He was down here today — even though it was his day off — because: (a) he lived only six blocks away, in a small apartment in the shadow of the Calm’s Point Bridge, and (b) he could not question Marvin Edelman’s widow until tomorrow because she was on her way home from the Caribbean after receiving a call from her daughter informing her that Edelman had been shot and killed last night, and (c) there was not much more he could do on the homicide until Grossman’s people came up with some information on the gun used in the slaying, and (d) he knew the Identification Section was open seven days a week (although the Mayor had been threatening cutbacks) and he hoped he might be able to pick up a picture of Annie Holmes, which he could then show to the man she’d stabbed and his wife, who’d witnessed the stabbing, hoping for a positive ID that would be good enough for an arrest.
That was why he was here.
He had not told Grossman why he was here, even though he’d started to, because somehow the triangle of Dutch Seaman-Present Wife-Former Bedmate recalled vividly and blindingly the scene in the bedroom of the apartment Kling had shared with Augusta as man and wife, the triangular scene in that room, Augusta naked in their bed, absurdly clutching the sheet to her breasts, hiding her shame, protecting her nakedness from the prying eyes of her own husband, her green eyes wide, her hair tousled, a fine sheen of perspiration on the marvelous cheekbones that were her fortune, her lip trembling the way the gun in Kling’s hand was trembling. And the man with Augusta, the third side of the triangle, was in his undershorts and reaching for his trousers folded over a bedside chair, the man was short and wiry, he looked like Genero, for Christ’s sake, with curly black hair and brown eyes wide in terror, but he was not Genero, he was Augusta’s lover, and as he turned from the chair where his trousers were draped, he said only, “Don’t shoot,” and Kling leveled the gun at him.
I should have shot him, he thought now. If I’d shot him, I wouldn’t still be living with the shame. I wouldn’t have to stop telling a story about a Dutch seaman and his hooker girlfriend for fear that even a decent man like Sam Grossman will remember, will think, Ah yes, Kling and his cheating wife, Ah yes, Kling did nothing, Ah yes, Kling did not kill the man who was—
“Hey, hi!” the voice said.
He was approaching the elevators, his head bent, his eyes on the marble floor. He did not recognize the voice, nor did he even realize at first that it was he who was being addressed. But he looked up because someone had stepped into his path. The someone was Eileen Burke.
She was wearing a simple brown suit with a green blouse that was sort of ruffly at the throat, the green the color of her eyes, her long red hair swept efficiently back from her face, standing tall in high-heeled brown pumps a shade darker than the suit. She was carrying a shoulder bag, and he could see into the bag to where the barrel of a revolver seemed planted in a bed of crumpled Kleenexes. The picture on her plastic ID card, clipped to the lapel of her suit, showed a younger Eileen Burke, her red hair done in the frizzies. She was smiling — in the picture, and in person.
“What are you doing down here?” she asked. “Nobody comes here on a Sunday.”
“I need a picture from the IS,” he said. She seemed waiting for him to say more. “How about you?” he added.
“I work here. Special Forces is here. Right on this floor, in fact. Come on in for a cup of coffee,” she said, and her smile widened.
“No, thanks, I’m sort of in a hurry,” Kling said, even though he was in no hurry at all.
“Okay,” Eileen said, and shrugged. “Actually, I’m glad I ran into you. I was going to call later in the day, anyway.”
“Oh?” Kling said.
“I think I lost an earring up there. Either there or in the Laundromat with the panty perpetrator. If it was the Laundromat, good-bye, Charlie. But if it was the squadroom, or maybe the car — when you were dropping me off last night, you know—”
“Yeah,” Kling said.
“It was just a simple gold hoop earring, about the size of a quarter. Nothing ostentatious when you’re doing dirty laundry, right?”
“Which ear was it?” he asked.
“The right,” she said. “Huh? What difference does it make? I mean, it was the right ear, but earnings are interchangeable, so—”
“Yeah, that’s right,” Kling said. He was looking at her right ear, or at the space beyond her right ear, or wherever. He was certainly not looking at her face, certainly not allowing his eyes to meet her eyes. What the hell is wrong with him? she wondered.
“Well, take a look up there, okay?” she said. “If you find it, give me a call. I’m with Special Forces — well, you know that — but I’m in and out all the time, so just leave a message. That is, if you happen to find the earring.” She hesitated, and then said, “The right one, that is. If you find the left one, it’s the wrong one.” She smiled. He did not return the smile. “Well, see you around the pool hall,” she said, and spread her hand in a farewell fan, and turned on her heel, and walked away from him.
Kling pressed the button for the elevator.
Tina Wong had been jogging in the snow, and she was surprised to find the detectives waiting in the lobby of her building when she came out of the park. She was wearing a gray sweat suit and a woolen hat that was less colorful than the one Meyer had received as a present. Her track shoes were wet, as were the legs of the sweat suit pants. She said, “Oh,” and then inexplicably looked over her shoulder, as though her car were illegally parked at the curb or something.
“Sorry to bother you, Miss Wong,” Meyer said. He was not wearing his Valentine’s Day gift. Instead, he had on a blue snap-brim fedora that he felt made him look more stylish if a trifle more bald than the watch cap did.
“Just a few questions we’d like to ask,” Carella said. They had been standing in the lobby for close to forty minutes, after having been advised by Tina’s doorman that Miss Wong was “out for her run.”
“Sure,” Tina said, and gestured toward an array of furniture clustered around an imitation fireplace. The lobby was very hot. Tina’s face was flushed red from the cold outside and the energetic jogging she had done. She yanked off the woolen hat and shook out her hair. All three sat in chairs around the fake fireplace. At the switchboard across the room, the doorman looked bored as he read the headline on the morning paper. There was a mechanical hum in the room; the detectives could not locate its source. The lobby had the feel and smell of slightly damp clothes in a cloistered alcove. Outside the glass entrance doors, the wind blew fiercely, its rising and falling keen counterpointing the steady hum.
“Miss Wong,” Carella said, “when we spoke to you yesterday, do you remember our asking whether or not Sally was doing anything like cocaine?”