sorry, that's all we have. He's in his late thirties, early forties, if that's any help. Five-ten or eleven, weighs around a hun'eighty, a hun'ninety. Dark hair. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Well, could you do that, please? Let me give you a number where I can be reached." She reels off the number on her cell phone and then listens again. "Uh-huh. DreamWorks, did you say? Would you have a number for them? And the other company? Hollywood Pictures? And… Spyglass, did you say? Could I have that number, too, please? Thank you, Miss Hennings, I'll be waiting for your call."

She hangs up, looks across the desk to Morgan.

"She says there were a zillion extras on Ryan. .."

"I'll bet."

"… but she thinks she may have better luck with Sixth Sense. She's going to check with Pension Plan and Health, see if they've got anything for a Stanley who worked on both movies. She didn't sound too hopeful."

"Miracles happen," Morgan says, but he doesn't sound too hopeful, either. "She's got your number," he says. "There's nothing we can do till she calls back. Why don't we go see Josie Zampada?"

"Who's Josie Zampada?"

"Fatima," he says, and taps his temple. "Remember what Consuelo said? She lives in Brooklyn, right over the bridge." He opens his notebook, runs his finger down the list of names Harry Davis supplied. "Nope," he says, and looks up, surprised. "Probably laying her," he says, and shrugs. "Let's see if there's anything on her up the squad." He pulls a desk phone to him, dials. "Lou," he says, "it's Jimmy. Hit the computer for me, will you? I need an address for a hooker named Josie Zampada, trade name Fatima, works up the XS. Have we got anything?" He waits. He looks up at the ceiling.

"Who's that you're calling?" Emma asks.

"My partner."

Emma is hoping Miss Hennings at the Screen Actors Guild will call back this very moment with a last name and an address for their movie star friend Stanley. This will save them a trip to Brooklyn and a wild goose chase looking for Michael, who also has no last name. She is wondering whether she should call both DreamWorks and Hollywood Pictures, get them working on Stanley as well. She really believes he's a better suspect than some guy who wanted a room with a little blue light.

"That's her," Morgan says into the phone. "Let me have it."

When they get to Josie Zampada at ten minutes to twelve that morning, she is sprawled in a striped beach chair, taking the sun in the park across the street from her garden apartment. As they approach, she lowers the foil reflector she's holding under her chin, recognizes Morgan at once, frowns, sits up, and holds up her hand to shield her eyes from the sun. She has long black hair and pale blue eyes and she's wearing a skimpy blue bikini that scarcely conceals her full breasts and narrow hips. Morgan's earlier description of her seems completely fitting; she does look like some sort of exotic foreign agent.

"What's this?" she asks, annoyed.

There are mothers sitting on benches everywhere around them, rocking baby carriages. Emma has the feeling Josie is controlling her anger, her voice low, the pale blue eyes darting.

"Cathy Frese was killed this morning," Morgan says.

"This is where I live," she says tightly. "I share the apartment with a girl studying telecommunications at NYU, she thinks I'm a salesperson at Bloomie's. Who sent you here? Harry?"

"You're in our computer," Morgan says. "Cathy Frese was killed this morning," he says again.

"Tell us about a guy named Michael," Emma says.

"Who the hell is Michael?"

"A john you and Cathy…"

"Come on, cool it, willya?" Josie says.

"Where would you like to talk?" Emma asks.

"I wouldn't," Josie says.

She bends over, reaches into a striped bag at her feet. Emma can see the nipple of one breast. So can Morgan. He stares openly, just as if he's never before seen a half-naked woman in any of the whore houses he's busted. Josie pulls out a package of Virginia Slims, sits up, shakes a cigarette loose, lights it. In the distance, a church bell tolls the hour. It is twelve noon. The bonging of the bells serves as a signal. Mothers everywhere in the park rise from the benches, begin wheeling baby carriages home. Josie puffs on her cigarette, watching the exodus. Two women linger near the jungle gym, but they are too distant to hear any conversation from this end of the park.