“Right. Where’ll you be? Home?”
“No, we’ll be here awhile yet.”
“Okay,” O’Brien said, and hung up. Meyer came back to his desk with a paper cup full of water. He propped it against his telephone, and then opened his desk drawer and took out a long cardboard strip of brightly colored capsules.
“What’s that?” Carella asked.
“For my cold,” Meyer said, and popped one of the capsules out of its cellophane wrapping. He put it into his mouth and washed it down with water. The phone rang again. Meyer picked it up.
“87th Squad, Meyer.”
“Meyer, this is Andy Parker. I’m still with Krantz, just checking in. He’s in a cocktail lounge with a girl has boobs like watermelons.”
“What size, would you say?” Meyer asked.
“Huh? How the hell do I know?”
“Okay, just stick with him. Call in again later, will you?”
“I’m tired,” Parker said.
“So am I.”
“Yeah, but I’m really tired,” Parker said, and hung up.
Meyer replaced the phone on its cradle. “Parker,” he said. “Krantz is out drinking.”
“That’s nice,” Carella said. “You want to send out for some food?”
“With this case, I’m not very hungry,” Carella said.
“There should be mathematics.”
“What do you mean?”
“To a case. There should be the laws of mathematics. I don’t like cases that defy addition and subtraction.”
“What the hell was Bert grinning about when he left?”
“I don’t know. He grins a lot,” Meyer said, and shrugged. “I like two and two to make four. I like suicide to be suicide.”
“You think this is suicide?”
“No. That’s what I mean. I don’t like suicide to be murder. I like mathematics.”
“I failed geometry in high school,” Carella said.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Our facts are right,” Meyer said, “and the facts add up to suicide. But I don’t like the feel.”
“The feel is wrong,” Carella agreed.
“That’s right, the feel is wrong. The feel is murder.”
The telephone rang. Meyer picked it up. “87th Squad, Meyer,” he said. “You again? What now?” He listened. “Yeah? Yeah? Well, I don’t know, we’ll check it. Okay, stick with it. Right.” He hung up.
“Who?” Carella said.
“Bob O’Brien. He says a blue Thunderbird just pulled up to Nelson’s house, and a blonde woman got out. He wanted to know if Melanie Gifford drives a blue Thunderbird.”
“I don’t know what the hell she drives, do you?”
“No.”
“Motor Vehicle Bureau’s closed, isn’t it?”
“We can get them on the night line.”
“I think we’d better.”
Meyer shrugged. “Nelson is a friend of the family. It’s perfectly reasonable for her to be visiting him.”
“Yeah, I know,” Carella said. “What’s the number there?”
“Here you go,” Meyer said, and flipped open his telephone pad. “Of course, there was that business at Gifford’s party.”
“The argument, you mean?” Carella said, dialing.
“Yeah, when Gifford took a sock at the doctor.”
“Yeah.” Carella nodded. “It’s ringing.”
“But Gifford was drunk.”
“Yeah. Hello,” Carella said into the phone. “Steve Carella, Detective/Second, 87th Squad. Checking automobile registration for Mrs. Melanie Gifford, Larksview. Right, I’ll wait. What? No, that’s Gifford, with a G. Right.” He covered the mouthpiece. “Doesn’t Bob know what she looks like?” he asked.
“How would he?”
“That’s right. This goddamn case is making me dizzy.” He glanced down at the cardboard strip of capsules on Meyer’s desk. “What’s that stuff you’re taking, anyway?”
“It’s supposed to be good,” Meyer said. “Better than all that other crap I’ve been using.”
Carella looked up at the wall clock.
“Anyway, I only have to take them twice a day,” Meyer said.
“Hello,” Carella said into the phone. “Yep, go ahead. Blue Thunderbird convertible, 1964. Right, thank you.” He hung up. “You heard?”
“I heard.”
“That’s pretty interesting, huh?”
“That’s very interesting.”
“What do you suppose old Melanie Wistful wants with our doctor friend?”
“Maybe she’s got a cold, too,” Meyer said.
“Maybe so.” Carella sighed. “Why only twice?”
“Huh?”
“Why do you only have to take them twice a day?”
Five minutes later, Carella was placing a call to Detective-Lieutenant Sam Grossman at his home in Majesta.
Bob O’Brien was standing across the street from Nelson’s brownstone on South Fourteenth when Meyer and Carella arrived. The red MG was parked in front of the doorway, and behind that was Melanie Gifford’s blue Thunderbird. Meyer and Carella walked up to where he stood with his shoulders hunched and his hands in his pockets. He recognized them immediately, but only nodded in greeting.
“Getting pretty chilly,” he said.
“Mmm. She still in there?”
“Yep. The way I figure it, he’s got the whole building. Ground floor is the entry, first floor must be the kitchen, dining and living room area, and the top floor’s the bedrooms.”
“How the hell’d you figure that?” Meyer asked.
“Ground-floor light went on when the woman arrived—is she Mrs. Gifford?”
“She is.”
“Mmm-huh,” O’Brien said, “and out again immediately afterward. The lights on the first floor were on until just a little while ago. An older woman came out at about seven. I figure she’s either the cook or the housekeeper or both.”
“So they’re alone in there, huh?”
“Yeah. Light went on upstairs just about ten minutes after the old lady left. See that small window? I figure that’s the John, don’t you?”
“Yeah, must be.”
“That went on first, and then off, and then the light in the big window went on. That’s a bedroom, sure as hell.”
“What do you suppose they’re doing in there?” Meyer asked.
“I know what I’d be doing in there,” O’Brien said.
“Why don’t you go home?” Carella said.
“You don’t need me?”
“No. Go on, we’ll see you tomorrow.”
“You going in?”
“Yeah.”
“You sure you won’t need me to take pictures?”
“Ha ha,” Meyer said, and then followed Carella, who had already begun crossing the street. They paused on the front step. Carella found the doorbell and rang it. There was no answer. He rang it again. Meyer stepped back off the stoop. The lights on the first floor went on.
“He’s coming down,” Meyer whispered.
“Let him come down,” Carella said. “Second murderer.”
“Huh?”
“Macbeth, act three, scene three.”
“Boy,” Meyer said, and the entry lights went on. The front door opened a moment later.
“Dr. Nelson?” Carella said.
“Yes?” The doctor seemed surprised, but not particularly annoyed. He was wearing a black silk robe, and his feet were encased in slippers.
“I wonder if we might come in,” Carella said.
“Well, I was just getting ready for bed.”
“This won’t take a moment.”
“Well…”
“You’re alone, aren’t you, doctor?”
“Yes, of course,” Nelson said.
“May we come in?”
“Well…well, yes. I suppose so. But I am tired, and I hope—”
“We’ll be brief as we possibly can,” Carella said, and he walked into the house. There was a couch in the entry, a small table before it. A mirror was on the wall opposite the door; a shelf for mail was fastened to the wall below it. Nelson did not invite them upstairs. He put his hands in the pockets of his robe, and made it clear from his stance that he did not intend moving farther into the house than the entry hall.