He was starting for the door when Carter said, “Sit down.”
He turned to look at him.
“Please,” Carter said.
Carella sat.
“Okay, I knew she was a blonde,” Carter said.
“Okay,” Carella said.
“I was simply afraid to say I’d known her, that’s all.”
“Why?”
“Because she was murdered. I didn’t want to get involved, not in any way possible.”
“In what way could you have got involved? You didn’t kill her, did you?”
“Of course not!”
“Were you having an affair with her?”
“No.”
‘Then what were you afraid of?”
“I didn’t want people poking around. I didn’t want anyone to find out about Tina and me.”
“But we have found out, haven’t we? And besides, Mr. Carter, your wife isn’t exactly a nun, remember? So what difference would it have made?”
“People behave strangely when murder is involved,” Carter said, and shrugged.
“Is that a line from the play you’re rehearsing in Philadelphia?”
“It’s a lame excuse, I know—”
“No, it happens to be true,” Carella said. “But usually, the only people who behave strangely are the ones with something to hide. I still think you have something to hide.”
“Nothing, believe me,” Carter said.
“Did you, in fact, see Sally at that party last Sunday night?”
“I did.”
“Did you talk to her?”
“I did.”
“What about?”
“I don’t remember. The show, I suppose. When people are involved in a show—”
“Anything besides the show?”
“No.”
“Were you present when Sally and some other people began snorting cocaine?”
“I was not.”
“Then how do you know they were doing it?”
“What I’m saying is I didn’t see anyone doing anything of the sort. Not while I was there.”
“What time did you leave the party, Mr. Carter?”
“At about midnight.”
“With Tina Wong?”
“Yes, with Tina.”
“Where’d you go from there?”
“To Tina’s place.”
“How long did you stay there?”
“All night long.”
“Tina saw Sally Anderson snorting. Together with a group of other people including Mike Roldan, who’s also in your show. If Tina saw them, how come you didn’t see them?”
“Tina and I are not Siamese twins. We are not joined at the hip.”
“Meaning what?”
“Lonnie has one of these big old rent-controlled apartments on the park. There were sixty or seventy people there that night. It’s entirely possible that Tina was in one part of the apartment while I was in another.”
“Yes, that’s entirely possible,” Carella said. “And I guess Tina would be willing to swear you weren’t with her when she witnessed Sally Anderson using cocaine.”
“I don’t know what Tina would be willing to swear.”
“Do you use cocaine, Mr. Carter?”
“I certainly do not!”
“Do you know who was supplying Sally?”
“I do not.”
“Do you know a man named Paco Lopez?”
“No.”
“Where were you last Friday night between eleven and twelve midnight?”
“I told you. In Philadelphia.”
“Where were you on Tuesday night at about the same time?”
“Philadelphia.”
“I suppose there are any number of people—”
“Any number.”
“What are you trying to hide, Mr. Carter?”
“Nothing,” Carter said.
At St. Jude’s Hospital — familiarly called St. Juke’s by the cops, because of the many knifing victims carted there day and night — Judite Quadrado kept calling for a priest. At least that’s what they thought she wanted. They thought she knew she was dying and wanted a priest to administer the rites of extreme unction. Actually, she was trying to tell them that a priest had come into her apartment together with a fat woman and that the two of them had done this terrible thing to her.
Judite was in the Intensive Care Unit, with tubes coming out of her nose and her mouth, and tubes running from her arms to a galaxy of machines that beeped and glowed with electronic oranges and blues all around her bed. It was difficult to talk around the tube in her mouth. When she tried to say “Brother Anthony,” which was the name the priest had given her, it came out as a scrambled “Branny,” and when she tried to say “Emma Forbes,” which had been the fat woman’s name, it came out only as what sounded like a cross between a mumble and a hum. She went back to saying “priest,” which came out as “preese,” but which at least they seemed to understand.
The priest came into the unit at seven minutes past eleven that Monday morning.
He was a little too late.
Judite Quadrado had died six minutes earlier.
If there is one thing criminals and cops alike share — aside from the symbiotic relationship that makes each of their jobs possible — it is the sense of smell that tells them when someone is frightened. The moment they catch that whiff, cops and criminals alike turn into savage beasts of prey, ready to tear out the throat and devour the entrails. Miguel Roldan and Antonio Asensio were scared witless, and Meyer smelled their fear the instant Roldan, unsolicited, told him that he and Asensio had been living together as man and wife for the past three years. Meyer didn’t care what their persuasion was. The offered information told him only that the two men were frightened. He knew they weren’t afraid they’d be busted as homosexuals; not in this city. So what were they afraid of? Until that moment, he had been calling them, respectively and respectfully, Mr. Roldan and Mr. Asensio. He now switched to “Mike” and “Tony,” an old cop trick designed to place any suspect at a disadvantage, a ploy somewhat similar to the one nurses used in hospitals. “Hello, Jimmy, how are we feeling this morning?” they would say to the chairman of the board of a vast conglomerate, immediately letting him know who was boss around here, and who was privileged to take your rectal temperature. It worked even better with policemen and anyone who came into their purlieu. Calling a man Johnny instead of Mr. Fuller was the same thing as calling him Boy. It put him in his place at once, and instantly made him feel (a) inferior, (b) defensive, and (c) oddly dependent.
“Mike,” Meyer said, “why do you think I’m here?”
They were sitting in the living room of the brownstone Roldan and Asensio shared. The room was pleasantly furnished with antiques Meyer wished he could have afforded. A fire was going on the hearth. The fire crackled and spit into the room.
“You’re here about Sally, of course,” Roldan said.
“Is that what you think, Tony?”
“Yes, of course,” Asensio said.
Meyer wasted no time.
“You know she was using cocaine, don’t you?” he said.
“Well... no,” Roldan said. “How would we know that?”
“Well, come on, Mike,” Meyer said, and smiled knowingly. “You were at a party with her a week ago Sunday, and she was doing cocaine, so you must know she was a user, right?”