Evan Hunter - Candyland

"I'm getting a divorce," Emma says. "You didn't hear this guy's name, did you? While they were talking."

"I wasn't listening."

"How'd they get on?"

"Fine. Had a few drinks, left here together."

"Who paid for the drinks?"

"He did."

"How?"

"Charged them to his room."

"What was the room number? Do you remember?"

"You know how many people charge drinks to their room?"

"Did you happen to hear the girl's name?"

"I didn't have to, she comes in here all the time."

She looks at him.

"Karen Tager," he says.

From the Manhattan directory in the lobby, Emma copies the phone number for a Tager, K., no address, and then flips open the lid on her cell phone. It is now five-fifteen p.m. She dials the number, and lets it ring ten times, finally assumes the woman hasn't come home from work yet, if she works, or else has already gone out for the evening. She clears the call and then immediately dials Homicide's number.

"Manzetti," his voice says.

She tells him where she is, tells him everything she's learned so far, tells him about the girl this Michael character picked up in the hotel bar…

"How'd you get the hotel?"

"Night manager at the XS."

"This is moving too fast."

"Let's hope. I'll let you know if I reach her."

"How does all this sit with you?" Manzetti asks.

"What do you mean?"

"Guy who frequents whore houses suddenly turning into a homicidal rapist."

"I know what you mean. Most of our…"

"You're breaking up," Manzetti says. "I'm losing you, Emma."

"Stay with me," she says, and moves to another part of the lobby. Everywhere around her, men and women are moving in and out of the hotel bar. There is lively chatter. There is hugging and laughter. Men and women embrace, kiss each other in greeting. Sudden tears rush to her eyes. She brushes them away with the back of her hand. "How's that?" she asks into the phone.

"Much better."

"What I was about to say, most of our rape arrests are guys who've done burglaries, you know, some of them, auto theft, even your two-bit Mom-and-Pop stickups, like that. But they aren't career rapists, they're career criminals. I'm not even sure there is such a thing as a career sex criminal."

"So how do you figure him?"

"Well… we once busted a guy who'd raped five women at knife point, physically molested four others. Before then, he'd spent eight grand on prostitutes in a two-year period. If our guy is a sex addict…"

"You think he is?"

"I don't know enough about him yet. But if he is…"

"I'm losing you again."

"I said if he is — hello? Tony? Can you hear me? Tony? Shit! she says, and angrily stabs the END key. She looks at her watch, and then walks swiftly and purposefully out of the hotel and into the sultry heat of early evening. She signals to a cab, gets in, and gives the driver the address of the XS Salon on Third Avenue, interrupting his phone conversation in Urdu with someone she feels certain is plotting to blow up Grand Central Station. She searches in her tote bag for Manzetti's number at Homicide, dials it as the driver keeps babbling. When Manzetti comes on the line, he immediately says, "We were cut off."

"I know. Could you please get off the phone?" she asks the driver, and when he says, "I have rights, too, madam," she snaps, "I'm a police officer! Get off the goddamn phone!"

She waits for silence. It is sullen, but it comes.

"What I was saying, it doesn't have to follow that just because the guy's a sex addict, he does a rape."

"How about he's just one of your burglars or car thieves or whatever who raped her cause he was pissed off at her?"

"Could be."

"Could be one or the other, is that what you're saying?"

"One or the other, yes," Emma says.

Or both, she thinks.

"Only thing is he was staying there at the Palmer. That doesn't fit, does it?"

"Why not? There are rich sex addicts, Tony. Rich rapists, too."

"What time did he check out, do you know?"

"He may still be there. We don't even have his real name yet."

"Cause we've got him outside the salon at four this morning. How long would it take from the Palmer that time of night? Ten, fifteen minutes?"

"About that. Tony, I have to go. I don't want to miss Cindy."

"Who's Cindy?" he asks.

Cindy Mayes — if she is Cindy Mayes — is wearing a long white cotton T-shirt dress that falls amply to her ankles, where white Reeboks complete the impression of someone who's just come up from a long walk on the beach, as well she may have. She is wearing no makeup. Not a trace of liner, lipstick, or blush. Her complexion has a freshly burnished look, her frizzed blond hair is alive with natural highlights, her blue eyes sparkle with vitality. She is really a quite beautiful young girl, stepping boldly into the doorway of the salon, pressing the B for Beautiful bell button, and looking up familiarly at the surveillance camera. She is recognized at once. A buzzer sounds just as Emma says, "Miss Mayes?"

Cindy turns, her hand on the doorknob.

"Police officer," Emma says, and flashes the tin. "Mind if we have a few words?"

"Shit," Cindy says, and whirls away from the door. She looks up at the camera, says, "Later," to it, waves toodle-oo, and falls in beside Emma as she starts walking away from the building.

The sidewalks at three minutes before six on this steamy Thursday evening are thronged with office workers heading for subways and busses. Emma, wearing the same soggy linen suit she's been wearing since six this morning, feels part of the sweaty masses, this amorphous, anonymous crowd of workers heading home after a grinding day — except that she's not heading home just yet, her grinding day isn't quite over yet. It is not yet dusk, evengloam is not yet upon the city. But there is that expectant hush to the streets, the odd quiet that comes over the city before nightfall, an air of anticipation that signals excitement and sometimes danger.

"This is about Cathy, isn't it?" Cindy says.

"Yes," Emma says.

She can't help feeling somewhat envious. Cindy's workday is just beginning. She's been on the beach all day, young Cindy here, and can well afford the athletic stride, the quick pace of their march down Third Avenue. They are approaching Seventy-second Street. Emma is a little out of breath. She spots a coffee bar called La Traviata, asks, "Okay here?" and Cindy shrugs. "Who cares?"

The place is empty save for a very fat woman reading a newspaper and using a mobile phone, her belongings spread everywhere around her. Cindy orders a latte mochaccino, whatever that may be. Emma sticks with a double capp, cinnamon and chocolate sprinkled over the foam. They take a table far from the fat lady who seems to have moved in for the summer. She is telling someone on the other end of her phone that the "cells" look just terrific. She is either a corrections officer or an animated film maker or an oncologist. An overhead fan circulates air redolent with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee. An air conditioner high on the wall hums noisy accompaniment.

"Do you have a name?" Cindy asks.

"Emma Boyle."

"Are you a Homicide detective?"

"Special Victims." She shows her shield again. "Detective/Second Grade," she says.

"Is that good?"

Emma looks at her.

"I mean, is it high up or something?"

"It's okay," Emma says. "First would be better."

"How much do you make?"

"Tell me about this morning," Emma says.

"I'll bet I make ten times what you make."

"I'll bet you do," Emma says. "What time did you leave the XS this morning?"

"Around four o'clock. How do you know about me?"