“Tell me exactly what he looked like,’ he said.
‘He was tall and...’
‘How tall?’
‘Six-one, six-two?’
‘Weight?’
‘A hundred and eighty?’
‘Color of his eyes?’
‘Well, actually I don’t remember. But he did terrible things to...’
‘Any scars or tattoos?’
‘I didn’t see any,’ Naomi said. ‘Not anywhere on his body.’ She lowered her eyes like a maiden, the way she had learned in her magazines.
‘Did he say where he lived?’
‘No.’
‘What was he wearing?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Nothing?’
‘Oh, I thought you meant when he was doing all those...’
‘When you met him.’
‘A gray suit,’ she said. ‘Sort of a nubby fabric. An off-white shirt, a dark blue tie. Black shoes. A gold Rolex watch, all gold, not the steel and gold one. A gun in a shoulder holster. He used the gun to...’
‘What kind of gun?’
‘A Colt Detective Special.’
‘You know guns, do you?’
‘That’s what he told me it was. This was just before he...’
‘And you met him where?’
‘In a bar near where I work. I work for CBS. On Monday morning, when I went to work, he forced me to...’
‘What’s the name of the bar?’
‘The Corners.’
‘Where is it?’
‘On Detavoner and Ash. On the corner there.’
‘Do you go there a lot?’
‘Oh, every now and then. I’ll probably drop by there tomorrow after work.’ She raised one eyebrow. ‘You ought to check it out,’ she said.
‘Had you ever seen him in that bar before?’
‘Never.’
‘Sure about that?’
‘Well, I would have noticed. He was very good-looking.’
‘Did he seem familiar with the neighborhood?’
‘Well, we didn’t discuss the neighborhood. What we talked about mostly, he gave me sixty seconds to finish my drink, you see, because he was in such a hurry to...’
‘Did you get the impression he knew the neighborhood well?’
‘I got the feeling he knew his way around, yes.’
‘Around that particular neighborhood?’
‘Well, the city. I got the feeling he knew the city. When we were driving toward my apartment later, he knew exactly how to get there.’
‘You drove there in his car?’
‘Yes.’
‘What kind of car?’
‘A Jaguar.’
‘He was driving a Jaguar?’
‘Yes.’
‘You didn’t find that surprising? A detective driving a Jaguar?’
‘Well, I don’t know any detectives,’ she said. ‘You’re only my second detective. My first, as a matter of fact, since he wasn’t a real detective, was he?’
‘What year was it?’
‘What?’
‘The Jag.’
‘Oh. I don’t know.’
‘What color?’
‘Gray. A four-door sedan. Gray with red leather upholstery.’
‘I don’t suppose you noticed the license plate number.’
‘No, I’m sorry, I didn’t. I was sort of excited, you see. He was a very exciting man. Of course, later, when he started doing all those things to me...’
‘And you say he knew how to get there? From the bar on Detavoner and Ash to where you live?’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Where do you live, Miss Schneider?’
‘On Colby and Radner. Near the circle there. If you’d like to come over later, I can show you…’
‘Did you ask him for any sort of identification? A shield? An ID card?’
‘Well, when he was undressing, I said, “Let me see your badge.” But I was just kidding around, you know. It never occurred to me that he might not be a real detective.’
‘Did he show you a badge?’
‘Well, what he said was, “Here’s my badge, baby.” And showed me his ... you know.’
‘You simply accepted him as a cop, is that right?’
‘Well ... yeah. I’d never met a cop before. Not socially. Of course, you must meet a lot of young, attractive women in your line of work, but I’ve never had the opportunity to...’
‘Did he say anything about coming back to that bar? The Corners?’
‘No, he just said he’d call me.’
‘But he never did.’
‘No. Actually I’m glad he didn’t. Now that I know he wasn’t a real detective. And, also, I might never have got to meet you, you know?’
‘Miss Schneider,’ Carella said, ‘if he does call you, I want you to contact me at once. Here’s my card,’ he said, and reached into his wallet. ‘I’ll jot down my home number, too, so you’ll have it...’
‘Well, I already know your home number,’ she said, but he had begun writing.
‘Just so you’ll have it handy,’ he said, and gave the card to her.
‘Well, I doubt if he’ll call me,’ she said. ‘It’s already three weeks, almost.’
‘Well, in case he does.’
He looked suddenly very weary. She had an almost uncontrollable urge to reach out and touch his hair, smooth it back, comfort him. She was certain he would be very different in bed than the fake Steve Carella had been. She suddenly wondered what it would be like to be in bed with both of them at the same time.
‘How are you getting home?’ he asked.
End of interview, she thought.
Or was he making his move?
‘By subway,’ she said, and smiled at him. ‘Unless someone offers to drive me home.’
‘I’ll call the local precinct,’ he said. ‘See if I can’t get a car to take you down.’
‘Oh,’ she said.
‘Thanksgiving Day, they might not be too busy.’
He rose and started for the phone.
‘Miss Schneider,’ he said, dialing, ‘I really appreciate the information you’ve given me.’
Yeah, she thought, so why the fuck don’t you come home with me?
* * * *
The man who arrived at the station house at a quarter past eight that night was wearing a shabby overcoat and a dilapidated felt hat. The desk sergeant on duty looked at the envelope he handed across the muster desk, saw that it was addressed to Detective Stephen Louis Carella, and immediately said, ‘Where’d you get this?’ The Deaf Man was famous around here. There wasn’t a cop in the precinct who didn’t know about those pictures hanging on the bulletin board upstairs.