Ed McBain - Hail to the Chief

At four o'clock that afternoon, precisely one week and twelve hours after the six bodies had been found in the telephone-company ditch, Carella got a phone call from Phyllis Kingsley, sister of the bearded white man who'd spent time with Eduardo and Constantina Portoles on the night all three of them were murdered. Phyllis told him she had been contacted by a girl named Lisa Knowles, who had flown in from California the moment she'd learned of Andrew Kingsley's death. The girl wanted to talk to the police. She was staying at the Farragut Hotel in midtown Isola.

Carella thanked Phyllis, hung up for just an instant, and then placed a call to the Farragut.

Chapter Eight

He did not get downtown until a little after five o'clock.

Night had descended on the city, the street lamps were on, the homeward rush of office workers had already begun. He drove for two blocks, looking for a parking space, and finally had to put the car in a garage. He did not particularly enjoy this because he knew he wouldn't be reimbursed for the cost of the parking, no matter how many chits he put in. The streets were bleakly cold. Pedestrians went past him swiftly, heading for subway kiosks and bus stops, their heads ducked against the fierce wind, hands clutched into coat collars or stuffed into pockets. He looked up at the sky and hoped it would not snow. He did not like snow. Teddy had once talked him into trying skiing, and he had almost broken his leg the first time down, and had given up on skiing and on snow and also on cold weather that got into a man's bones and made him miserable all over. He thought of Midge McNally lying in mud and leaves in the woods, her blouse stiff with blood. He thought of Johnny Quince, two bullets in the back of his head, shoeless, wearing only trousers and a shirt. And he thought of the six naked corpses lying in the telephone-company ditch. He hurried toward the hotel.

The Farragut was a fleabag catering to hookers, junkies, pushers, and pimps. If Carella had cared to make a few dozen arrests while he was on the premises, just so the trip downtown shouldn't be a total loss, he could have done so with ease. But this was not his precinct, and presumably there were cops here to protect the citizenry, uphold the morality, and continue the unceasing war against narcotics abuse; he would let their mothers worry. In the meantime, the preconceived opinion he formed of Lisa Knowles was not a very good one. What's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this? he asked himself, even before he met her.

As it turned out, Lisa Knowles was a nice girl. She just didn't have very much money, and she had taken a room at the Farragut only because it was the least expensive thing she could find. Lisa was the very picture of blooming, bursting, youthful California health. She looked nineteen, a barefooted, very tall girl - at least five-nine - with bright blue eyes sparkling against a suntanned face, blond hair cascading to the small of her back, long legs encased in blue jeans, firm breasts braless under a tight white cotton T-shirt. Greeting him at the door to her room, she immediately apologized for the dump she was living in, and then explained how short she was of cash. Carella followed her into the room, and she closed the door behind him. There was a bed in the room, and a single easy chair, and a standing floor lamp, and a cigarette-scarred dresser. Lisa sat cross-legged on the bed. Carella took the easy chair.

'I understand you want to talk to us,' he said.

'Yes.' She emphasized the single word with a curt nod of her blond hair. She had big hands and big feet; she was a big girl all over. He could visualize her on a Malibu beach, wearing a bikini, riding a surfboard. He could also, and he was surprised by the unbidden image, visualize her in bed. He immediately got back to business.

'What about?' he said.

'Andrew Kingsley. I got a letter from him four days after he was killed. He'd written it last Saturday. I would have taken it to the California fuzz…' She smiled radiantly. ' Cops , excuse me,' she said. 'Only I figured they'd just brush it off because it wasn't their case. Was I right?'

'Well, I don't know. The Los Angeles police are a pretty efficient bunch,' Carella said, and returned the smile. 'I'm sure they would have contacted us.'

'How'd you know it was Los Angeles? And not San Francisco or San Diego or whatever?'

'Because Kingsley's sister told us he'd been doing work in Watts. That's Los Angeles,' Carella said, and shrugged.

'Smart, smart,' Lisa said, and tapped her temple with her forefinger. 'Anyway, I raised the bread and came here personally. I didn't want to take a chance on the letter going astray, because I think it may help you find whoever killed him. Also, my folks are down in Miami, and a visit is long overdue, so I figured I'd kill two birds with one stone. Provided they send me the air fare. I'm afraid to give them the address of this dump, they might recognize it and call out the Marines. But I have to wire them because all I've got is about thirty cents to my name - that's an exaggeration, but really, I'm almost flat. If I don't get some financial help real soon, I'll have to join the hookers in this place,' She smiled again. The image of Lisa Knowles as prostitute suddenly filled the small, shoddy, cheerless room. Lisa in garter belt and open-crotch panties, long blond hair spread on the pillow, Lisa being used and abused by drunken sailors and…

'How old are you?' Carella asked abruptly.

'Twenty-two. Why?' she said.

'Just wondered.'

'Old enough,' she said, 'don't worry,' and again she smiled her radiant smile, and Carella suddenly felt terribly uncomfortable and wanted to get out of there, and go home, and say to his wife, 'Hey, guess what, honey? A beautiful twenty-two-year-old blonde was flirting with me today, what do you think of that, honey?' Except that Lisa Knowles wasn't flirting. Or was she? It was she, after all, who'd made the reference to prostitution. Why are you showing me all these dirty pictures, Doctor? Carella thought, and smiled.

'Yes?' she said.

'What?'

'Why are you smiling?'

'I just thought of something very funny,' he said, and then became all business again. 'Mind if I see the letter?'

'Oh, sure,' she said, and got off the bed, and went across the room, long legs devouring the worn linoleum, backside round and firm in the tight blue jeans - Now listen , Carella told himself, and watched despite the self-admonition as she dug into the leather shoulder bag on the dresser top and came up with a red-and-blue-bordered air-mail envelope. She walked back to where he was sitting, and stopped just before the chair, her knees almost touching his. He took the envelope from her, adjusted the shade on the lamp for better illumination, and then removed the letter from the envelope and unfolded it. Lisa moved behind the chair so that she could read over his shoulder.

'See the date?' she said. 'He was killed last Sunday, am I right? The letter was written on Saturday.'

'Yes, that's right,' Carella said, and began reading the letter:

Darling Golden Girl, how are you?

I'm still here crashing with my sister, which is something of a drag, but I've finally made some contacts and I think I'll be able to get started on the work I came east for.

'He used to call me Golden Girl,' Lisa said.

'Mmm,' Carella said.

'Because I'm a blonde.'

'I see that.'

He was about to say something more. He changed his mind, and started reading the rest of the letter:

Tomorrow night, I'll be going uptown to talk to the president of a gang that calls itself The Death's Heads. This is a Puerto Rican gang, and the leader is a fellow named Edwards Portoles, who I'd met through Julio Cabrera. You remember him, he's the one who used to play piano at the Sunset Shrine, on the Strip. He's here now, playing Tuesdays and Fridays at a place downtown in the Quarter, barely eking out a living, but doing he likes best—which is all that matters, am I right, Goldilocks?