Evan Hunter - Candyland

"This guy you threw down the stairs," she says.

"He was threatening me," Davis says at once.

"I'm not looking for a shitty assault bust," she says. "One of your girls got killed this morning."

"So I understand. He was nonetheless threatening me. And the girls who work here aren't my girls, by the way. I'm merely the night manager. I normally come on at five, make sure everything's in order for the night shift, which starts at six. This is a massage parlor, Detective. You'll find nothing out of order here. Ask Detective Morgan. He knows this is a respectable establishment."

"So you beat him up."

"No. Just hustled him out."

"Threw him down the stairs."

"Showed him the way out. Look, the man was looking for trouble."

"Why do you say that?"

"Why? Gee, maybe because first he told Bianca he had time coming, and next he asked Heidi to come back to his hotel with him, which he had to know was against…"

"Asked her what?"

" What time do you quit here?"

"Around three-thirty, four o'clock," Heidi said. "Why?"

"I was thinking after we get this time business straightened out…"

" The time business, right"

" After you and me and Bianca find that room with the little blue light…"

" Oh, sure, the blue light"

" You might want to come back to the hotel with me."

"Gee, a hotel," she said, and rolled her eyes in mock wonder.

" It's not far from here, Fifty-sixth and Sixth," he said. "What do you think?"

"I think it's not allowed, is what I think. But let's talk about it later, okay?" she said, and raised her eyebrows to indicate someone was standing behind him.

"How do you know this?" Emma asks.

"It was me standing behind him," Davis says.

"What time did Cathy leave here, would you know?"

"Around four o'clock."

"Anyone leave with her?" Emma asks. "Any of your customers?"

"That's not allowed."

"Anyone waiting for her downstairs?"

"I didn't go downstairs."

"Any of the other girls go downstairs around that time?"

He hesitates.

"Who?" Emma says at once.

"Cindy might have left around then."

"Cindy who? What's her last name?"

"I don't want to get her in any trouble."

"Is that why she wasn't on your list?"

"Cindy Mayes. I don't have her phone number and I don't know where she lives. That's why I didn't put her on my list."

"Then it wasn't just an oversight."

"I just told you what it was."

"Will she be here tonight?"

"Six o'clock," he says, and nods.

"Tell her I'll be here, too," Emma says.

"Be happy to," Davis says, but he is no longer smiling.

She calls the number she has for the Vice Enforcement Office and asks to talk to Jimmy Morgan, please. The guy on the other end tells her Detective Morgan is away from his desk just now, and asks what this is in reference to.

"This is Emma Boyle," she says, "Special Victims Squad. Jimmy and I are working this homicide together…"

"Oh yeah, hi, this is Lou Greenberg, his partner. Can I tell him anything if he calls in?"

"I was supposed to meet him outside the XS Salon at…"

"Know it well," Greenberg says.

"… at ten to six," Emma says, "but something came up. Cut him off at the pass, will you?"

"Will do. Anything good?"

"Maybe. Right now, I'm heading for the Palmer Continental, on Fifty-sixth and Sixth. Ask him to call me, he has my mobile number. Incidentally, I've got a last name for Cindy."

"Who's Cindy?" Greenberg asks.

The desk clerk at the Palmer Continental tells Emma he does not have any first-name Michaels from Los Angeles registered at the moment, nor were there any registered this past week, he's terribly sorry. Emma asks him to check for any first-initial M's from Los Angeles, which she can tell is a nuisance for the clerk, but hey, she's terribly sorry, this is a fucking homicide, you know?

There are no M's, either. She tries describing him, which she knows is a hopeless task, but she plunges onward regardless, five-feet-ten, — eleven inches tall, around a hundred-and-seventy pounds, dark hair, brown eyes, remember anyone like that? No one at the front desk recalls anyone fitting that description. Or, more accurately, they remember at least a dozen men fitting that description, which is tantamount to no positive identification at all.

According to Harry Davis, what started the altercation between him and this Michael character was the fact that the man had been drinking too much. Since the Palmer is the only hotel on Fifty-sixth and Sixth, and since Michael said he was staying here, a possibility is that he began drinking here before starting his prowl last night.

She heads into the bar.

The bartender is a man in his early forties, she guesses, with black hair combed sideways to conceal encroaching baldness. He is wearing a little black bar jacket and a white shirt with a black bow tie. He looks surprised when she places her shield on the bartop and announces herself as a detective from the Special Victims Squad.

"We're looking for a man who may have been in here last night, possibly a hotel guest," she says. "All we have is the name Michael and a description that may or may not be accurate. Five-ten or — eleven, weighing around a hun'seventy, dark hair, brown eyes. See anyone like that in here last night?"

"You're kidding, right?" the bartender says. "Every guy in here last night looked like that."

It is almost a quarter to five now, the hotel bar is rapidly filling with people drifting in after work. Most of the men are wearing business suits. The bartender's right, they all look like they're five-ten or — eleven, with medium builds and dark hair and eyes. The bar is full of Michael clones. Maybe the whole world is full of Michael clones. Maybe they'll never find him. Maybe he'll live happily ever after in L.A. and environs without the N.Y.P.D. ever zeroing in on him. It's a depressing thought.

"Can I get a Coke?" she asks.

"Sure."

He goes to the end of the bar, takes a glass from behind him, pulls down a handle on a dispenser with three other handles. A dark fluid she supposes is Coke flows into the glass. He carries it back to her, sets it down in front of her on a little cocktail napkin. She guesses the Coke's going to cost her sixty-five dollars, this place.

"The guy we're looking for would've been wearing a gray cashmere jacket," she says. "Dark gray flannel trousers, a blue button-down shirt with a dark blue tie. See anybody like that?"

"How old would he be?"

"Early forties," she says, and picks up the glass, and takes a long swallow.

"Alone or what?"

"He may have been cruising."

"What time would this have been?"

"Don't know. He might've been going out for the night."

"Like around now?"

"Could've been. Could've been later."

"Like seven, eight o'clock?"

"Maybe."

"Cause there was a guy came in around seven-thirty last night might be him. Forty, forty-five years old, dressed in blue and gray, like you said. He was hitting on a girl sitting at the bar here."

"A hooker?" Emma says.

"No," he answers at once, offended. "What makes you think that?"

" Well, sitting alone at the bar," Emma says, and shrugs.

"Don't you ever sit alone at bars?"

I sit alone at bars, yes, she thinks. I do that a lot these days.

"She comes in here two, three times a week," the bartender says, "sits alone here for an hour or so. I thought she was a hooker, too, at first, same as you did. But she's just lonely , you know?" He shakes his head. He looks suddenly balder all at once. His brown eyes look suddenly more mournful. "Beautiful redhead," he says, "you wouldn't think she'd have to cruise. You'd think she was married already, with kids of her own. Are you married?"