‘Where was this?’ Brown asked. ‘What part of the park?’
‘You know where the service road is?’ Josie said. ‘Near Macomber?’
‘Yes?’
‘Right near there. The entrance there. We were a little bit past the service road. That’s how come I heard the car when it drove in.’
‘Did Eddie hear the car?’
‘I don’t think so.’
‘Didn’t hear the car, didn’t see the man.’
‘No.’
‘But he wasn’t sleeping.’
‘No, he was awake.’
Wide awake, she thought, and remembered the salty taste in her mouth.
‘So you were near the Macomber Street service road,’ Carella said.
‘Yes.’
‘About ten blocks west of here.’
‘Well, whatever.’
‘When the man walked off, did he head in this direction? Or did he go west?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Was he heading toward the police station here or away from it?’
‘Toward it.’
‘What did you do then?’
‘Well, I yelled to Jessica...’
‘Who’s Jessica?’ Brown asked.
‘My girlfriend. She was with another boy.’
‘Same place?’
‘Well, I don’t know where exactly. But nearby.’
‘Did she see this man?’
‘No.’
‘Did her boyfriend?’
‘No.’
‘Okay, you yelled to Jessica...’
‘Yes, and we went to look at the car. The one that came in the service road.’
‘You saw the car?’ Carella said.
‘Yes. A blue car. Eddie said it was a Buick Century.’
‘Did you happen to look at the license plate?’
‘I did.’
‘Would you happen to remember...?’
‘WL-seven,’ Josie said, ‘eight-one-six-four.’
Brown and Carella looked at each other in surprise.
‘Are you sure that’s the number?’ Carella asked.
‘Positive.’
‘You wrote it down?’ Brown asked.
‘I memorized it,’ Josie said.
‘Smart girl,’ Carella said, and smiled.
* * * *
It was beginning to snow lightly.
Naomi stood under the lamppost across the street from the old house and wondered for perhaps the tenth time whether she should go in or not. Her shrink, whom she used to see three years ago, would have said she was conflicted. That had been one of Dr. Hammerstein’s favorite words, ‘conflicted.’ If she couldn’t decide between the vanilla or the chocolate ice cream, that was because she was conflicted. She once protested about his use of the word ‘conflicted,’ and he said, ‘Good, ve are making progress.’ That wasn’t what he’d really said, he didn’t even have a German accent. But Naomi always thought of him as having a German accent.
The house across the street looked cozy and warm.
Well, Thanksgiving.
The reason Naomi felt conflicted was because she didn’t want to lay this heavy stuff on this bastard Carella’s wife, but at the same time nobody should have the right to do to her what he’d done to her, which she wouldn’t have let him do if she’d known he was married, which he’d lied about. A cop, no less! A detective! Lying to her, taking advantage of her, doing disgusting things to her, and then not even calling her again. She’d called every damn Carella in the Isola phone book and had come down six Carellas in the Riverhead directory before she’d struck pay dirt earlier today with T. F. Carella. Who the hell was T. F. Carella? Was Steve even his right name? She’d never have gone to bed with somebody who didn’t even give a person his right name. A married man. She’d never have gone to bed with a married man who’d picked her up in a bar. Well, maybe she would have. Isadora Wing went to bed with married men, didn’t she? That wasn’t the point. This wasn’t a question of her own morality here, this was a question of whether a man sworn to uphold the laws of the city, state, and nation should be allowed to get away with not calling up a person after the person had allowed him to do such things to her. You weren’t even supposed to take your gun out of your holster without justification, were you? No less what he had done with it.
She could imagine telling that to Hammerstein.
Ja? Dat is very inner-estink. Are you avare vot a symbol der gun is?
She wondered what Hammerstein was doing these days, the crazy old bastard.
Conflicted, she thought, and started across the street toward the house.
The snow was sticking. She shouldn’t have come all the way up here. If the snow got really bad, it would raise hell with mass transit. Well, some things simply had to be done. One thing she’d learned about being conflicted was that if you took action, the confliction disappeared. Better you than me, Steve, she thought, and knocked on the door.
A short fat lady with blue hair answered it.
Is this his wife? Naomi thought. No wonder he picks up girls in bars.
‘Yes?’ the woman said.
‘I’m looking for Steve Carella,’ Naomi said.
‘I’m sorry, he’s not here just now,’ the woman said.
‘He was here an hour and a half ago,’ Naomi said. ‘He was here having coffee with his wife.’
The woman studied her more closely.
‘Are you the person who called here?’ she asked.
‘I’m the person who called here,’ Naomi said. ‘I’m Naomi Schneider. Are you his wife?’
‘No, I’m not his...’
Another woman appeared suddenly behind her. Dark eyes and hair the color of a raven’s wing, good breasts and legs, an inquisitive look on her face. God, she’s gorgeous! Naomi thought. Why is that son of a bitch fooling around?
‘Mrs. Carella?’ she asked.
The woman nodded.
‘I’m Naomi Schneider,’ she said. ‘I’d like to talk to you about your husband. May I come in?’
The other woman was studying her mouth as she spoke. All at once, Naomi realized she was deaf. Oh God, she thought, what am I doing here? But the woman was gesturing her into the house.
She stepped inside.
I’m going to bring this house down around your ears, Steve, she thought, and followed the woman into the living room.
* * * *
The man from Motor Vehicles got back to them not ten minutes after they’d called.
‘Blue Buick Century,’ he said, ‘tag number WL-seven, eight-one-six-four. Registered to a Dr. Harold Lasser, One-twenty-seven Hall avenue.’