Ed McBain - Lullaby

'Okay, I guess.'

'They were so close,' Angela said.

Both detectives looked at her.

'Saw each other all the time.'

They kept looking at her.

'All the time?' Meyer said.

'Oh, yes.'

'Even after she got pregnant?'

'Well, sure. In fact, it was Melissa who did all the groundwork for her.'

' What groundwork?' Carella asked.

'Finding an adoption agency,' Angela said.

* * * *

16

They did not get to Richard and Melissa Hammond until eleven o'clock on Monday morning because they'd had to make another stop first. The Hammonds were packing when the detectives got there. Melissa told them she'd received a call from Pearl Ogilvy in Seattle, who had advised her that her father had passed away that morning at seven minutes to eight Pacific time. The two were planning to catch an early afternoon flight to the Coast.

Carella and Meyer expressed their condolences.

'There'll be a lot to take care of, won't there?' Carella said.

'Pearl will be a big help,' Hammond said.

'I'm sure,' Carella said, and smiled pleasantly. 'I know this is a bad time for you . . .'

'Well, it was expected,' Hammond said.

'Yes. But I wonder if we can ask a few questions.'

Hammond looked at him, surprised.

'Really,' he said, 'I don't think this is ...'

'Yes, I know,' Carella said. 'And believe me, I wish three people hadn't been murdered, but they were.'

Something in his voice caused Hammond to look up from his open valise.

'So, I'm sorry, really,' Carella said, not sounding sorry at all, 'but we would appreciate a few more minutes of your time.'

'Certainly,' Hammond said.

On the other side of the bed, Melissa was neatly arranging clothing in her open bag. The detectives stood just inside the door, uncomfortable in a room as intimate as the bedroom, further uncomfortable in that no one had asked them to take off their coats.

'The last time we spoke to you,' Carella said, 'you mentioned that you hadn't seen Joyce since February sometime . . .'

'The twelfth of February,' Meyer said, consulting his notebook.

'That's right,' Melissa said.

Head still bent, packing.

'When she would've been four months pregnant,' Carella said.

'Yes.'

'But you didn't notice she was pregnant.'

'No.'

'Because all the Chapman women carry small, isn't that so, Mr Hammond?'

'I'm sorry, what . . . ?'

'Isn't that what you said, Mr Hammond? That all the Chapman women carry small.'

'Yes.'

'Which Chapman women did you have in mind?'

'I'm sorry, I really don't know what you're . . .'

'Your wife had only one sister. Joyce. You couldn't have meant Joyce because you'd never seen her pregnant. And the last time Melissa's mother was pregnant was twenty years ago. You didn't see her pregnant, did you?'

'No, I didn't.'

'So which Chapman women did you mean?'

'Well, Melissa, of course . . .'

'Yes, of course. And who else?'

'What I meant,' Hammond said, 'was that everyone in the family always said the Chapman women carried small.'

'Ah,' Carella said. 'Well, that explains that, doesn't it?'

'Mr Carella, I'm not sure what you're going for here, but I know I don't like your tone. If you have anything you . . .'

'Mrs Hammond,' Carella said, 'isn't it true that you suggested the Cooper-Anderson Agency to your sister?'

Melissa looked up from her suitcase.

'No,' she said.

Flat out.

A flat-out lie.

'Before coming here this morning,' Carella said, 'we went to see a man named Lionel Cooper, one of the partners in the Cooper-Anderson...'

'What is this?' Hammond said.

'Mr Cooper distinctly remembers having had several telephone conversations with you . . .'

'My wife never spoke to anyone named . . .'

' . . .regarding your sister's pregnancy and the placement of her baby after it was born.'

'Do you recall those conversations?' Meyer asked.

'No, I don't,' Melissa said.

'But you do understand that if you did have those conversations, then we'd have reasonable cause to believe you knew yoursister was pregnant.'

'I did not know she was pregnant,' Melissa said.

'So you told us. Because you weren't very close and you rarely saw her.'

'That's right.'

'Her roommate, a young woman named Angela Quist, seems to think you were very close and that you saw each other all the time. Especially after Joyce got pregnant.'

'Miss Quist is mistaken,' Hammond said flatly.

'Mr Hammond, where were you on New Year's Eve, New Year's Day, actually, between one-forty-five and . . .'

'He was here with me,' Melissa said.

'You were both here between . . .'

'That's it, gentlemen,' Hammond said.

'Meaning what?' Carella said.

'Meaning I'm a lawyer, and this is the end of the conversation.'

'I thought you might say something like that,' Carella said.

'Well, you were right. Unless you have . . .'

'We do,' Carella said.

Hammond blinked.

'We have a match.'

Hammond blinked again.

'A report from the Federal Bureau of Investigation,' Carella said, 'stating that the fingerprints recovered from the handle of the knife used to murder Annie Flynn match the US Army fingerprints on file for Richard Allen Hammond. That's you.'

He was lying.

Not about the FBI files. Bonnem in Seattle had told him that Hammond had served in the army during the Vietnam War, and so he knew his fingerprints would be on file as a matter of course. But the foreign prints on the handle of the murder weapon had been too smudged for any meaningful search. He was hoping Hammond hadn't been wearing gloves when he'd jimmied open the window to the Hodding apartment. He was hoping a lot of things. Meanwhile, he was taking his handcuffs from his belt.

So was Meyer.

Melissa seemed to realize all at once that one pair of cuffs was intended for her.

'My father just died,' she said. 'I have to go to Seattle.'

Carella looked her dead in the eye.

She turned away from his icy gaze.

* * * *

At ten minutes past eleven that Monday morning, Herrera came down the steps of the stoop outside 3311 Vandermeer and began walking eastward toward Soundview Boulevard.

Kling was right behind him.

He had got here at seven, not figuring Herrera for an early riser, but not wanting to lake any chances, either. Herrera was walking along at a brisk clip now; well, sure, he hadn't been freezing his ass off on the street for the past four hours. Good arm swinging, head ducked into the wind, racing along like a man with a train to catch. Kling hoped he didn't plan to walk all over the goddamn city. His ears were cold, his hands were cold, his feet were cold, and his nose was cold. It bothered him that Herrera had most likely woken up in a warm bed an hour or so ago, made love to Consuelo Diego, and then eaten a hot breakfast while Kling was standing in a doorway across the street waiting for him to put in an appearance.

Herrera stopped to talk to someone.

Kling fell back, turned toward a store window, eyes glancing sidewards toward where Herrera was obviously asking directions.

The man he'd stopped was pointing up the street now.

Herrera thanked him, began moving again.

Cold as the frozen tundra out here.

Kling fell in behind him, staying a good fifty feet back. Herrera knew what he looked like. One glimpse and-

Stopping again.

This time to look up at the number over one of the shops.

In motion again.

Kling behind him.

Then, obviously having seen the storefront window ahead of him, recognizing it for what he'd been seeking, he turned immediately toward the door, opened it, and disappeared off the sidewalk.