Эд Макбейн - Ice

“Mr. Moore,” Carella said, “I hope you won’t mind if we ask some questions—”

“Anything,” Moore said.

“Of a more personal nature,” Carella said.

“Go ahead.”

“Well... would you know whether or not there was any other man in her life? Besides you. Someone who might have been jealous of the relationship she shared with you? Someone she might have known before she met you?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Or another woman?”

“No, of course not.”

“No one who might have resented—”

“No one.”

“How about her agent, Herb Gotlieb? How old a man is he?”

“Why?”

“I was just wondering,” Carella said.

“Wondering what?”

“Well, she did see him a lot—”

“He was her agent; of course she saw him a lot.”

“I’m not suggesting—”

“Yes, you are, as a matter of fact,” Moore said. “First you ask me whether there was another man — or even another woman, for God’s sake — in Sally’s life, and then you zero in on Herb Gotlieb, who has to be at least fifty-five years old! How can you possibly believe someone like Herb could have—”

“I don’t believe anything yet,” Carella said. “I’m simply exploring the possibilities.”

And one of the possibilities, it belatedly occurred to him, was that Mr. Timothy Moore himself was a possible suspect in at least the murder of Sally Anderson. Carella had learned a long time ago that some 30 percent of all reported homicides were generated by family situations, and 20 percent were eventually identified as stemming from lovers’ quarrels. By his own admission, Timothy Moore had been Sally Anderson’s lover, and never mind that he had voluntarily walked into the squadroom — two squadrooms, in fact, by the most recent count.

“As a matter of fact,” Moore said, “the only thing that interests Herb is money. Sally could have danced for him naked and he wouldn’t have noticed unless she was also tossing gold doubloons in the air.”

Carella decided to run with it.

“But she wouldn’t have done that, right?” he said.

“Done what?”

“Danced naked for Herb Gotlieb. Or for anyone else.”

“Is that a question?”

“It’s a question.”

“The answer is no.”

“You’re sure of that?”

“I’m absolutely positive.”

“No other men or women in her life?”

“None.”

“She told you that?”

“She didn’t have to tell me. I knew.”

“How about you?”

“What about me?”

“Any other women in your life?”

“No.”

“Or men?”

“No.”

“Then this was pretty serious between you, is that right?”

“It was serious enough.”

“How serious is serious enough?”

“I don’t get this,” Moore said.

“What don’t you get?”

“I came up here to offer—”

“Yes, and we’re grateful for that.”

“You don’t seem too grateful,” Moore said. “What are you going to ask next? Where I was last night when Sally was getting killed?”

“I wasn’t going to ask that, Mr. Moore,” Carella said. “You already told us you were home studying.”

“Were you home?” Meyer asked.

“You weren’t going to ask, huh? I was home.”

“All night long?”

“Here we go,” Moore said, and rolled his eyes.

“You were her boyfriend,” Meyer said flatly.

“Which means I killed her, right?” Moore said.

“You seem to be asking the questions and giving the answers both,” Meyer said. “Were you home all night?”

“All night.”

“Anyone with you?”

“Not exactly.”

“What does that mean, not exactly? Either someone is with you or you’re alone. Were you alone?”

“I was alone. But I called a friend of mine at least half a dozen times.”

“What about?”

“The study material. Questions back and forth.”

“Is he a med student, too? This friend you called?”

“Yes.”

“What’s his name?”

“Karl Loeb.”

“Where does he live?”

“In the Quarter.”

“Do you know his address?”

“No. But I’m sure he’s in the phone book.”

“What time did you call him?”

“Off and on, all night long.”

“Did you call him at midnight?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Did he call you at any time last night?”

“Several times.”

“When’s the last time you spoke to him?”

“Just before I went to sleep. I called Sally first, I tried her number—”

“Had you called her before that?”

“On and off, yes.”

“Last night, we’re talking about.”

“Yes, last night. I called her on and off.”

“Were you worried when you didn’t get her?”

“No.”

“How come? When’s the last time you tried her?”

“About three in the morning. Just before I called Karl for the last time.”

“And you got no answer?”

“No answer.”

“And you weren’t worried? Three in the morning, and she doesn’t answer the phone—”

“You’re talking about theater people,” Moore said. “Night people. Three o’clock is still early for them. Anyway, she knew I was studying. I figured she must’ve made other plans.”

“Did she tell you what plans?”

“No, she didn’t.”

“When did you call her again?”

“I didn’t. I heard about... when I woke up, I turned on the radio and I... I... heard... I heard...”

He suddenly buried his face in his hands and began weeping. The detectives watched him. Carella was thinking they’d been too harsh with him. Meyer was thinking the same thing. But why’d he come up here? Carella wondered. Meyer wondered the same thing. And why had a medical student expressed ignorance of what sort of evidence might be turned up by an examination of Sally’s personal effects? Weren’t medical schools teaching prospective doctors about bloodstains anymore? Or traces of semen? Or fingernail scrapings? Or human hair? Or any of the other little physical leftovers that could later lead to positive identification? Moore kept weeping into his hands.

“Are you all right?” Carella asked.

Moore nodded. He fumbled in his back pocket for a handkerchief, tossing the tails of the trench coat aside. There was a stethoscope in the right-hand pocket of his jacket. He found the handkerchief, blew his nose, dried his eyes.

“I loved her,” he said.

The detectives said nothing.

“And she loved me,” he said.

Still they said nothing.

“I know what you’re trained to look for, I know all about it. But I had nothing to do with her murder. I came up here because I wanted to help, period. You might do better to go looking for the son of a bitch who did it, instead of—”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Moore,” Carella said.

“I’ll bet you are,” Moore said. He put the handkerchief back in his pocket. He looked up at the wall clock. He stood up and began buttoning the trench coat. “I’ve got to go,” he said. “You’ll find my number in Sally’s book, you can reach me at night there. During the day, I’m at Ramsey.”

“We appreciate your help,” Meyer said.

“Sure,” Moore said, and turned and walked out of the squadroom.

Both men looked at each other.

“What do you think?” Carella asked.

“The idea or the execution?”

“Well, I know I blew it, but the idea.”

“Good one.”

“I really was looking for a third party at first—”