Ed McBain: The Last Dance

Carella's eye now. Carella nodded and went over to him.

"Blue cashmere belt," the technician said. "Blue cashmere fibers over the door hook there. What do you think?"

"Where's the belt?"

"Near the chair there," he said, and indicated the easy chair near the room's single dresser. A blue bathrobe was

draped over the back of the chair. The belt to the robe was

on the floor, alongside the dead man's shoes and socks.

"And the hook?"

"Back of the bathroom door."

Carella glanced across the room. The bathroom door

was open. A chrome hook was screwed into the door,

close to the top.

"The robe has loops for the belt," the technician said.

"Seems funny it's loose on the floor."

"They fall off all the time," Carella said.

"Sure, I know. But it ain't every day we get a guy dead in bed who looks like maybe he was hanged."

"How strong is that hook?"

"It doesn't have to be," the technician said. "All a hanging does is interrupt the flow of blood to the brain. That can be done by the weight of the head alone. We're talking an average of ten pounds. A picture hook can support that."

"You should take the detective's exam," Carella sug

gested, smiling.

"Thanks, but I'm already Second Grade," the techni

cian said. "Point is, the belt coulda been knotted around

the old man's neck and then thrown over the hook to hang

him. That's if the fibers match."

"And provided he didn't customarily hang his robe

over that hook."

"You looking for a hundred excuses to prove he died

ii

of natural causes? Or you looking for one that says it could've been homicide?"

"Who said anything about homicide?"

"Gee, excuse me, I thought that's what you were looking for, Detective."

"How about a suicide made to look like natural causes?"

"That'd be a good one," the technician agreed.

"When will you have the test results?"

"Late this afternoon sometime?"

"I'll call you."

"My card," the technician said.

"Detective?" a man's voice said.

Carella turned toward the kitchen doorway where a

burly man in a dark gray coat with a black velvet collar

was standing. The shoulders of the coat were damp with

rain, and his face was raw and red from the cold outside.

He wore a little mustache under his nose, and he had puffy

cheeks, and very dark brown eyes.

"I'm Robert Keating," he said, walking toward Carella,

but not extending his hand in greeting. His wife stood just

behind him. They had obviously talked since he'd come

into the apartment. There was an anticipatory look on her

face, as if she expected her husband to punch one of the

detectives. Carella certainly hoped he wouldn't.

"I understand you've been hassling my wife," Keating

said.

"I wasn't aware of that, sir," Carella said.

"I'm here to tell you that better not be the case."

Carella was thinking it better not be the case that your wife came in here and found her father hanging from the bathroom door and took him down and carried him to the bed. That had better not be the case here.

"I'm sorry if there was any misunderstanding, sir," he said.

"There had better not be any misunderstanding," Keating said.

"Just so there won't be," Carella said, "let me make

our intentions clear. If your father-in-law died of a heart

attack, you can bury him in the morning, and you'll never see us again as long as you live. But if he died for some other reason, then we'll be trying to find out why, and you're liable to see us around for quite a while. Okay, sir?"

"This is a crime scene, sir," the technician said. "Want

to clear the premises, please?"

"What?" Keating said.

At four-thirty that afternoon, Carella called the lab downtown and asked to talk to Detective/Second Grade Anthony Moreno. Moreno got on the phone and told him the fibers they'd lifted from the hook on the bathroom door positively matched sample fibers from the robe's blue cashmere belt.

Not ten minutes later, Carl Blaney called Carella to tell him that the autopsy findings in the death of Andrew Henry Hale were consistent with postmortem appearances in asphyxial deaths.

Carella wondered if Cynthia Keating's husband would

accompany her to the squadroom when they asked her to come in.

Robert Keating turned out to be a corporate lawyer who

was wise enough to recognize that the police wouldn't

be dragging his wife in unless they had reason to believe

a crime had been committed. He'd called a friend of his who practiced criminal law, and the man was here now,

demanding to know what his client was doing in a police station, even though he'd already been informed that Mrs

Keating had been invited here, and had arrived of her own

volition, escorted only by her husband.

Todd Alexander was a stout little blond man wearing

a navy blue sports jacket over a checkered vest and gray

flannel trousers. He looked as if he might be more at home attending a yachting meet than standing here in one of the city's grubbier squadrooms, but his manner was that of a man who had dealt with countless bogus charges brought by hundreds of reckless police officers, and he seemed completely unruffled by the present venue or the circumstances that necessitated his being here.

"So tell me what this is all about," he demanded. "In

twenty-five words or less."

Carella didn't even blink.

"We have a necropsy report indicating that Andrew

Hale died of asphyxia," he said. "Is that twenty-five words

or less?"

"Twelve," Meyer said. "But who's counting?"

"Evidence would seem to indicate that the belt from

Mr Hale's cashmere robe was knotted and looped around

his neck," Carella said, "and then dropped over the hook

on the bathroom door in order to effect hanging, either

suicidal or homicidal."

"What's that got to do with my client?"

"Your client seems to think her father died in bed."

"Is that what you told them?"

"I told them I found him in bed."

"Dead?"

"Yes," Cynthia said.

"Has Mrs Keating been informed of her rights?" Alexander asked.

"We haven't asked her any questions yet," Carella

said.

"She just told me . . ."

"That was at the scene."

"You haven't talked to her since she arrived here?"

"She got here literally three minutes before you did."

"Has she been charged with anything?"

"No."

"Why is she here?"

"We want to ask her some questions."

"Then read her her rights."

"Sure."

"Don't sound so surprised, Detective. She's in cus

tody, you're throwing around words like homicide, I want her to hear her rights. Then we'll decide whether she wants to answer any questions."

"Sure," Carella said again, and began the recitation he knew by heart. "In keeping with the Supreme Court

decision in the case of Miranda versus Escobedo," he

intoned, and advised her that she had the right to remain

silent, asking her every step along the way if she under

stood what he was saying, told her she had the right to consult a lawyer, which she already had done, told her

they would obtain a lawyer for her if she didn't have one, which no longer applied, told her that if she decided to answer questions with or without her lawyer present, she could call off the questioning at any time, do you understand, and finally asked if she wished to answer questions at this time, to which she responded, "I have nothing to hide."

"Does that mean yes?" Carella asked.

"Yes. I'll answer any questions you have."

"Where's that autopsy report?" Alexander asked.

"Right there on my desk."

Alexander picked it up, looked at it briefly . . .