“Vallejo. She's our wardrobe mistress.”
“And they were both with Mr. Gifford when you went to call him?”
“Yes.”
“Would you know how long they were with him?”
“No.”
“How long did you stay in the dressing room, Mr. Cooper?”
“I knocked on the door, and Stan said, ‘Come in,’ and I opened the door, poked my head inside and said, ‘Two minutes, Stan,’ and he said, ‘Okay,’ and I waited until he came out.”
“Did he come out immediately?”
“Well, almost immediately. A few seconds. You can’t kid around on television. Everything's timed to the second, you know. Stan knew that. Whenever he was cued, he came.”
“Then you really didn’t spend any time at all in the dressing room, did you, Mr. Cooper?”
“No. I didn’t even go inside. As I told you, I just poked my head in.”
“Were they talking when you looked in?”
“I think so, yes.”
“They weren’t arguing or anything, were they?”
“No, but…” Cooper shook his head.
“What is it, Mr. Cooper?”
“Nothing. Would you fellows like a drink?”
“Thanks, no,” Meyer said. “You’re sure you didn’t hear anyone arguing?”
“No.”
“No raised voices?”
“No.” Cooper rose. “If you don’t mind, I’ll have one. It's not too early to have one, is it?”
“No, go ahead,” Carella said.
Cooper walked into the other room. They heard him pouring his drink, and then he came back into the living room with a short glass containing ice cubes and a healthy triple shot of whiskey. “I hate to drink so damn early in the afternoon,” he said. “I was on the wagon for a year, you know. How old do you think I am?”
“I don’t know,” Carella said.
“Twenty-eight. I look older than that, don’t I?”
“No, I wouldn’t say so,” Carella said.
“I used to drink a lot,” Cooper explained, and then took a swallow from the glass. The scowl seemed to vanish from his face at once. “I’ve cut down.”
“When Mr. Gifford left the dressing room,” Meyer said, “you were with him, right?”
“Yes.”
“Did you meet anyone between the dressing room and the stage?”
“Not that I remember. Why?”
“Would you remember if you’d met anyone?”
“I think so, yes.”
“Then the last people who were with Gifford were Art Wetherley, Maria Vallejo, and you. In fact, Mr. Cooper, if we want to be absolutely accurate, the very last person was you.”
“I suppose so. No, wait a minute. I think he said a word to one of the cameramen, just before he went on. Something about coming in for the close shot. Yes, I’m sure he did.”
“Did Mr. Gifford eat anything in your presence?”
“No.”
“Drink anything?”
“No.”
“Put anything into his mouth at all?”
“No.”
“Was he eating or drinking anything when you went into the dressing room?”
“I didn’t go in, I only looked in. I think maybe there were some coffee containers around. I’m not sure.”
“They were drinking coffee?”
“I told you, I’m not sure.”
Carella nodded and then looked at Meyer and then looked at Cooper, and then very slowly and calmly said, “What is it you want to tell us, Mr. Cooper?”
Cooper shrugged. “Anything you want to know.”
“Yes, but specifically.”
“I don’t want to get anybody in trouble.”
“What is it, Mr. Cooper?”
“Well…well, Stan had a fight with Art Wetherley yesterday. Just before the show. Not a fight, an argument. Words. And…I said something about I wished Stan would calm down before we went on the air, and Art…Look, I don’t want to get him in trouble. He's a nice guy, and I wouldn’t even mention this, but the papers said Stan was poisoned and…well, I don’t know.”
“What did he say, Mr. Cooper?”
“He said he wished Stan would drop dead.”
Carella was silent for a moment. He rose then and said, “Can you tell us where Mr. Wetherley lives, please?”
Cooper told them where Wetherley lived, but it didn’t matter very much because Wetherley was out when they got there. They checked downstairs with his landlady, who said she had seen him leaving the building early that morning, no he didn’t have any luggage with him, why in the world would he be carrying luggage at 10:00 in the morning? Carella and Meyer told the landlady that perhaps he would be carrying luggage if he planned to leave the city, and the landlady told them he never left the city on Thursday because that was when MBA ran the tape of the show from the night before so the writers could see which jokes had got the laughs and which hadn’t, and that was very important in Mr. Wetherley's line of work. Carella and Meyer explained that perhaps, after what had happened last night, the tape might not be run today. But the landlady said it didn’t matter what had happened last night, they’d probably get a replacement for the show, and then Mr. Wetherley would have to write for it, anyway, so it was very important that he see the tape today and know where the audience laughed and where it didn’t. They thanked her, and then called MBA, who told them the tape was not being shown today and no, Wetherley was not there.
They had coffee and crullers in a diner near Wetherley's apartment, debated putting out a Pickup-and-Hold on him, and decided that would be a little drastic on the basis of hearsay, assuming Cooper was telling the truth to begin with—which he might not have been. They were knowledgeable and hip cops and they knew all about this television rat race where people slit each other's throats and stabbed each other in the back. It was, after all, quite possible that Cooper was lying. It was, in fact, quite possible that everybody was lying. So they called the squadroom and asked Bob O’Brien to put what amounted to a telephone surveillance on Wetherley's apartment, calling him every half hour, and warning him to stay right in that apartment where he was, in case he happened to answer the phone. O’Brien had nothing else to do but call Wetherley's apartment every half hour, being involved in trying to solve three seemingly related Grover Park muggings, so he was naturally very happy to comply with Carella's wishes. The two detectives discussed how large a tip they should leave the waitress, settled on a trifle more than fifteen percent because she was fast and had good legs, and then went out into the street again.
The late afternoon air was crisp and sharp, the city vibrated with a shimmering clarity that caused buildings to leap out from the sky. The streets seemed longer, stretching endlessly to a distant horizon that was almost visible. The landmarks both men had grown up with, the familiar sights that gave the city perspective and reality, seemed to surround them intimately now, seemed closer and more intricately detailed. You could reach out to touch them, you could see the sculptured stone eye of a gargoyle twelve stories above the street. The people, too, the citizens who gave a city its tempo and its pace, walked with their topcoats open, no longer faceless, contagiously enjoying the rare autumn day, filling their lungs with air that seemed so suddenly sweet. Carella and Meyer crossed the avenue idly, both men smiling. They walked together with the city between them like a beautiful young girl, sharing her silently, somewhat awed in her radiant presence.
For a little while at least, they forgot they were investigating what looked like a murder.
5
As Kling had anticipated, Cindy Forrest was not overwhelmed by the prospect of having to spend even an infinitesimal amount of time with him. She reluctantly admitted, however, that such a course might be less repulsive than the possibility of spending an equal amount of time in a hospital. It was decided that Kling would pick her up at the office at noon Friday, take her to lunch, and then walk her back again. He reminded her that he was a city employee and that there was no such thing as an expense account for taking citizens to lunch while trying to protect them, a subtlety Cindy looked upon as simply another index to Kling's personality. Not only was he obnoxious, but he was apparently cheap as well.