Evan Hunter - Candyland

"I was sleeping this morning."

"How about tonight? Were you sleeping tonight, too?"

"I was in the movies tonight."

"Oh? Are you a movie star, Eddie?"

"I went to the movies."

"How about after the movie, Eddie? Were you sleeping, or did you try to feel up a twelve-year-old girl waiting for a bus?"

"I never take busses."

"Did you approach a twelve…?"

"I only take the subway."

"… year-old girl named Naomi Kramer…"

"I take the Number Five train from Fifty-ninth Street to Brooklyn."

"So what were you doing on Seventy-second Street, Eddie?"

"I told you. I went to see a movie."

"The arresting officers caught you with your hand practically in the cookie jar, how about that, Eddie?"

"I want to talk to a lawyer."

"Fine."

"Now."

"Fine. You got your own lawyer, or you want us to get one for you?"

"I got one," Nelson says.

Big surprise, Manzetti thinks.

Heather Epstein is five-feet-seven or — eight inches tall, a wide-shouldered, big-breasted girl with long blond hair and blue eyes. She is wearing at ten o'clock that night a green mini skirt, lime-colored pantyhose, a matching blouse with tiny brown buttons, and platform shoes that add another two inches to her height. Emma guesses she is in her early twenties. Her one-bedroom apartment is furnished with the casual abandon of a college dorm, a computer on a desk in the corner, unpainted bookcases against the walls, a stereo setup, mismatching furniture. There are framed photographs of herself and what appears to be her extended family on every flat surface but the floor. She looks like she would be right at home in Florida or Arizona — but her accent immediately betrays her as a native New Yorker. She asks them if they'd care for a cup of coffee or anything—

"I wouldn't mind," Morgan says at once.

"None for me, thanks," Emma says.

— apologizes for it being only instant, and goes into a small kitchen just off the entrance door, leaving the two detectives alone to wander the living room. Morgan picks up a framed photo on one of the bookcases.

"Older sister," he says aloud.

"Or mother," Emma says.

"Dead ringers."

"Pretty girl"

Morgan nods. Heather is coming out of the kitchen with a coffee cup, a container of skim milk, and a small bowl containing packets of brown sugar, Equal, and Sweet 'n Low.

"Thanks very much," Morgan says. He still has the framed photo in his hand. "Your sister or your mother?" he asks.

"What?" Heather says. "Oh. My sister, actually."

"Strong resemblance," he says and puts the picture back on the bookcase. He sits beside Heather on the sofa, reaches for a packet of brown sugar, tears it open, and pours it into the coffee cup. "Nothing for you?" he asks Heather, and smiles. This is turning into a social visit, Emma thinks. Dead girl in an alley this morning, killer maybe roaming loose in L.A., Morgan's having a demitasse at the Waldorf.

"I'm all coffee-ed out, thanks," Heather says, and smiles. It occurs to Emma that she might be flirting with him. It further occurs to her that he might be flirting, too. Well, he's single, she thinks. Yeah, but twice her age. Hey, I'm not her mother, she thinks.

"Miss Epstein," she says, "we have a list of phone calls a man named Benjamin Thorpe made…"

Heather is already nodding.

"… from his hotel room last night…"

She keeps nodding.

"… and it shows three calls made to you, one at seven-forty p.m. last night, another at eleven-thirty, and a third one early this morning. Do you remember any of those calls?"

"Yes, I do," she says and nods and smiles somewhat hesitantly, and then — surprisingly — blushes like a little girl. In her lifetime, Emma has questioned enough people to know when a person is concealing something. Morgan detects something here as well. He nods pleasantly, and smiles, and then says, "What'd you talk about, Heather?"

"Oh, this and that," she says, and blushes more furiously. "You told me on the phone…"

"How do you happen to know him?" Emma asks.

"He was, um, giving a lecture at school," Heather says. "Cooper Union. I'm a student there. I'm studying architecture there."

"When was this?"

"Last April. Did he do something?"

"What makes you think that?"

"Well, on the phone you said you were looking for him…"

"Few questions we'd like to ask him, yes."

"So did he do something?"

"How well did you know him, Heather?" Morgan asks.

"Not too well at all."

"How'd he happen to call you?"

"I guess he wanted to talk."

"What about?"

"Gee, I don't know. We only talked for a few minutes."

"Can you tell us what you talked about?"

"Well, actually, he wanted to go out with me," she says, and pulls a face. "The first time, anyway. I told him I was busy. Actually, I was on my way to a party."

"What sort of relationship did you have with him?" Morgan asks, and sips at his coffee, watching her.

"We were friends, I guess you'd say."

"What kind of friends?"

"He called me every now and then, that's all."

"From Los Angeles, do you mean?"

"Yes."

"How often?"

"Well, every now and then."

"Once a month?"

"Well, more than that, actually."

"Twice a month?"

"I guess. Though he hasn't called me for a while. I mean, before last night. I can't remember the last time he called. He thinks he can just call, you know, and I'll jump."

"Ever go out with him?"

"Once."

"Did you know he was married?"

"Well, yes. But we only went out together once. Actually, we didn't even go out. He came here, that's all."

"When was this?"

"Last April. I told you."

"And he's been calling you since, is that it?"

"Every once in a while."

"Why does he call?"

"Well, to talk," she says, and giggles. "Why do you think?"

"What do you talk about?"

"Well."

"Yes?"

"Am I in any sort of trouble here?"

"No, Heather."

"Because… if I am… I think I'd like to call my father, you know? He's a lawyer."

"Does your father know Benjamin Thorpe?"

"Of course not! But if Ben did something and you're trying to get me involved, then maybe I ought to…"

"Miss Epstein," Emma says, "a young girl was killed early this morning…"

"Oh my God!" Heather says.

"And we think Benjamin Thorpe…"

"It wasn't Lo, was it?"

"Who's Lo?"

"My friend who was here last night. He didn't follow her home or anything, did he?"

"What makes you think he'd do something like that?"

"Well, he sounded sort of… well, desperate. I mean, he doesn't usually sound so… I don't know… desperate."

" Why'd he call you a second time last night, Heather?"

This from Morgan. He has put his cup down on the coffee table and is leaning toward her now. She sits beside him on the couch, her legs tucked under her, her shoes off. She has begun chewing the lipstick off her mouth. She doesn't answer him for a moment. She looks at him as if wondering whether she can trust him or not. He nods subtle encouragement. He's either an excellent cop or he's coming on to her. Or maybe both. Either way, he seems to be getting results.

"Heather?" he says. "Tell us why he called you again around eleven-thirty last night."

"Well," Heather says, and begins chewing her lip. "I guess he wanted to come over."

"Here?"

"Yes."

"Did he come here?"

"No, I wouldn't let him. Lo thought it was a riot. Him wanting to come here."

"Why was that, Heather?"

"That Lo thought it was funny? Well, he's a man in his forties, you know. So here he is suggesting…"

"I meant why'd he want to come here?"

"Why? Well… you know."