Evan Hunter - Candyland

"We didn't fly three thousand miles across the continent."

"Listen," Tess says, "am I supposed to be hearing all this?"

"The question is are you supposed to be listening?" Morgan says.

"Cause if my being here is gonna jeopardize a case or anything…"

"Yes, you're very dangerous to our case," Morgan says.

"You are a very dangerous woman," Harmon says.

"Let's say he's still here," Manzetti says. "In New York."

"Okay."

"Where?"

"This is a rape-murder we're talking about," Morgan explains.

"Really?" Tess says.

"Guy nailed a young hooker on Seventieth Street early this morning," Harmon says. "You familiar with the East Side at all?"

"No," Tess says. "I work over here, and I live in the Bronx."

"There's this massage parlor on Seventy-fourth and Third," Morgan says. "This guy was there last night, caused some trouble. We think he might've gone back after the girl."

"He was after every other girl in the city, why not her?" Harmon says.

"He killed more than one person?" Tess says, her eyes wide.

"No, he made a dozen phone calls is all," Morgan says. "Trying to hook up with somebody."

"Anybody," Harmon says.

"Is that what rapists do?" Tess asks. "Give their victims a phone call first?"

"That's just what bothers me," Emma says.

"Me, too," Manzetti agrees at once.

"What's that?" Morgan asks.

"Rape isn't about sex," Emma says. "It's about power."

"And this guy last night was all about sex," Manzetti says, nodding.

"From minute one," Emma says.

"Let me see that list of calls again."

Emma starts digging in her tote. Morgan lifts the pitcher, and pours beer all around. A male cop in uniform wanders over to the jukebox, giving Tess the eye on the way, and drops in some coins. Britney Spears's "Baby One More Time" fills the smoky air. Across the room, some male and female cops in street clothes begin singing along on the "Baby, all I need is time" refrain. Emma finds the printout of phone numbers Thorpe called from his room, and the corresponding list of names and locations Susan Hawkes faxed to her. She unfolds both pages, hands them to Manzetti. He glances only cursorily at the numbers, and then studies the names.

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

"Okay," Manzetti says, "his office we know, American Airlines we know, his home we know. Who's Charles Harris?"

"His daughter in Princeton," Emma says.

"His daughter's name is Charles? Tess says, and winks at Morgan to let him know she's just kidding. Morgan winks back. Harmon winks, too, to let them know he's in on the joke and is still in the running. Emma is beginning to wish she'd gone straight home to bed, all this winking and blinking.

"Heather Epstein, you already went to see," Manzetti says.

"He has phone sex with her on a regular basis," Morgan explains to Tess.

"But not last night," Emma says.

"No, last night he was out killing a young hooker," Harmon says.

"Who's Arthur Davies?"

"No idea," Emma says.

"Called him around eight."

"Or her. It could be the guy's daughter he was reaching out to."

"Or his wife," Morgan says.

"You married?" Harmon asks Tess.

"Not anymore."

"Another call to his own house at ten-thirty, then little Heather again at eleven-thirty…"

"Getting desperate around then," Morgan says.

"How do you know?"

"Little Heather told us."

"What's B&R Enterprises in Baltimore?"

"Phone sex line," Morgan says.

"How do you know?"

"Vice sees all, knows all."

"Seriously."

"We have a list."

"Here's the XS Salon," Manzetti says.

"Eleven-fifty-seven."

"The night is young," Harmon says, and winks at Tess.

"Back to the hotel and another call to Heather…"

"Who hung up on him," Emma says.

"And then Lois Ford three minutes later."

"Busy, busy fellow," Harmon says.

"Any idea who this Ford girl is?"

"Little Heather's girlfriend," Morgan says. "He wanted to do a three-way with them."

"This is getting entirely too sexy for me," Tess says, trying to look scandalized.

"Here's the final call to the old homestead," Manzetti says.

"Say hello to the wife and kiddies," Morgan says.

"Are you married?" Tess asks him.

"Not the last time I looked."

"When was that?"

"When I left the house this morning."

"Where's that?"

"I live downtown. In SoHo."

Tess looks him over. Emma is beginning to wonder which of the two detectives has the edge here. This is like watching animals in the wild, the way they're doing their little mating dance for the pretty little cop in the tailor-made blouse. Morgan feigns disinterest, pours himself another glass of beer.

"Think he could be in Jersey?" Manzetti asks. "With the daughter?"

"He wasn't there when I called. In fact, she was worried something might have happened to him."

"So where the fuck is he?" Manzetti says, "Excuse me. If he's here, I mean."

"I know."

"In the city, I mean."

"I know."

"Be two in the morning here by the time the L.A. cops roll by again," Harmon says.

"He could be raping somebody else by then," Morgan says.

" Killing somebody else," Harmon says, nodding.

They're trying to impress little Officer Ortega here, Emma realizes, letting her in on the big time world of murder and rape, never mind your traffic violations or domestic disputes. We are big macho detectives here, they are saying. Which one of us would you prefer for the night, Officer? Or how about both?

Manzetti sighs heavily, washing both hands over his face. He gets up, yanks his trouser belt higher on his waist, and then reaches for his glass, and finishes his beer.

"I'm bushed," he says. "Let's pick it up again in the morning, okay?"

"Sure," Emma says.

Pick it up where? she wonders.

She takes a taxi over to the East Side.

The streets are still packed with pedestrians. Hot nights in New York do that. People come out. If every night was a hot night, there'd be no crime in the city of New York. Too many people on the street. On a hot night, even your burglars don't like to carry television sets or microwaves. She wonders if there are any statistics on that. The number of burglaries committed on hot nights. She knows the loonies come out when the moon is full, that's a fact. All kinds of bedbugs come out of the woodwork when there's a full moon.

On Second Avenue, she begins walking downtown.

She doesn't realize she's heading for the scene of the crime until she's approaching the corner where the cleaning woman saw a man assaulting a blonde. She turns the corner. Walks up the street past First Avenue. A couple is sitting on the stoop in front of a building two doors down from where Cathy Frese was murdered. They look at her as she walks past. She stops in front of the alleyway between the sushi joint and the shoe repair shop. She tries to visualize the struggle on the street corner, Benjamin Thorpe, or whoever, dragging Cathy up the street and into the alley, where he strangled her. Tries to imagine his hands around her throat, his hands tightening around her throat until she went limp. Did he rape her before he killed her or afterward?