Evan Hunter - Candyland

"What the hell was he looking for?" Morgan asks.

Emma looks at the jumble of clothing on the open sofa-bed.

What was Cathy looking for? she wonders.

And again thinks Mind the vic.

It is a little before nine when they return to the hotel. The information Emma requested is waiting at the front desk.

7/21-7:01 PM Ritter-Thorpe Associates

Los Angeles, California

7/21-7:07 PM American Airlines

Raleigh, North Carolina

7/21-7:10 PM Benjamin Thorpe

Los Angeles, California

7/21-7:20 PM Charles Harris

Princeton, New Jersey

7/21-7:40 PM Heather Epstein

New York, New York

7/21-7:55 PM Arthur Davies

New York, New York

7/21-10:30 PM Benjamin Thorpe

Los Angeles, California

7/21-11:30 PM Heather Epstein

New York, New York

7/21-11:40 PM B&R Enterprises

Baltimore, Maryland

7/21-11:57 PM XS Salon

New York, New York

7/22-4:45 AM Heather Epstein

New York, New York

7/22-4:48 AM Lois Ford

New York, New York

7/22-5:33 AM Benjamin Thorpe

Los Angeles, California

Emma's partner has also faxed them three pages listing departures for Los Angeles from Newark, La Guardia, and Kennedy, forty-one flights in all, divided among Continental, United, and American. The earliest flight left at 6:10 this morning, an American Airlines flight scheduled to arrive in L.A. at 11:13 a.m. The last flight tonight is scheduled to leave from JFK at 9:10 p.m. — ten minutes from now.

Over coffee in the hotel lounge—

"We ought to start paying rent here," Morgan suggests.

— they discuss their next move.

"There were eight flights leaving between eight and nine a.m.," Emma says. "He could've caught any one of them."

"If he left," Morgan says.

"Well, look at this list of calls," Emma says. "He phoned home at five-thirty-three a.m., an hour before he checked out. Probably to say what flight he'd be on."

"Or he may still be in the city," Morgan says. "Let's try some of these numbers."

The first call they make is to the number listed for a Charles Harris in Princeton, New Jersey. A little girl answers the phone.

"This is the Harris residence," she says.

"May I talk to your father, please?" Emma asks.

"Who's calling, please?" the kid says.

"Detective Emma Boyle."

"Who?"

"Detective Emma Boyle," she says again. "Could you please get him for me?"

"He's not here. I'll get Mommy."

Emma covers the mouthpiece. "A kid," she explains to Morgan.

"Still up at this hour?" Morgan says sourly.

Emma waits. At last, a woman's voice comes on the line. She sounds very frightened.

"Hello?" she says. "Did my daughter say you're a detective?"

" Yes, ma'am," Emma says. "Who am I speaking to, please?

"This is Margaret Harris. Is something wrong? Oh God, I know what it is. Something's happened to my father!"

"Your father?"

"He's in the city. Has there been an accident?"

"What's your father's name, Mrs Harris?"

"Benjamin Thorpe. Has something happened to him?"

Emma hesitates for a moment. Morgan looks at her, puzzled.

"I'm sorry, ma'am," she says, "I must have the wrong number."

And breaks the connection at once.

"What?" Morgan says.

"His daughter."

Morgan says nothing. His look says he does not like the way she handled this. She almost expects another one of his little lectures. Couple of things, Emma. Instead, he merely sighs heavily and says, "Let's try the next one."

At twelve minutes past nine that night, two minutes after the last plane to Los Angeles takes off, two blues from the One-Nine Precinct arrest a man molesting a twelve-year-old girl on her way home from the movie theater on Seventy-second and Third. Because news of the rape-murder has spread throughout the precinct, the arresting officers immediately alert the detectives upstairs, who in turn call Homicide crosstown. Manzetti and his partner, Danny Harmon, arrive at the precinct at a quarter to ten. Just about then, Morgan and Emma are entering the traffic on the East River Drive, on their way to East Seventeenth Street.

"Let's talk about your NYSID, okay?" Manzetti says.

He is holding in his right hand the New York State arrest record of the man who sits on the other side of the table in the One-Nine's interrogation room. The man's name is Edward Nelson. His police record shows his height as five-feet-eleven, his weight as one-eighty-five. But his last arrest was eight years ago, and he appears to be a little heavier now. His eyes are brown, his hair brown. He has no identifying scars or tattoos. He could indeed be the person described by the two witnesses this morning.

Danny Harmon is sitting beside Nelson; he has been working homicides since he was twenty-six years old when he made a spectacular arrest on the Park Slope Strangler case in Brooklyn. He is now forty-seven, a burly Irishman with smoldering brown eyes and a ruddy complexion, very black hair. Manzetti is standing, facing them both. Occasionally, he paces. He is beginning to smell blood here. He is beginning to think that maybe they just got lucky. Sometimes, though not too often, you get lucky in this business.

"You've been a busy little boy," Manzetti says.

The man says nothing. He is an experienced felon, but he has not yet asked for an attorney. Manzetti figures he's waiting to see how this preliminary interrogation goes. The minute it gets rough, Nelson will start spouting his rights and asking for a telephone. They all know their rights better than any lawyer does.

"Your first arrest was twenty years ago for Attempted Rape, a Class-C felony," Manzetti says, reading from the yellow sheet. "You did seven and a half at Ossining for that one. Soon as you got out, you were arrested again for Promoting Prostitution, judge took pity on you, I see, you only got probation. Ten years ago, you were busted for Public Lewdness, conditional discharge, you're a very lucky fellow, Eddie. Well, maybe not so lucky. Year after that, they got you on Carnal Abuse of a Child, another sett'e mezz at Sing Sing, nice work, Eddie. You just got out and you go after a twelve-year-old, very nice."

Nelson says nothing.

"Where were you this morning at around four o'clock?" Manzetti asks.

"Sleeping," Nelson says.

"Where's that? Where do you sleep, Eddie?"

"In Brooklyn. I live in Brooklyn."

"But you cruise Manhattan, huh?"

No answer.

"Know anybody named Cathy Frese?" Manzetti asks.

"No. Who's that?"

"Heidi? Know a girl named Heidi?"

"No."

"Ever visit a massage parlor on Seventy-fourth and Third?"

"I don't go to massage parlors."

"I'll bet you don't. How many girls of your own did you run, Eddie?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"When you were pimping. Back at the beginning of your illustrious career. How many girls?"

"I took the fall, I done the time," Nelson says. "You got no right questioning me about ancient history."

"Ancient history, huh? How about this morning? Is that ancient history, too?"

"I don't know what the fuck you're talking about, this morning."

"Were you anywhere near Seventy-fourth and Third at four this morning? Little after four this morning?"

"No."

"Somebody thinks he may have seen you getting out of a cab around that time. Approaching a blonde waiting there."

"He's mistaken."

"Maybe so. We'll get him in here later, run a little lineup, how about that, Eddie?"

"You gonna run a line-up, I want a lawyer."

"We got another witness thinks she saw you a little later, on the corner of Seventieth and Second, getting funny with the same blonde. We'll invite her to the lineup, too. Did you get funny with a blonde this morning, Eddie?"