Эд Макбейн - Ice

“I know that. But the other way around, right?”

“Right. Some guy—”

“Or some lady—”

“Right, who was annoyed because Sally Anderson was seeing Moore—”

“Right.”

“And who decided to put the blocks to her.”

“A possibility,” Meyer said.

“But then Moore blew sky-high—”

“Right, I could see the wheels clicking inside your head, Steve.”

“Right, when I reversed field, right?”

“Right. You were thinking, ‘Hey, maybe Moore is the jealous party, maybe he’s the one who killed her.’ ”

“Well, yeah. But I blew it.”

“Maybe not, maybe now he’ll run a bit scared. Two things we’ve got to find out, Steve—”

“Right. The exact times he was on the phone talking to this guy Loeb—”

“Right, the other med student.”

“Right. And where he was on Tuesday night, when Lopez was getting his.”

“You decided not to go with Lopez, huh?”

“I wanted to see if Moore would volunteer an alibi for Tuesday.”

“Listen, you know something?” Meyer said. “Who says the same gun means the same killer?”

“Huh?” Carella said.

“I use a gun to kill somebody on Tuesday night. I throw the gun away. Somebody picks it up, and it finds its way onto the street. You come along and buy the gun to use on Friday night. No connection at all between the two murders, do you get it?”

“I get it,” Carella said, “and you’re making life difficult.”

“Only because I can’t see any connection at all between Paco Lopez and Sally Anderson.”

“Monday’s a holiday, isn’t it?” Carella asked abruptly.

“Huh?”

“Monday.”

“What about it?”

“It’s Washington’s Birthday, isn’t it?”

“No, that’s the twenty-second.”

“But we’re celebrating it on the fifteenth. We’re calling it ‘Presidents’ Day.’ ”

“What’s that got to do with Moore?”

“Nothing. I’m thinking about the cat.”

“What cat?”

“Sally’s cat. She was supposed to pick it up on Monday. Will the vet be open on Monday?”

“I guess if she put it in her book—”

“She listed a pickup for three o’clock.”

“Then I guess he’ll be open.”

“So who’ll pick up the cat?” Carella asked.

“Not me,” Meyer said at once.

“Maybe Sarah would like a cat,” Carella said.

“Sarah doesn’t like cats,” Meyer said. His wife did not like any animals. His wife thought animals were animals.

“Maybe the girl’s mother will take the cat,” Carella said, very seriously.

“The girl’s mother is in San Francisco,” Meyer said, and looked at him.

“So who’ll take the goddamn cat?” Carella said. He had once taken home a Seeing Eye dog he’d inherited on the job. Fanny, the Carella housekeeper, had not liked the dog. At all. The dog no longer resided at the big old house in Riverhead. Meyer was still looking at him.

“I just hate to think of that cat sitting there waiting,” Carella said, and the telephone rang. He snatched the receiver from the cradle.

“87th Squad, Carella,” he said.

“This is Allan Carter,” the voice on the other end said.

“Ah, Mr. Carter, good,” Carella said, “I’ve been trying to reach you. Thanks for returning my call.”

“Is this about Sally Anderson?” Carter asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“I know nothing whatever about her death.”

“We’d like to talk to you anyway, sir,” Carella said. “As her employer—”

“I’ve never heard it described that way before,” Carter said.

“Sir?”

“I’ve never heard a producer described as an employer ,” Carter said, raising his voice as though Carella hadn’t quite heard him the first time around. “In any event, I was in Philadelphia last night. Her death came as a total surprise to me.”

“Yes, sir, I’m sure it did,” Carella said. He paused. “We’d still like to talk to you, Mr. Carter.”

“We’re talking now,” Carter said.

“In person, Mr. Carter.”

There was a silence on the line. Carella leaped into it.

“Can you see us at three?” he asked. “We won’t take up much of your time.”

“I have an appointment at three,” Carter said.

“When will you be free, sir?”

“This is Saturday,” Carter said. “I just got back from Philly, I’m calling you from home. Tomorrow’s Sunday, and Monday’s a holiday. Can we meet sometime Tuesday? Or Wednesday? I won’t be going back to Philly till late Wednesday.”

“No, sir,” Carella said, “I’m afraid we can’t.”

“Why not?” Carter said.

“Because a twenty-five-year-old girl’s been murdered,” Carella said, “and we’d like to talk to you today, sir — if that’s all right with you.”

Carter said nothing for several seconds.

Then he said, “Four o’clock,” and gave Carella the address, and hung up abruptly.

Allan Carter lived in a high-rise apartment building snugly nestled into a row of luxury hotels overlooking Grover Park West. Because the streets had not yet been plowed entirely clear of snow, it took the detectives almost a half-hour to drive the fifty-odd blocks from the station house to Carter’s building. Actually, if the forecast for more snow tomorrow was accurate, the sanitmen were laboring somewhat like Hercules in the Augean stables. The day was gloomy and bitterly cold. The snow had hardened and was difficult to move. As the detectives approached Carter’s building, a uniformed doorman was trying to break away the ice that had formed in front of the doorway after the sidewalk had been shoveled. He worked with a long-handled ice-chipper that would have made a good weapon, Carella thought. Meyer was thinking the same thing.

Another uniformed man was sitting behind a desk in the lobby. Carella and Meyer identified themselves, and the man picked up a phone, said, “Mr. Carella and Mr. Meyer to see you, sir,” and then cradled the receiver and said, “You can go right up, it’s apartment 37.”

The uniformed elevator man said, “They say it’s gonna snow again tomorrow.”

Meyer looked at Carella.

They got off on the third floor, walked a long carpeted hallway to Carter’s apartment, pressed the bell button set in the doorjamb, heard chimes sounding inside, and then a voice calling, “Come in, it’s open!”

Carella opened the door, and almost tripped over a piece of brown leather luggage in the entrance hall. He stepped around the bag, motioned for Meyer to be careful, and then moved from the foyer into a vast living room with wall-to-wall windows overlooking the park. The naked branches of the trees beyond were laden with snow. The sky behind them was gray and roiling. Allan Carter was sitting on a long sofa upholstered in a pale green springtime fabric. He had a telephone to his ear. He was wearing a dark brown business suit over a lemon-colored shirt. Gold cufflinks showed at his sleeves. A chocolate brown tie hung loose over his massive chest. The top button of his shirt was unfastened. Listening to whoever was on the other end of the phone connection, he gestured for the detectives to come in.

“Yes, I understand that,” he said into the phone. “But, Dave... uh-huh, uh-huh.” He listened impatiently, sighing, pulling a face, tugging simultaneously at a lock of the thick white hair that crowned his head. The white hair was premature, Carella guessed; Carter seemed to be a man in his early forties. His eyes were a piercing blue, reflecting wan, fading winter light from the window wall. He looked suntanned. Carella wondered if the weather was better in Philadelphia than it was here. He suddenly thought of all the Philadelphia jokes he knew. He had never been to Philadelphia.