Evan Hunter - Romance

“Right.”

“This is two days after Michelle got murdered…”

“Yes.”

“…and Josie’s running around with just the one earring in her ear. Who do you think killed Michelle, Steve?”

“Madden.”

“You think Josie put him up to it, is that it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then you must also think they were lovers.”

“I do.”

“And you think that by the ninth, when you noticed the missing earring, she already had a plan in place to murder him.”

“I think that’s entirely possible, yes.”

“Possible, possible,” Hawes said, shaking his head.

“You’re saying she put Madden up to killing Michelle…”

“Yes.”

“…and then started planning his murder.”

“Yes.”

“Is that why she told you she’d lost her lucky earring?”

Carella looked at him.

“Steve?”

“Well…”

“Was she planning to leave that earring under Madden’s bed?”

“Well…”

“Was she planning to implicate herself in his murder?”

The room went silent.

“She didn’t do it, Steve,” Byrnes said gently.

“You know who did?” Parker asked suddenly, grinning in his day-old whiskers. “Whoever didn’t get the part.”

It was now five-thirty P.M. that Saturday, the eleventh day of April. This was the day before Palm Sunday, and everyone was already thinking about Easter and Passover, which this year happened to fall on the same day, so much for religious diversity. But at nine o’clock on Tuesday morning, Nellie Brand would go to the grand jury.

Everybody, especially Parker, wanted to go home. However, they were the ones who’d been lucky enough to stumble upon a possible approach to this thing, so Byrnes insisted that they follow through on it, rather than dumping it on the night shift.

They broke up into three teams.

Carella and Kling, of course.

Meyer and Hawes.

Parker and Brown, lucky him.

They were looking for probable cause to go into Andrea Packer’s apartment.

Since she knew Carella and Kling by sight, and since they didn’t want her dumping evidence before they even had a court order to look for it, it was thought provident to send two of the other detectives to her building.

The doorman at 714 South Hedley had been working at the building for twenty-five years, and he was due to retire in June. His plan was to move back to the house he’d owned in Puerto Rico for the past ten years now. Do some fishing. Walk the beach. Smell the tropical flowers. He did not want trouble here. That was the first thing he told Parker and Brown. He didn’t want trouble two months before he was supposed to retire.

Parker felt real sorry for this little spic here who could hardly speak English, going back where coconuts would fall on his head while he sipped pi˜a coladas . Twenty-five years standing in a doorway with his finger up his ass, now he was afraid of getting involved, didn’t want trouble on his watch.

“This is a homicide we’re investigating here,” Parker said.

The magic word.

Homicide.

Supposed to cause them to wet their pants.

The little spic just blinked at him.

“You know a tenant named Andrea Parker?” Brown asked.

“I juss worr here,” the doorman said.

“Cómo se llama ?” Parker asked, showing off the Spanish he’d been picking up from this girl named Catalina Herrera he’d been seeing. Called herself Cathy. listen, who cared what she called herself? She wanted to think she was really American, that was fine with him, even if she did speak with a Spanish accent you could cut with a machete, but on her it sounded cute.

“You hear me?” he asked.

“Sí ya lo oí, no soy sordo,” the doorman answered in Spanish, apparently figuring Parker was more fluent than he actually was, most of his exchanges before now having taken place in Cathy Herrera’s bed — Caralina’s , who was kidding who?

“Huh?” Parker said.

“Luis Rivera,” the doorman said.

“Listen, Luis,” Parker said, “nobody’s tryin’a get you in any trouble here. All we want to know is does Andrea Packer live alone here or does somebody live with her? If so, who is it? That’s all we want to know, You stand here at the door all the time, protectin the tenants here in this building, ready to defend them with your life day and night, twenty-five years you been here, that’s a brave thing you done, Luis, that takes real cojones . But now we’re dealin with a homicide here, Luis, which is murder, as you know, homicidio, we call it in Spanish, a very serious crime, Luis. So just tell us yes or no, she was living with somebody or she wasn’t, and we’ll take it from there, what do you say, amigo?” Parker said, and winked.

“I call dee super,” Luis said.

There were four pharmacies within a six-block radius of Andrea Packer’s building. Meyer and Hawes entered the first one at ten minutes past six that Saturday evening. By now, all of the detectives were very conscious of the time. Tuesday at nine seemed very close, and tomorrow was not only Sunday, it was palm Sunday. In this city, things had a habit of slowing down on holidays even when the holiday was merely a prelude to a bigger holiday — like the Passover and Easter celebrations next Sunday.

“They’re both spring festivals, anyway,” Meyer said, apropos of nothing. “Joyous celebrations of life.”

Hawes didn’t know what he was talking about.

The pharmacy was one in a chain of big impersonal discount stores that on television advertised courtesy, friendliness and personal attention. There were six pharmacists in white coats scurrying around behind the counter, all of them women. There were twice that many people standing in line in front of the counter. Hovering over everything was an air of absolute panic. Meyer was happy he wasn’t here to have a prescription filled. The people on line gave both detectives dirty looks as they stepped up directly to the counter. A man wearing sweats and running shoes seemed about to say something to Hawes, but Hawes merely glared at him and he changed his mind.

“Police,” Meyer said, and showed his shield. “May we speak to your head pharmacist, please?”

The head pharmacist — or chief pharmacist, as she introduced herself — was an exceedingly tall woman named Felicia Moss, her eyes a piercing brown, her hair pulled back into a severe bun that emphasized startlingly beautiful features in a face as chiseled as a Roman marble.

“I’m sorry,” she said when they told her what they wanted. “That would be completely contrary to policy.”

“What policy?” Meyer asked.

“Company policy.”

“Why?” Hawes asked flatly.

“Pharmacist-patient confidentiality,” she said.

“There’s no such thing,” Hawes said.

“All we want to know is whether or not you’ve filled any prescriptions recently for a woman named…”

“Yes, I…”

“Andrea Packer, and whether one of those…”

“I quite understand what you’re looking for. The answer…”

“Miss Moss, let’s not be ridiculous, okay?” Hawes said. “We’re in investigating a homicide here…”

“And I have prescriptions to fill,” she said. “Good day, gentlemen.”

It was going to be one of those days.

The superintendent of Andrea Packer’s building was a burly white man not quite as bald as some people Parker knew, but plenty bald enough. His scalp was red and flaking. It looked as if he’d spent a lot of time up on the roof taking the sun. His eyes were blue and piercing and suspicious.

Brown asked him if there was a tenant named Andrea Packer in the building.