Ed McBain: Long Time No See

“You’d have to put the request in writing,” McCormick said.

“This is a homicide, Captain, we like to move a little faster than—”

“Is the murder directly related to the victim’s service in the Army?”

“I don’t know. I’m looking for someplace to hang my hat.”

“Mm,” McCormick said. “In any case, we don’t have the records for anyone who isn’t currently assigned to Fort Jefferson.”

“I realize that. You’d have to call St Louis.”

“And it’ll take them anywhere from twenty-four to seventy-two hours to make the search.”

“Would it help if I called them directly?”

“I doubt it,” McCormick said.

“Well, would you call them for me?”

“It’s almost five.”

“Not in St. Louis,” Carella said.

“Give me the man’s name.”

“James Randolph Harris.”

“When was he in the Army?”

“Ten years ago.”

“I’ll make the call. Do you want the entire Field 201-file?”

“Please. And would you tell them it’s a homicide and ask them to expedite it?”

“Yes, I’ll do that.”

“And would you ask them to send the file directly to me?”

“They’ll start quoting the Freedom of Information Act.”

“That wouldn’t be in conflict with the Act.”

“They like to go through channels. My guess is I’ll have the file on Monday, if I put enough pressure on them. My further guess is you’ll have to come all the way out to Calm’s Point to get it. Unless I can find some sergeant who’s heading into the city.”

“Please do your best.”

“I’ll try.”

“Thanks,” Carella said, and hung up.

It was a few minutes past five on the wall clock. At the other end of the room. Genero began typing again. Hawes rose abruptly from his desk, said to his prisoner, “Okay, pal, let’s go,” and led him across the squadroom to the fingerprinting table. Behind the lieutenant’s closed door, a telephone rang. It rang again, and then was silent, Carella reached into the bottom drawer of his desk where he kept the telephone directories for all five sections of the city. He opened the one for Isola, turned to the P’s, and ran his finger down the page till he came to a listing for Prestige Novelty. He dialed the number at once.

“Prestige Novelty,” a woman’s voice said.

“This is Detective Carella of the 87th Squad,” he said, “I’d like to speak to the owner of the company, please.”

“I think Mr. Preston may be gone for the day,” the woman said.

“Would you check, please?”

“Yes, sir.” There was a click on the line. He waited. While he waited he speculated that half his time as a working cop was spent on the telephone; the other half was spent typing up reports in triplicate. He was thinking of taking up cigar-smoking.

“Hello?” the woman said.

“Yes, I’m here.”

“I’m sorry, sir, Mr. Preston has gone already.”

“Can you give me his home number, please?”

“I’m sorry, sir, we’re not permitted to give out—”

“This is a homicide investigation,” Carella said.

“Sir, I’m sorry, I still can’t take it upon myself—”

“Let me speak to whoever’s in charge there right now,” Carella said.

“Well, there’s only me and Miss Houlihan. I was just getting ready to leave, in fact, when—”

“Let me talk to Miss Houlihan,” Carella said.

“Yes, sir, but she won’t give you his number, either,” the woman said. There was another click. Carella waited. His father smoked cigars. His father had smoked cigars for as long as he could—

“Miss Houlihan,” a voice said. A nasal, no-nonsense voice. “Can I help you?”

“This is Detective Carella of the—”

“Yes, Mr. Carella. I understand you want Mr. Preston’s home number.”

“That’s right.”

“We are not permitted—”

“Miss Houlihan, what is your position with Prestige Novelty?”

“I’m the bookkeeper.”

“Miss Houlihan, we’re investigating a pair of murders here.”

“Yes, I understand. But—”

“One of the victims worked for Prestige Novelty.”

“Yes, that would be Isabel Harris.”

“That’s right.”

“We know.”

“I need Mr. Preston’s telephone number.”

“I understand that,” Miss Houlihan said. “But you see, Mr. Carella, we’re not permitted to give out the private telephone numbers of company personnel.”

“Miss Houlihan, if I have to go all the way downtown to get a warrant forcing you to divulge a telephone number—”

“We were just about to close for the weekend when you called,” Miss Houlihan said.

“What does that mean?”

“It means that if you went for your warrant, there’d be no one here till Monday, anyway. And by that time you could just as easily call Mr. Preston at this number.”

“This can’t wait till Monday.”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t help you.”

“Miss Houlihan, are you familiar with Section 195.10 of the Penal Law?”

“No, I’m not.”

“It’s titled Refusing to Aid a Peace Officer. I’m a peace officer, Miss Houlihan, and you’re refusing to aid me.” He was telling only the partial truth. The Class-B misdemeanor was defined this way: “Upon command by a peace officer identifiable or identified to one as such, unreasonably failing or refusing to aid such peace officer in effecting an arrest or in preventing the commission by another person of any offense.”

Miss Houlihan was silent for an inordinately long time.

“Why don’t you just look it up in the phone book?” she said at last.

“Where does he live?”

“Riverhead.”

“What’s his first name?”

“Frank.”

“Thank you,” Carella said, and hung up. He pulled the Riverhead directory out of his drawer, opened it to the P’s, and ran his finger down the forty or so Prestons listed. There was a Frank Preston on South Edgeheath Road. Carella looked up at the clock and dialed the number.

The number rang five times before a woman picked it up.

“Hello?” she said.

“Hello, may I please speak to Mr. Preston?”

“Who’s this, please?”

“Detective Carella of the 87th Squad.”

“Who?”

“Detective Carella of the—”

“Is this the police?”

“Yes,” Carella said.

“He’s not home yet.”

“Who am I speaking to, please?” Carella asked.

“His wife.”

“Mrs. Preston, what time do you expect him?”

“He’s usually home by six on Fridays. Is this about the blind girl?”

“Yes.”

“What a shame.”

“Yes. Mrs. Preston, would you tell your husband I’ll try to reach him again later tonight?”

“I’ll tell him.”

“Thank you,” Carella said, and put the receiver back onto the cradle.

Meyer was on the telephone at his own desk, talking to Sophie Harris, Jimmy’s mother. “We’ll be up there in about half an hour, does that sound all right?” he said, and nodded. “We’ll see you then.” He hung up, turned in the swivel chair. “You feel up to it?” he asked Carella.

“Yes, sure,” Carella said.

“She was bawling like a baby on the phone. Just got back from identifying both bodies. What’d you get from the Army?”

“Not much. I just placed a call to the man Isabel worked for, Frank Preston’s his name. I’ll try him again later, see what he can tell us. They’re both kind of blanks so far, aren’t they?”

“Jimmy and Isabel, do you mean?”

“Yeah. We don’t really know who they were, do we?”

“Not yet,” Meyer said. “Let’s go talk to Mama.”