Evan Hunter - Romance

“You said he only knew Josie casually…”

“Yes?”

“So how well did he know you?”

“The only place I ever saw him was here in the theater,” she said, and jerked her head toward the marquee.

“Do you know where he lived?” Kling asked.

“No.”

“Never mentioned where he lived?” Carella said.

“Not to me.”

“Ever been to his apartment?”

“Never. I just told you, the only place I ever saw him was in the goddamn theater, ” she said, and jerked her head toward the marquee again, sharply this time.

“How long have you known him?”

“Two months or so.”

“When did you first meet him?”

“When l read for the part.”

“When was that?”

“Beginning of March.”

“Where?”

“Here.”

“Where were you last night at eleven-thirty?”

“What?”

“Where were…”

“I heard you. Am I going to need a lawyer here?”

“Why would you need a lawyer? All we’re doing is investigating a suicide.”

“Why are you investigating a suicid e to begin with? A man throws himself out the goddamn window…”

“We treat homicides and suicides in exactly the same way.”

“But homicide’s the operative word here, isn’t it? You show me a note you say Chuck left…”

“That’s right…”

“And it says he did something to Michelle. Well, what somebody did to Michelle was murder her. That’s homicide, isn’t it? What you’re trying to do here is implicate me in a goddamn homicide! Somebody writes a note, you don’t even know if Chuck himself wrote it, so you automatically think Ah- ha , we’ve caught the Mad Stabber! She’s the one who got Michelle’s part, so naturally she’s the one who put him up to killing her!”

“There’s nothing in his note about that, Miss Beales.”

“No, that’s in your heads, is where it is,” she said, and glanced furiously at her watch. “Are we done here?”

“Not yet. Where were you last night at eleven-thirty?”

“Asleep.”

“Where?”

“Home.”

“Alone?”

“Good title for a movie,” she said.

“Miss Beales, we don’t find anything comical about this.”

“Neither do I!” she snapped.

“So where were you?”

“Home in bed. Alone.”

“What time did you go to bed?”

“Around ten.”

“Anyone with you before that time?”

“No,”

“Talk to anyone on the phone before that time?”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“Ashley.”

“Ashley Kendall?”

“Yes.”

“What time was that?”

“Around eight-thirty.”

“What’d you talk about?”

“What do you think we talked about? We’ve got a play opening in five days.”

“Talk to anyone else before ten?”

“No.”

“How about after ten ?“

“I told you…”

“Yes, but did your phone ring at any time after you went to bed?”

“No.”

“What time did you wake up this morning?”

“Eight-thirty. I had a voice lesson at ten.”

“When did you learn Mr. Madden was dead?”

“I saw it on Good Morning America .”

“Talk to anyone about it after that?”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“Freddie Corbin. He’d seen it on television, too.”

“Miss Beales,” Carella said, “the last time we talked to you…”

“I know. I said I was sorry for what happened to Michelle, but happy for myself. That doesn’t mean…”

“Yes, you said that, too. But you also mentioned losing the mate to the earring you’re wearing right this minute…”

“My good-luck earrings, yes.”

“Recognize this?” he asked, and took from his jacket pocket a sealed plastic bag marked with the word EVIDENCE and containing the ruby-red earring they’d found in Madden’s apartment.

“Is that mine ?” she asked.

“Looks like it.”

“I don’t understand…where’d you…?”

“Under Chuck Madden’s bed,” Carella said.

“Goodbye, fellas,” she said at once, “I’m calling my lawyer.”

LIEUTENANT BYRNES KNEW THAT CARELLA’S DEADLINE WAS Tuesday the fourteenth, and whereas he didn’t with to rain on Carella’s parade, he simply could not see the logic in this thing. Which is why he gathered them all together in his office late that Saturday afternoon. Sometimes a great notion, he figured.

The detectives Byrnes had called in for his informal snowballing session were Carella and Kling — the two actively working the case — and Brown, Meyer, Hawes and Parker, who’d seen enough about it on television and in the papers to believe they themselves were working the damn thing. This was now four-forty in the afternoon, and Parker wanted to go home. Truth be known, he always wanted to go home, even when it wasn’t five minutes before the shift was about to be relieved.

“As I understand this,” he said impatiently, “Nellie Brand’s already arraigned Milton for the murder…”

“That’s right,” Byrnes said.

“…and she’s got to shit or get off the pot by Tuesday.”

“In a manner of speaking,” Carella said.

“In another manner of speaking,” Byrnes said, “if we don’t prove her wrong by Tuesday, she’ll indict him.”

“What do you mean we , Kemo Sabe?” Parker asked, and looked to the others for approval.

As usual, he looked like a bum. That was because he told himself he was on a perpetual stakeout where it was essential that he look like a bum. He had already detected that no one but Carella and Kling appreciated this fucked-up situation. He was right. None of the others wanted more heat from upstairs descending on the squad again. The case was solved, so let it rest. But their personal feelings for Carella and Kling outweighed such considerations.

“Does the Chief of Detectives know you’re still working this thing?” Hawes asked.

He was leaning against Byrnes’s bookcases, threatening to capsize them by sheer size and bulk, his wild red hair catching the afternoon sun, the wilder white streak in his left temple highlighted by the rays.

“Yes,” Carella said. “The way Nellie spelled it out, if she indicts on Tuesday, Weeks gets credit for the kill. If we come up with anyone else, it’s our collar.”

“Weeks and the M&Ms went to see him this morning,” Byrnes said.

“Who?” Meyer asked.

“Chief Fremont.”

“What for?”

“To yell about FMU,” Byrnes said. “From what he told me, he’d already agreed that our public face should be we’ve got the killer, but privately we’re still looking cause nobody wants to prosecute an innocent man. So this morning, Weeks runs to him and says you’re screwing up the case by looking under rocks for somebody doesn’t exist. The M&Ms had their own axe to grind. They caught a whiff of headlines and they wanted I Homicide to be handed the case on a platter.”

“What’d the Chief tell them?”

“To cool it till Tuesday.”

“So they’re out of our hair for now.”

“All of them.”

“You want my private opinion,” Parker said, “I think the agent’s guilty.”

“How about that note in the typewriter?” Carella asked.

“How about that earring under the bed?” Kling asked.

“Slow down,” Brown said, “you’re losing me.”

“You’re losing all of us,” Parker said.

“Here’s the note,” Carella said, and placed it on Byrnes’s desk. This time, it was a Xerox copy of the one the lab had already tested. All four of the other detectives leaned over the desk to look at it: