Ed McBain - Like Love

“And this is your wife, Mr. Thayer? You have no doubts about that?”

“She… she’s my wife,” Thayer said.

“Mr. Thayer, you said you saw pictures of both your wife and the man in the newspa…”

“Yes.”

“Did you happen to recognize the man?”

“No.” Thayer paused. “Is… is he here, too?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I want to see him.”

“If you didn’t recognize him, there’s no need to…”

“I want to see him,” Thayer repeated.

Carella shrugged and then nodded at the attendant. They followed him across the long, high-ceilinged room. Their footsteps echoed across the tiled floor. The attendant consulted a typewritten list on a clipboard, moved down the aisle, stooped, and pulled open a second drawer. Thayer stared down into the face of the man they’d found with his wife.

“He’s dead,” he said, but the words did not seem intended for anyone.

“Yes,” Carella said.

Thayer nodded. He nodded again. “I want in keep looking at him. That’s strange, isn’t it? I want to find out what was so… different about him.”

“You still don’t recognize him?” Hawes asked.

“No. Who is he?”

“We don’t know. There was no driver’s license or other identification in his wallet. But one of the names on the suicide note was Tommy. Did your wife ever mention anyone named Tommy?”

“No.”

“And you’ve never seen him before?”

“Never.” Thayer paused. “There’s something I don’t understand. The apartment. Where… where you found them. Wasn’t… couldn’t you ask the landlady? Wouldn’t she know his name?”

“She might. But that wasn’t Tommy’s apartment.”

“What do you mean?”

“The landlady told us that apartment was rented by a man named Fred Hassler.”

“Well, perhaps he was using another name,” Thayer suggested.

Carella shook his head. “No. We brought the landlady down here for a look. This isn’t Fred Hassler.” He nodded to the attendant, and the attendant shoved the drawer back into place. “We’re trying to locate Hassler now, but so far we haven’t had any luck.” Carella paused. He wiped his forehead and then said, “Mr. Thayer, if it’s all right with you, we’d like to get out of here. There are some questions we have to ask you, but we’d prefer doing it over a cup of coffee, if that’s all right with you.”

“Yes, of course,” Thayer said.

“You need me any more?” the attendant asked.

“No. Thanks a lot, Charlie.”

“Yeah,” Charlie said, and went back to reading Playboy .

* * * *

They found a diner three blocks from the hospital, and they sat in a seat near the window and watched the girls going by outside in their thin spring cottons. Carella and Thayer ordered coffee. Hawes was a tea drinker. They sat sipping from hot mugs and listening to the whir of the overhead fans. It was spring, and the pretty girls were passing by outside, and no one wanted to discuss treachery and sudden death. But there had been sudden death, and the wife of Michael Thayer had been revealed by death in a compromising and apparently treacherous attitude, and so the questions had to be asked.

“You said your wife told you she was going to spend the night with her mother, is that right, Mr. Thayer?”

“Yes.”

“What’s her mother’s name?”

“Mary Tomlinson. My wife’s maiden name was Margaret Irene Tomlinson.”

“Where does your mother-in-law live, Mr. Thayer?”

“Out on Sands Spit.”

“Did your wife visit her frequently?”

“Yes.”

“How often, Mr. Thayer?”

“At least once every two weeks. Sometimes more often.”

“Alone, Mr. Thayer?”

“What?”

“Alone? Without you?”

“Yes. My mother-in-law and I don’t get along.”

“So you don’t visit her, is that right?”

“That’s right.”

“But you did call her this morning after you saw Irene’s picture in the paper.”

“Yes. I called her.”

“Then you do speak to her.”

“I speak to her, but we don’t get along. I told Irene if she wanted to go see her mother, she’d have to do it without me. That’s all.”

“Which is what she did,” Hawes said, “on the average of once every two weeks, sometimes more often.”

“Yes.”

“And yesterday she told you she was going to her mother’s and would spend the night there?”

“Yes.”

“Did she often spend the night at her mother’s?”

“Yes. Her mother is a widow, you see, and Irene felt she was alone and so she spent…” Thayer hesitated. He sipped at his coffee, put down his cup, and then looked up. “Well, now… now I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

“What is it you don’t know, Mr. Thayer?”

“Well, I used to think… well, the woman is alone, you know, and even if I don’t like her, I didn’t think I should stop her daughter from spending time with her. Irene, I mean.”

“Yes.”

“But now… after… after what’s happened, I just don’t know. I mean, I don’t know whether Irene really spent all that time with her mother or if… if… if…” Thayer shook his head. Quickly, he picked up his coffee cup and gulped at the steaming liquid.

“Or if she spent it with this Tommy,” Carella said.

Thayer nodded.

“What time did she leave the house yesterday, Mr. Thayer?” Hawes asked.

“I don’t know. I went to work at eight. She was still there when I left.”

“What sort of work do you do?”

“I write greeting-card verse.”

“Free lance, or for some company?”

“Free lance.”

“But you said you left the house yesterday to go to work. Does that mean you don’t work at home?”

“That’s right,” Thayer said. “I have a little office downtown.”

“Downtown where?”

“In the Brio Building. It’s just a small office. A desk, a typewriter, a filing cabinet, and a couple of chairs. That’s all I need.”

“Do you go to that office every morning at eight?” Hawes asked.

“Yes. Except on weekends. I don’t usually work on weekends. Once in a while, but not usually.”

“But Monday to Friday, you get to your office at eight in the morning, is that right?”

“I don’t get there at eight. I leave my house at eight. I stop for breakfast, and then I go to my office.”

“What time do you get there?”

“About nine.”

“And what time do you quit?”

“About four.”

“And then do you go straight home?” Carella asked.

“No. I usually stop for a drink with the man who has the office across the hall. He’s a song writer. There’s a lot of song writers in the Brio Building.”

“What’s his name?”

“Howard Levin.”

“Did you go for a drink with him yesterday afternoon?”

“Yes.”

“At four o’clock?”

“Around that time. I guess it was closer to four-thirty.”

“May I give a recap on this, Mr. Thayer?” Hawes asked. “Yesterday, you left your home at eight o’clock in the morning, went for breakfast…”

“Where was that?” Carella asked.

“I eat at the R and N Restaurant. That’s two blocks from my house.”

“You ate breakfast at the R and N,” Hawes said, “and arrived at your office in the Brio Building at nine o’clock. Your wife was still at home when you left, but you knew she was going out to visit her mother on Sands Spit, or at least that’s what she had told you.”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Did you talk to your wife at any time during the day?”

“No,” Thayer said.

“Is there a telephone in your office?”

“Yes, of course.” Thayer frowned. Something seemed to be bothering him all at once. He did not say what it was, not immediately, but his brows lowered, and his mouth hardened.