In the supply closet the timer moved into Thursday’s 3:45-to-4:00 p.m. sector.
* * * *
It began snowing at six-thirty.
The forecasters were still promising only light flurries. The people of this city knew that when the forecasters promised light flurries, they could expect a blizzard.
All of the other detectives who’d been invited to the party figured they’d better leave for the squadroom earlier than they’d planned.
The other invited detectives were:
Steve Carella.
Bert Kling.
Alexandre Delgado.
Cotton Hawes.
Richard Genero.
Arthur Brown.
Meyer Meyer.
And the guest of honor himself, Peter Byrnes.
Byrnes thought Carella was the guest of honor. That was because his invitation had said it was a party for Steve Carella. The handwritten scrawl on the flap of his invitation had been signed ‘Teddy.’ He had been tempted to call Teddy and ask if a present was expected. But he hated talking to that bitchy housekeeper of theirs. Instead, he had bought Carella a pair of cuff links and had hidden them in the top drawer of his desk.
As he dressed that night, he wondered why Teddy hadn’t cleared this with him first. A party in the squadroom? A squadroom was a place of business. Or had she gone downtown over his head, talked with a deputy inspector or something, asked if it would be okay to give a small party in the squadroom for her husband’s...
Her husband’s what?
Was it Steve’s birthday?
Byrnes didn’t think so.
He was vaguely troubled about the party in the squadroom. He hoped to hell no departmental rank walked in, and he hoped Teddy hadn’t planned to serve anything alcoholic. Only once could he remember a party in the squadroom, and that was when Captain Overman retired, more years ago than Byrnes could count. No booze. Just sandwiches and punch, though Byrnes later suspected one of the patrol sergeants had laced the punch with vodka. Still it wasn’t like Teddy not to have checked with him first. He was again tempted to call her, ask if she’d got some sort of clearance. Teddy knew how the goddamn department worked, she’d been a cop’s wife for a long time now.
Harriet watched him as he knotted his tie.
‘Who’s this party for?’ she asked cautiously. She figured the surprise was premised on his thinking the party was for someone else.
‘Steve,’ he said.
‘You didn’t tell me about it,’ she said.
‘I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone,’ Byrnes said.
‘I’m not anyone, I’m your wife,’ Harriet said.
‘Still it’s supposed to be a surprise.’
She wondered suddenly if the party really was for Carella. On the phone the detective who’d called—whatever his name was—had only said, ‘It’s supposed to be a surprise, isn’t it?’ He hadn’t said it was a surprise for Pete.
‘Did you buy a present?’ she asked.
‘Yeah, a pair of cuff links.’
‘Gennario wanted to know if he should bring a present.’
‘Who?’
‘Gennario. One of your detectives.’
‘Genero?’
‘Yes, Genero, right. He called here, wanted to know if he should bring a present.’
‘What’d you tell him?’
‘I said I didn’t know.’
‘He’s a jackass,’ Byrnes said.
The clock on the dresser read six forty-five.
* * * *
‘What time will you be back?’ Annie Rawles asked.
‘I don’t know actually,’ Hawes said.
Annie was wearing one of his Christmas gifts. He had given her seven pairs of silk panties, one for each day of the week. The panties were in different colors. Blue for Monday. Green for Tuesday. Lavender for Wednesday. Purple for Thursday. Red for Friday. Black for Saturday. White for Sunday. She had asked him why he’d chosen those particular colors for those particular days. He said they had to be blue for Monday because of Blue Monday, and then he’d simply worked his way through the color spectrum until he got to the weekend. Friday was the beginning of the weekend, and the appropriate kickoff color seemed to be red. Saturday was all slinky and sexy, hence black. Sunday was as pure as the driven snow—white. Elementary, my dear Watson.
This was Thursday, and she was wearing the purple panties.
She was also wearing a lavender garter belt, a lavender bra, one purple nylon stocking and one black, and a gold chain and pendant, which she never took off. Thirty-four years old with brown eyes and black wedge-cut hair, long slender legs, and small perfectly formed breasts, she stood in high-heeled purple satin slippers, her hands on her narrow hips, and looked more like a Bob Fosse dancer than a Detective/First Grade earning $37,935 a year. She also looked like a woman scorned. Hawes was looking at the clock on the dresser. It read six forty-eight...
‘Well, what kind of a party is it?’ she asked.
‘For the lieutenant,’ he said.
‘And it’s in the squadroom?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Do you always have parties up there at the old Eight-Seven?’
‘First one I can think of,’ he said.
Annie looked at him.
‘Are you telling me the truth?’ she said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Is there really a party tonight...’
‘Of course there...’
‘... in the squadroom, of all places...’
‘That’s where...’
‘... or is there something you’d like to tell me?’
‘Like what?’
‘Like why you’re rushing out of here...’
‘Who’s rushing?’
‘... when I’m all decked out like a whore?’
‘A whore? You look gorgeous!’
‘Why didn’t you tell me about this party earlier?’
‘The truth is I forgot about it. I got the invitation a few days before Christmas.’
‘I’ll bet.’
‘Would you like to see it?’
‘Yes, I would like to see it,’ Annie said. ‘Please,’ she added. She felt dumb in the sexy underwear. All dressed up for a party of her own, and nobody coming.
Hawes took the invitation from his jacket pocket.
Annie looked at it.
‘Why all the secrecy?’ she asked.
‘I have no idea.’
‘A small party, huh?’ she said.