Evan Hunter - Romance

“Meanwhile, just leave me the hell alone,” she said, which was a rough equivalent of “Go to hell” again.

Kling went to his desk to call Sharyn. He was still on the phone when Andrea’s attorneys arrived at ten twenty-five, both of them brusque and businesslike, her personal attorney immediately asking Andrea if she was all right. The criminal lawyer introduced himself to the detectives — his name was Felix Bertinotti — and then asked why his client had been arrested. Carella explained that they planned to charge Miss Packer with second-degree murder, and the lawyer at once advised Andrea not to answer any questions. Andrea wanted to know if that wouldn’t look bad for her, and Bertinotti counseled that her silence could in no way be considered prejudicial if or when this specious case ever came to trial. He was already spouting “Innocent Client” talk even though there wasn’t a television camera in sight. Andrea insisted that she hadn’t done anything and therefore had nothing to fear from the police, so why couldn’t she answer whatever questions they had? The cops stood by, saying nothing. The decision was for Andrea and her attorney to make. As Carella had mentioned earlier, this was America, after all.

“May we please talk to Miss Packer privately?” Bertinotti asked, at which point Carella and Kling and Lieutenant Byrnes — who had come in when he’d learned of the arrest — debated whether or not they should get the D.A.’s Office in on this right now, or wait until they were sure they had real meat here. They decided to wait. Andrea and her lawyers did not finish deliberating till a quarter past eleven.

“Miss Packer has decided to answer your questions,” Bertinotti announced, which came as a surprise to Carella. He could never understand why it was always the hardened criminals who took full advantage of Miranda and refused to give you even the right time, whereas the amateurs always figured they could beat you at your own game. Or maybe Andrea figured this was the role of a lifetime and was now relishing the opportunity to give an Academy Award performance that would prove she was something more than just another pretty face. Besides, she had two attorneys here with her to call off all bets if the going got rough, so maybe she figured she had nothing to lose. Though her personal attorney clearly knew nothing about criminal law and would be as useful to her as an onstage telephone that didn’t ring when it was supposed to.

They read Andrea her rights yet another time and ascertained that she understood them and was willing to answer their questions. She was still in the clothes she had worn to rehearsal, blue jeans, loafers, and a lemon-colored T-shirt. Her long blond hair was pulled back into a ponytail and she was wearing no makeup. Carella wondered if they should offer her a lollipop.

“Miss Packer,” he said, “I wonder if you can tell us where you were last night at about this time?”

The clock on the wall of the interrogation room now read eleven-eighteen P.M. Andrea sat at the head of the long narrow table, her attorneys flanking her right and left. A police stenographer was sitting alongside Bertinotti, taking notes. Kling was sitting beside him and across the table from Byrnes. Carella was standing. He worked best on his feet.

“I was home,” Andrea said.

“Home is where?” Carella asked.

“Home is where you barged in earlier tonight,” she said angrily, and snapped a look first at him and then at Kling.

“There was a search warrant,” Carella told Bertinotti, and smiled. “No doors broken down, Counselor.”

Bertinotti did not return the smile. Instead, he shrugged as if he didn’t believe Carella. He was wearing a dark blue suit, as was Andrea’s other attorney, and it looked as if he had freshly shaved before coming over here. Carella guessed he was expecting TV cameras outside, though at two hundred pounds and some five feet eight inches, one would have thought he’d try to avoid such exposure.

“What I was asking for was your address,” Carella said pleasantly. “For the record.”

“You have my address.”

“Would it be…?”

He picked up the arrest form.

“… 714 South Hedley Avenue, apartment 4C?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you. And you were there last night between what time and what time?”

“I got home from rehearsal at eight. I didn’t go out again after that.”

“Was Charles Madden at that rehearsal?”

“He was. He’s our stage manager.”

“ Was your stage manager,” Carella corrected, just to keep this thing in perspective.

“Yes.”

“Did he go home with you from the theater?”

“No.”

“But you were living together, weren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“How long had he been living in your apartment, Miss Packer?”

“Since the beginning of March.”

“Since the first of March?”

“No, the sixth, the seventh, around then.”

“Where did he live before then?”

“He had an apartment on River Street. Still had it until… well.”

“Until the time of his death?”

Again, to keep it all in perspective.

“Yes,” Andrea said.

“Which was last night at eleven-thirty.”

“That’s when I understand it happened,” Andrea said, and looked down at her hands in her lap.

This was something actresses did, Carella noticed. Lowered their eyes like nuns when they wished to appear virtuous or innocent. It was highly effective. He would have to watch movies more closely from now on, see whether the good actresses ever did it.

“You didn’t happen to be in his apartment at that time, did you?” he asked.

“No, I…”

“Really, Detective,” Bertinotti said. “She just told you…”

“Yes, but I was wondering if she might be able to clear up something that’s puzzling me.”

“What’s that?” Andrea asked.

“Miss Packer,” Bertinotti said, “you’re not required to help Detective Carella with his befuddlement.”

Andrea’s other lawyer, apparently excited by all this cops-and-robbers shit, actually chuckled at his colleague’s remark. Bertinotti seemed pleased. Andrea seemed pleased, too. All three of them were very pleased all at once, as if they’d already been to trial and won an acquittal.

“Well, I hate to see him puzzled, really,” Andrea said, smiling. “What is it you’d like to know, Mr. Carella?”

“Do you use the prescription drug Dalmane?” Carella asked.

“You know I do,” she said, still smiling. “You found a bottle of it in my medicine chest.”

“Did Mr. Madden ever use Dalmane?”

“I have no idea.”

“Because, you see, we found Dalmane in his bloodstream.”

This was clearly news to Andrea. Maybe she didn’t know you could take blood samples from a blob on the sidewalk, or maybe she didn’t think the police would have bothered testing a man’s blood when he’d obviously fallen to his death.

“Who’s we ?” she asked.

“Toxicology Department at the lab.”

Andrea gave a slight shrug as if to indicate she didn’t know how this information was in any way pertinent to why she was here in a police station.

“I’m assuming,” Bertinotti said, “that you have this…”

“Yes, Counselor, we have the report.”

“May I see it?”

“Sure,” Carella said, and gave his own little shrug as if to indicate that surely the learned attorney didn’t think he was inventing a goddamn toxicology report. Handing him the sheet of paper, he turned to Andrea and casually asked, “Did Mr. Madden ever use any of your Dalmane?”

“Yes, I think he may have,” Andrea said, recovering quickly. She now knew they had Dalmane in Madden’s blood and Dalmane in her medicine chest. Carella figured the trick she had to perform in midair was getting the Dalmane out of her bathroom and into Madden’s blood without making it seem she’d put it there.