Ed McBain - Blood Relatives

“Can you tell me where you were last Saturday night?” Kling said.

“What time?”

“Between ten-thirty and eleven-thirty.”

“Yes, I know exactly where I was,” Donatelli said.

“Where was that?”

“I was bowling.”

“Where?”

“At the Avenue L Alleys.”

“Who were you bowling with?” Kling asked.

“I was bowling alone,” Donatelli said, and Kling looked up from his pad, and their eyes met for the first time.

“Alone?” Kling said.

“I know that sounds funny.”

“You always bowl alone?”

“No, but my girlfriend got sick. And I didn’t feel like sitting home, so I went alone.”

“Well, that’s okay,” Kling said, “I’m sure someone at the bowling alley will remember your being there, and can—”

“Well, it’s the first time I was ever to this particular bowling alley,” Donatelli said. “My girlfriend is the one suggested it. So I was supposed to meet her there. But she got sick.”

“Mm-huh. Well, what’s her name? I’ll give her a call and—”

“She left for California,” Donatelli said, and Kling looked up from his pad again, and Donatelli turned his eyes away.

“When did she leave for California?” Kling asked.

“Yesterday. She caught an afternoon plane.”

“What’s her name?”

“Betsy.”

“What’s her last name?”

“I don’t know her last name.”

“I thought she was your girlfriend.”

“Well, she’s only a casual friend. Actually, I met her in the park Saturday afternoon, and she said did I ever go bowling, and I said I hadn’t been bowling in a long time, so she said why don’t we bowl together tonight. So I said okay, and I arranged to meet her at the Avenue L Alleys at ten o’clock.”

“Is that what time you got there?” Kling asked. “Ten?”

“Yes. But she wasn’t there.”

“She was sick,” Kling said.

“Yes.”

“How do you know she was sick?”

“What? Oh, there was a message for me. When I got there, the manager said Betsy had called and left a message.”

“I see. When you came in, the manager said Betsy had left a message for James Donatelli—”

“Jimmy Donatelli.”

“Jimmy Donatelli, and the message was she was sick and couldn’t make it.”

“Yes.”

“Then the manager knows your name, right?”

“What?”

“The manager. Of the bowling alley. The Avenue L Alleys. If he took a message for you, he knows your name. He’ll remember you.”

“Well—”

“Yes, what is it, Mr. Donatelli?” Kling said.

“Well... I’m not sure he’ll remember my name,” Donatelli said. “Because it was the first time I’d ever been there, you see.”

“Mm-huh,” Kling said. “What happened when you walked in on Saturday night? It was about ten o’clock, is that what you said?”

“Yes, ten o’clock.”

“So what happened when you walked in? Did the manager ask if you were Jimmy Donatelli?”

“Yes, that’s exactly what he asked.”

“Was he asking everybody?”

“No. Oh, I see what you mean. No. Betsy had given him a description of me. Black hair and blue eyes. So when I walked in, the manager saw my hair and my eyes, and he naturally asked if I was Jimmy Donatelli.”

“What’d he say then?”

“He gave me the message. That Betsy was sick.”

“So you decided to stay and bowl alone.”

“Yes.”

“Instead of going over to see her.”

“Well, I didn’t know where she lived.”

“That’s right, you didn’t even know her last name.”

“That’s right. I still don’t.”

“So you stayed and bowled. What time did you leave the alleys?”

“It must’ve been around midnight.”

“You bowled till midnight. From ten to midnight. Alone.”

“Yes.”

“Didn’t it get boring?”

“Yes.”

“But you stayed there and bowled.”

“Yes.”

“Then what?”

“I went home.”

“And yesterday afternoon Betsy left for California.”

“Yes.”

“How do you know?”

“Well, she called me.”

“Oh, she had your phone number.”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t she call to tell you she was sick? On Saturday night, I mean. Why’d she call the bowling alley instead?”

“I guess she tried to reach me, but I’d probably left already.”

“And you didn’t think to ask her last name, huh? When she called to say she was leaving for California.”

“Well, she was just a casual acquaintance, I figured I’d never see her again.”

“How old is she, this Betsy?”

“Oh, she’s old enough, don’t worry about that.”

“Because I notice on your card here—”

“Yes, you don’t have to worry about that,” Donatelli said. “I know what it says on my card, that was a long time ago. You don’t have to worry about anything like that. Besides, this was only supposed to be some innocent bowling, you know, so really there’s—”

“Let’s run over to the bowling alley, huh?” Kling said.

“What for?”

“See if the manager remembers you.”

“I doubt if he’ll remember me.”

“Well, who the hell is going to remember you?” Kling asked. “You’re giving me an alibi nobody can back, now what do you expect me to do, huh? I told you up front that a girl was murdered Saturday night, you know that’s why you’re in here, now what the hell do you expect me to believe, Mr. Donatelli? That you were bowling alone for two goddamn hours because you got stood up by somebody whose name you don’t know and who conveniently leaves for California the next day? Now come on, willya?”

“Well, that’s the truth,” Donatelli said.

“Steve,” Kling called. “You want to step over here a minute?”

Carella had just finished interrogating a man at his own desk, and he was standing now and stretching while waiting for the next man to be shown in. He walked to where Kling and Donatelli were sitting.

“This is Detective Carella,” Kling said. “Would you mind telling him the story you just told me?”

Some ten minutes later Donatelli changed his story.

They had moved from the squadroom to the Interrogation Room down the hall, and Donatelli was telling them about how he’d been stood up by the mysterious California-bound Betsy whom he’d met in the park on Saturday afternoon. Carella suddenly said, “ How old did you say this girl was?”

“Oh, at least nineteen, twenty,” Donatelli said.

“How old are you? ” Carella asked.

“I’m forty-six, sir.”

“That’s picking them kind of young, isn’t it?”

“He’s picked them younger than that,” Kling said. “Take a look at the card, Steve.”

“Well, that was a long time ago,” Donatelli said.

“Sodomy One,” Carella said.

“Yes, but that was a long time ago.”

“With a ten-year-old girl,” Carella said.

“Well—”

“I’ve got a daughter almost ten,” Carella said.

“Well.”

“So how old was this Betsy? The one you were supposed to bowl with Saturday night?”

“I told you. Nineteen, twenty. Anyway, that’s how old she looked. I only met her that afternoon, I didn’t ask to see her ID card.”

“Fellow with a record like yours,” Carella said, “you ought to make a practice of asking to see the ID.”

“Well, she looked about nineteen, twenty.”

“Yes, but how old was she?” Carella said.

“Well, how would I know? I never even saw her again.”

“Because she got sick, huh?”

“Yes.”

“And called the bowling alley to leave a message for you.”