“And the next one?”
“I really couldn’t say with any accuracy. We were on the phone together constantly that night.”
“When you made your three or four calls... was Mr. Moore at home?”
“Yes, of course.”
“You called him at his home number?”
“Yes.”
“When was the last time you spoke to him?”
“It must’ve been about two in the morning, I guess.”
“Did you call him? Or did he—”
“I called him.”
“And you got him at home?”
“Yes. Mr. Carella, I would like to—”
“Mr. Loeb, did you exchange any phone calls between eleven o’clock and midnight this past Friday night?”
“With Timmy, do you mean?”
“Yes, with Mr. Moore.”
“Between eleven and midnight?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I believe so, yes.”
“Did he call you, or did you call him?”
“He called me.”
“Can you remember the exact times?”
“Well, no, not the exact times.”
“But you’re certain those calls came between eleven and midnight.”
“Yes, I am.”
“How many calls during that hour?”
“Two, I believe.”
“And Mr. Moore made both those calls?”
“Yes.”
“Can you try to remember the precise times of—”
“I really couldn’t say with any accuracy.”
“Approximately then.”
“I guess he called at... it must’ve been a little past eleven, the first call. The news was just going off. It must’ve been about five past eleven, I guess.”
“The news?”
“On the radio. I was studying with the radio on. So was Timmy. I like to study with background music, do you know? I find it soothing. But the news was on when he called.”
“And you say he was listening to the radio, too?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How do you know that?”
“I could hear it. In fact, he said something about turning it down.”
“I’m sorry, turning it—”
“His radio. He said something like... I really don’t remember exactly... ‘Let me turn this down a minute, Karl,’ something like that.”
“And then he turned down the radio?”
“Yes, sir.”
“The volume on the radio?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you had your conversation.”
“Yes, sir.”
“How long did you talk to him during that call? This was at five after eleven, you say?”
“Yes, sir, approximately. We talked for five or ten minutes, I guess. In fact, when he called back, there were still some things he didn’t understand about—”
“When was that, Mr. Loeb? The next call, I mean.”
“A half hour later? I can’t say exactly.”
“Sometime around eleven thirty-five?”
“Approximately.”
“Was his radio still on?”
“What?”
“His radio. Could you still hear it in the background?”
“Yes, sir, I could,”
“What did you talk about that time?”
“The same thing we’d talked about at eleven. Well, five after eleven, actually. The test is on diseases of the bone marrow. We went over the material on leukemia. How specific do you want me to get?”
“Went over the same material again, is that it?”
“Well, leukemia isn’t quite as simple as it may sound, Mr. Carella.”
“I’m sure it isn’t,” Carella said, feeling reprimanded. “And you say the last time you spoke to him was at two in the morning or thereabouts?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you speak to him at any time between eleven thirty-five and two A.M.?”
“I believe so, yes.”
“Who called who?”
“We called each other.”
“At what time?”
“I don’t remember exactly. I know the phone was busy at one point, but—”
“When you called him?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What time would that have been?”
“I really couldn’t say with any accuracy.”
“Before midnight? After midnight?”
“I’m not sure.”
“But you did speak again after that eleven-thirty-five call?”
“Yes, sir. Several times.”
“Calling back and forth.”
“Yes, sir.”
“To discuss the exam again.”
“Yes, the material that would be on the exam.”
“Was his radio still on?”
“I think so.”
“You could hear the radio?”
“Yes, sir. I could hear music.”
“The same sort of music you’d heard earlier?”
“Yes, sir. He was listening to classical music. I heard it in the background each time he called.”
“And the last time you spoke was at two in the morning.”
“Yes, sir.”
“When you called him.”
“Yes, sir.”
“At home.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thank you very much, Mr. Loeb, I really appreciate—”
“Well, what is this all about, Mr. Carella? I really—”
“Routine,” Carella said, and hung up.
Blue Monday.
The threatening blue glare of ice. The brilliant robin’s-egg blue of a sky that stretched from horizon to horizon over the city’s towers and peaks, the kind of sky that always came as a surprise in January and February even though — like the snow and the wind and the freezing rain — it was not an unusual occurrence in this city. The darker blue of smoke pouring from the tall stacks of the factories across the river Dix in Calm’s Point. The almost-black blue of the uniforms on the cops who stood outside the tenement on Ainsley Avenue and looked down at the mutilated woman on the icebound sidewalk.
The woman was naked.
A trail of blood led from where she lay on the sidewalk to the front door of the tenement behind her, and into the tenement hallway, bloody palm prints on the inner vestibule door, blood on the stairs and banisters leading to the upper stories.
The woman was still bleeding profusely.
The woman’s breasts had been brutally slashed.
There was a giant bleeding cross on the woman’s belly.
The woman had no nose.
“Jesus!” one of the patrolmen said.
“Help me,” the woman moaned, and blood bubbled from her mouth.
The woman who answered the door to Allan Carter’s apartment was perhaps thirty-five years old, Carella guessed, wearing a brocaded housecoat at 10:00 in the morning, her long black hair sleekly combed and hanging straight on either side of a delicate oval face, her brown eyes slanted enough to give her the same faintly Oriental appearance that caused the cops of the Eight-Seven to kid Carella about being Fujiwara’s cousin. She could have been an older Tina Wong; it always amazed Carella that when a man began cheating on his wife, he often chose a woman who looked somewhat like her.
“Mr. Carella?” she said.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Come in, please, my husband’s expecting you.” She extended her hand. “I’m Melanie Carter.”
“How do you do?” Carella said, and took her hand. It felt extremely warm to the touch, perhaps because his own hand was so icy cold after walking gloveless (and hatless, yes, I know, Uncle Sal) from where he’d parked the police sedan.
Carter came out of what Carella assumed to be a bedroom. He was wearing a Japanese-style kimono over dark blue pajamas. Carella idly wondered if the kimono had been a gift from Tina Wong. He let the thought pass.