"Okay?" he asked. "Will you let me make you honest?" She nodded. The nod was a very small one. "You mean it this time?"
She did not nod again. She lifted her mouth, and she put her answer into her lips, and his arms tightened around her, and she knew that he understood her. She broke away from him, and he said, "Hey!" but she trotted away from his reach and went to the kitchen.
When she brought back the champagne, he said, "I'll be damned!"
She sighed, agreeing that he undoubtedly would be damned, and he slapped her playfully on the fanny.
She handed him the bottle, did a deep curtsy which was ludicrous in the prisoner pajamas and then sat on the floor cross-legged while he struggled with the cork.
The champagne exploded with an enormous pop, and though she did not hear the sound, she saw the cork leave the neck of the bottle and ricochet off the ceiling, and she saw the bubbly white fluid overspilling the lip and running over his hands.
She began to clap, and then she got to her feet and went for glasses, and he poured first a little of the wine into his, saying, "That's the way it's done, you know. It's supposed to take off the skim and the bugs and everything," and then filling her glass, and then going back to pour his to the brim.
"To us," he toasted.
She opened her arms slowly, wider and wider and wider.
"A long, long, happy love," he supplied.
She nodded happily.
"And our marriage in August" They clinked glasses, and then sipped at the wine, and she opened her eyes wide in pleasure and cocked her head appreciatively.
"Did you mean what you said before?"
"Are you happy?" he asked.
Yes, her eyes said, yes, yes.
She raised one brow inquisitively.
"About... missing me?"
Yes, yes, yes, yes, her eyes said.
"You're beautiful."
She curtsied again.
"Everything about you. I love you, Teddy. Jesus, how I love you."
She put down the wine glass and then took his hand. She kissed the palm of the hand, and the back, and then she led him into the bedroom, and she unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it out of his trousers, her hands moving gently. He lay down on the bed, and she turned off the light and then, unselfconsciously, unembarrassedly, she took off the pajamas and went to him.
And while they made gentle love in a small room in a big apartment house, a man named David Foster walked toward his own apartment, an apartment he shared with his mother.
And while their love grew fierce and then gentle again, a man named David Foster thought about his partner Mike Reardon, and so immersed in his thoughts was he that he did not hear the footsteps behind him, and when he finally did hear them, it was too late.
He started to turn, but a .45 automatic spat orange flame into the night, once, twice, again, again, and David Foster clutched at his chest, and the red blood burst through his brown fingers, and then he hit the concrete—dead.
Chapter SEVEN
there is not much you can say to a man's mother when the man is dead. There is not much you can say at all.
Carella sat in the doilied easy chair and looked across at Mrs. Foster. The early afternoon sunlight seeped through the drawn blinds in the small, neat living room, narrow razor-edge bands of brilliance against the cool dimness. The heat in the streets was still insufferable, and he was thankful for the cool living room, but his topic was death, and he would have preferred the heat.
Mrs. Foster was a small, dried-up woman. Her face was wrinkled and seamed, as brown as David's had been. She sat hunched hi the chair, a small withered woman with a withered face and withered hands, and he thought A strong wind would blow her away, poor woman, and he watched the grief that lay quietly contained behind the expressionless withered face.
"David was a good boy," she said. Her voice was hollow, a narrow sepulchral voice. He had come to talk of death, and now he could smell death on this woman, could hear death in the creak of her voice, and he thought it strange that David Foster, her son, who was alive and strong and young several hours ago was now dead—and his mother, who had probably longed for the peaceful sleep of death many a time, was alive and talking to Carella.
"Always a good boy. You raise 'em in a neighborhood like this one," Mrs. Foster said, "and you fear for how they'll turn out. My husband was a good worker, but he died young, and it wasn't always easy to see that David wasn't needing. But he was a good boy, always. He would come home and tell me what the other boys were doing, the stealing and all the things they were doing, and I knew he was all right."
"Yes, Mrs. Foster," Carella said.
"And they all liked him around here, too," Mrs. Foster went on, shaking her head. "All the boys he grew up with, and all the old folks, too. The people around here, Mr. Carella, they don't take much to cops. But they liked my David because he grew up among them, and he was a part of them, and I guess they were sort of proud of him, the way I was proud."
"We were all proud of him, Mrs. Foster," Carella said.
"He was a good cop, wasn't he?"
"Yes, he was a fine cop."
"Then why would anyone want to kill him?" Mrs. Foster asked. "Oh, I knew his job was a dangerous one, yes, but this is different, this is senseless. He wasn't even on duty. He was coming home. Who would want to shoot my boy, Mr. Carella. Who would want to shoot my boy?"
"That's what I wanted to talk to you about, Mrs. Foster. I hope you don't mind if I ask a few questions."
"If it'll help you find the man who killed David, I'll answer questions all day for you." "Did he ever talk about his work?"
"Yes, he did. He always told me what happened around the precinct, what you were working on. He told me about his partner being killed, and he told me he was leafing through pictures in his mind, just waiting until he hit the right one."
"Did he say anything else about the pictures? Did he say he suspected anyone?" "No."
"Mrs. Foster, what about his friends?" "Everyone was his friend."
"Did he have an address book or anything in which their names might be listed?"
"I don't think he had an address book, but there's a pad near the telephone he always used." "May I have that before I leave?" "Certainly."
"Did he have a sweetheart?"
"No, not anyone steady. He went out with a lot of different girls."
"Did he keep a diary?"
"No."
"Does he have a photograph collection?" "Yes, he liked music a lot. He was always playing his records whenever he..."
"No, not phonograph. Photograph."
"Oh. No. He carried a few pictures in his wallet, but that's all."
"Did he ever tell you where he went on his free time?" "Oh, lots of different places. He liked the theatre a lot The stage, I mean. He went often."
"These boyhood friends of his. Did he pal around with them much?"
"No, I don't think so."
"Did he drink?"
"Not heavily."
"I mean, would you know whether or not he frequented any of the bars in the neighborhood? Social drinking, of course."
"I don't know."
"Had he received any threatening letters or notes that you know of?"
"He never mentioned any."
"Ever behave peculiarly on the telephone?"
"Peculiarly? What do you mean?"
"Well, as if he were trying to hide something from you. Or as if he were worried . . . anything like that. I'm thinking of threatening calls, Mrs. Foster."
"No, I don't ever remember him acting strange on the phone."
"I see. Well . . ." Carella consulted his notes. "I guess that's about it. I want to get going, Mrs. Foster, because there's a lot of work to do. If you could get me that telephone pad..."