The closer he came to Mrs. Lassiter’s address, the slower he walked. He did not want to interview her, and he knew it. If she identified Petrakis, then Reardon knew he had discredited himself, that he had trusted a feeling and the feeling had betrayed him. More importantly, it would mean that Petrakis had no hope of clearing himself, and even now Reardon could not believe that that insensible shadow of a man could possibly have roused himself to the brutal frenzy which the killing of the fallow deer required.
But if she could not identify Petrakis it would only mean that the case must be continued, and it had already exhausted Reardon like a fever. He knew that he had burned himself out on this case, lost the spirit of pursuit, the perverse energy of the chase itself. He had never had enough of that hunting instinct. But now even that animal vitality – the glint in the eye of the bird of prey – had fled him. He had no more questions left for Cain.
203 East 69th Street was a brownstone. It was clear to Reardon immediately that whoever the witness was she was a person of considerable means. It did not surprise him that a servant greeted him at the door.
“May I help you?” the woman asked. She was a small black woman dressed in a nurse’s white uniform. She had a slight Jamaican accent.
“I’m Detective John Reardon, New York City Police Department.” Reardon displayed his gold shield.
“I believe Mrs. Lassiter is expecting you. Won’t you come in?” The woman opened the door and stepped back to let Reardon enter. “Would you mind waiting a moment?” she asked, and disappeared through a hallway adorned on both sides with paintings.
Looking around him Reardon realized that he had never seen a home so beautiful. Even the Van Allen penthouse lacked this subdued elegance. It was stately, even reverent. Everything – every book, piece of furniture and glass inlay – looked as though it had been carefully wrought by hands trained in a more patient age.
“Mr. Reardon?” a voice said.
Reardon felt as though he had been wrenched from a brief reverie. He turned around in the direction of the voice. “Yes?”
“Mrs. Lassiter is in her garden,” the black woman said. “She would prefer meeting you there.”
“That would be fine,” Reardon said.
She conducted Reardon through the hall of paintings and out into a small, shaded Japanese rock garden surrounding a shallow, irregular pool. Water trickled through a bamboo pipe, over a large stone and into the pool.
“This is Detective Reardon,” the woman said to Mrs. Lassiter.
“Won’t you sit down?” Mrs. Lassiter asked.
“Yes, thank you,” Reardon said. He sat down in a small rattan chair. “This is a lovely garden.”
“It’s pleasant,” Mrs. Lassiter replied, “but it is not Heaven.” She was bundled up in a heavy blue coat which complemented the grayness of her eyes. Her head was covered by a thick wool shawl and her hands were tightly clothed in brown suede gloves. She sat in a large white wicker chair near the center of the garden. She was very old, or so she appeared to Reardon. The hair that crept out from underneath the shawl was white. Still, her face retained a beauty that Reardon guessed had once been extraordinary.
“You are here about the deer, I suppose?” she said.
Reardon laid the newspaper on a table that stood between himself and Mrs. Lassiter and took out his notebook. “I understand that you have some information which might help us.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Lassiter said, “I have.”
Reardon nodded for her to proceed, but she did not. Instead she said, “I’m sorry that I could not receive you inside.”
“That’s all right,” Reardon said.
“It is difficult for me to move,” Mrs. Lassiter explained. She glanced at her gloved hands. “I have very severe arthritis. There are times when any movement is extremely painful for me.”
“I’m sorry,” Reardon said.
“I don’t like to receive guests in the garden,” Mrs. Lassiter continued. “It never seemed to me to be a proper place.” She smiled. “Especially so late in the fall.”
“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Reardon said.
“Perhaps not,” Mrs. Lassiter said. “Things are much more casual now than when I was a girl. Things were very formal then, you know. Such formality is thought to be rigid now. My grandchildren, for example, are most informal in everything.”
“I see,” Reardon said, letting her go on, work herself up to what she had seen – if, in fact, she had really seen anything.
“Most informal,” Mrs. Lassiter repeated. She paused. “Are you married?”
“I was married,” Reardon said.
Mrs. Lassiter lowered her eyes. “Oh, divorced,” she said quietly.
“No,” Reardon explained, “my wife died.”
“Oh,” Mrs. Lassiter said, “I’m sorry.”
“It’s quite all right,” Reardon said.
“Divorce is very prevalent now,” Mrs. Lassiter said, looking somewhat apologetic.
“Yes, it is.”
“A shame, I think,” Mrs. Lassiter said, “families breaking up like that. Sacred covenants broken.” She paused to watch a small breeze skirt a flank of dead leaves across the garden. “Were you married only once?”
“Yes.”
Mrs. Lassiter nodded approvingly. “Any children?”
“One,” Reardon said, “one son.”
“I see,” Mrs. Lassiter said. “I have two daughters. They -”
“Mrs. Lassiter?” Reardon interrupted. It was time, now, to move on.
“They have both been married,” Mrs. Lassiter continued, undeterred. “Now they’re both divorced. I suppose that’s the way things are now.”
Reardon was beginning to wonder if Mrs. Lassiter had seen anything at all. He remembered all the times before when lonely people had called the police with no more justification than a desire to talk to someone – anyone – about anything. The falsely reported burglaries, noises, assaults outside their doors, faces reflected in late-night window-panes. Reason suspected that Mrs. Lassiter might identify anyone, any photo that he showed her.
“Mrs. Lassiter,” Reardon began again, “about the deer…”
“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Lassiter said. “Of course, that’s why you’re here. Forgive me for my digression.” She smiled faintly. “It is said to be a prerogative of old age.”
“One of our officers reported that you had information that might be of help to us.”
“Yes,” Mrs. Lassiter said, “I have.” Her voice was full of authority, and Reardon could not doubt that she, herself, did at least believe that her information was important.
“Can you tell me?” he asked politely.
“Of course,” Mrs. Lassiter said. Painfully, she shifted a bit in her seat. “I was in the park when the deer were killed.”
Reardon jotted down her first statement in his notebook. “I see.” He looked up at Mrs. Lassiter. “About what time was that?”
“I’m not sure.”
“You’re not?” Perhaps she had not seen anything at all, he thought, if she did not know the time of the crime.
“It was sometime in the early morning.”
“I see,” Reardon said. “Which morning?”
“Monday morning, a week ago Monday morning.”
Reardon noted her response down in his notebook. Everything she had said so far, he thought, had been in the newspapers. “Do you have any idea when on Monday morning you were in the Children’s Zoo?” Point by point he expected the credibility of her story to disintegrate. “Had the sun come up, do you remember? Was it after dawn?”