Hail to the Chief

'Yes,' Mrs. Quince said.

'We have very good reason to believe that Big Anthony and another boy took Midge to Turman last Wednesday night, and then for some reason killed her. We don't know why yet. Nor have we yet located Big Anthony.'

'Do you think he killed my son?'

'We don't know. Once we find him, we'll be able to ask him some questions. We've got enough right now to make an arrest. Which is where we can use your help.'

'What help?' she asked.

'In finding him. In finding Big Anthony.'

'How can I help you?'

'Was there any place… did Johnny ever mention any place that members of his gang would go to if they needed… well, if they needed to be out of sight for a while?'

'What do you mean?'

'To hide.'

'Hide?'

'From the police. Was there such a place, here in the city, that they could go to? Other than the clubhouse on Hitchcock and Dooley? A place the police might not know about?'

'I don't know of any such place here in the city.'

'Detective Broughan's files indicate that Johnny'd been in trouble with the law on several occasions…'

'Yes,' she said, and nodded.

'We're particularly interested in June of last year, when the 101st Squad couldn't locate your son for six days. He finally walked into the station house and said he didn't know they'd been looking for him, but there he was, and what did they want to know. Apparently he'd been hiding someplace till a suitable alibi could be concocted for him. Do you remember that incident, Mrs. Quince?'

'No.'

'It involved a shooting.'

'No, I don't remember.'

'Last June. The latter part of the month.'

'No.'

'Would you remember whether or not Johnny was gone from the apartment any time last June?'

'No.'

'You do remember the police coming here to ask for him. Detective Broughan? Of the 101st Squad?'

'Yes, I remember that. But I'm not here all the time, you see.'

'But you were here when Detective Broughan came around asking for Johnny. That was in June, Mrs. Quince.'

'Yes, I was here. But only because I'd come back for something, I forget what. I think I'd taken the wrong shoes, I think that was it. Black shoes, I think, when I needed my blue ones. Yes, that was it. I'm not here a lot of the time, you see.'

'Where are you?' Kling asked.

'I stay with a friend of mine. My husband and I are separated, you see.'

'Were you staying with your friend in June? When Johnny was missing for six days?'

'I suppose so, I really don't remember. I'm not here too often. I don't like this building. I don't like the people in this building. A lot of spies are beginning to move in. I stay with my friend a lot of the time. Johnny's a big boy, you see, he can take care of himself.' She hesitated, realizing what she had just said. 'I… I always thought he could take care of himself,' she said. 'I couldn't be expected to… I couldn't be expected to watch over him every minute. He was eighteen years old. When I was eighteen, I was already married.'

'Do you have any other children, Mrs. Quince?' Kling asked.

'I had another son. He was killed in Vietnam.'

'I'm sorry.'

'Yes,' Mrs. Quince said, and nodded. 'My husband left in 1965, I don't think he even knows our oldest boy got killed in the war. I wonder if he'll ever find out they're both dead now. Or if he'll even care. I heard he was living in Seattle. Somebody said they saw him in Seattle, I forget who. Somebody. They said he seemed very happy.' Mrs. Quince nodded again. 'It's difficult raising two boys alone, you know. A man should be around to… to… I don't know,' she said, and shrugged. 'It's difficult. I did my best. I tried to do the right thing. When Roger wanted to enlist, I said no, but he went anyway. And when I found out Johnny was running around with a gang, I tried to talk to him, but… you know… it's very difficult when there isn't a man in the house. They just tell you to go to hell, you know? You're their mother, but they say Go to hell, and then they do what they want to do. Johnny was no saint, he'd been in trouble with the law since he was twelve. The time he shot that other boy was the worst, I suppose…'

'Was that last June, Mrs. Quince?'

'Yes. The time you were talking about. He shot a boy who belonged to another gang, I forget the name of the gang, they have such dumb names, it's all so dumb.'

'Would it have been the Death's Heads?'

'I don't know. I don't remember.'

'When Detective Broughan came around looking for Johnny… did you know at the time that he'd shot someone?'

'Yes.'

'But you didn't tell that to Detective Broughan?'

'No.'

'Do you know what happened to that boy your son shot, Mrs. Quince?'

'Yes. He died in Washington Hospital.'

'Yes,' Carella said.

'Yes, I know.' She lifted her chin, her eyes met Carella's. 'What did you want me to-do, mister? Turn him in? He was my son. I'd lost one the November before, I wasn't about to lose another one. Not that it matters now. You live around here, it catches up. It has to catch up.' She lowered her eyes again. 'I don't know any rich men's sons who got killed in that war over there, do you? And I don't know any rich men's sons who get killed in the street in the middle of the night. If there's a God, mister, he doesn't know about poor people.'

'Mrs. Quince,' Carella said, 'when Detective Broughan was looking for your son last June, did you know where he was hiding?'

'Yes,' she said. 'I knew.'

'Where?' Carella asked, and leaned forward.

'It won't help you,' Mrs. Quince said. 'He was at that house in Turman.'

At four o'clock that afternoon, precisely one week and twelve hours after the six bodies had been found in the telephone-company ditch, Carella got a phone call from Phyllis Kingsley, sister of the bearded white man who'd spent time with Eduardo and Constantina Portoles on the night all three of them were murdered. Phyllis told him she had been contacted by a girl named Lisa Knowles, who had flown in from California the moment she'd learned of Andrew Kingsley's death. The girl wanted to talk to the police. She was staying at the Farragut Hotel in midtown Isola.

Carella thanked Phyllis, hung up for just an instant, and then placed a call to the Farragut.

Chapter Eight

He did not get downtown until a little after five o'clock.

Night had descended on the city, the street lamps were on, the homeward rush of office workers had already begun. He drove for two blocks, looking for a parking space, and finally had to put the car in a garage. He did not particularly enjoy this because he knew he wouldn't be reimbursed for the cost of the parking, no matter how many chits he put in. The streets were bleakly cold. Pedestrians went past him swiftly, heading for subway kiosks and bus stops, their heads ducked against the fierce wind, hands clutched into coat collars or stuffed into pockets. He looked up at the sky and hoped it would not snow. He did not like snow. Teddy had once talked him into trying skiing, and he had almost broken his leg the first time down, and had given up on skiing and on snow and also on cold weather that got into a man's bones and made him miserable all over. He thought of Midge McNally lying in mud and leaves in the woods, her blouse stiff with blood. He thought of Johnny Quince, two bullets in the back of his head, shoeless, wearing only trousers and a shirt. And he thought of the six naked corpses lying in the telephone-company ditch. He hurried toward the hotel.

The Farragut was a fleabag catering to hookers, junkies, pushers, and pimps. If Carella had cared to make a few dozen arrests while he was on the premises, just so the trip downtown shouldn't be a total loss, he could have done so with ease. But this was not his precinct, and presumably there were cops here to protect the citizenry, uphold the morality, and continue the unceasing war against narcotics abuse; he would let their mothers worry. In the meantime, the preconceived opinion he formed of Lisa Knowles was not a very good one. What's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this? he asked himself, even before he met her.