“But Moore hasn’t turned out to be so reliable, has he?” Kling said.
“First he tells us she only smoked grass, then he tells us she was involved in Carter’s ice scam, then he tells us she went uptown for deli every Sunday—”
“Too busy to check up on her.”
“Too busy with his schoolwork.”
“Too busy weighing hearts and livers.”
“Busy, busy.”
“Everybody busy.”
“Doing what?” Brown said.
“On Sundays, you mean?”
“The girl, yeah. On Sundays.”
“Deli and coke,” Kling said, and shrugged.
“And Lopez in the sack.”
“Moore had no reason to be lying to us,” Meyer said. “He was probably just mistaken.”
“Still,” Carella said, “they were close.”
“Very close.”
“The girl even called his mother every week.”
“Nice rich widow lady in Miami.”
“So if they were that close, how come he was mistaken about all these things?”
“You’d think he’d have known.”
“Miami, did you say?” Brown asked.
“What?”
“Is that where his mother lives?”
“Yeah.”
“Miami,” Brown said again.
“What about it?”
“I keep thinking of that three hundred grand in Edelman’s—”
“Forget the safe for a minute, will you?”
“But just suppose,” Brown said.
“Suppose what?”
“That the three hundred was coke money.”
“That’s a long suppose.”
“Not when we’re dealing with two victims who were moving coke.”
“Okay, so suppose the money was coke money?”
“Well, what do you think of when you think of Miami?”
The other detectives looked at him.
“Well, sure,” Meyer said.
“But that’s a long stretch,” Kiing said.
“No, wait a minute,” Carella said.
“Just because a guy’s mother lives in Miami—”
“That doesn’t mean—”
“He isn’t even Hispanic,” Meyer said. “If he went down there looking to buy cocaine—”
“Anyway, what with?” Kiing asked. “We’re talking three hundred grand in the safe. To realize that kind of money here, he’d have needed at least half that to make his buy in Miami.”
“His father just died,” Carella said.
“When?” Brown asked.
“Last June. He told us he inherited some money, enough to set him up in practice when he gets out of school.”
“How much did he inherit?” Kiing asked. “Remember the numbers we’re dealing with. There was three hundred grand in cash in that safe.”
“What we’re saying,” Meyer said, and shook his head. “Just because Moore’s mother lives in Miami, we’re saying he went down there and spent whatever his father left him—”
“What’s wrong with that?” Brown said. “That sounds pretty damn good to me, you want to know.”
“Bought however much coke,” Carella said, nodding.
“A lot of coke,” Brown said. “Enough to turn over for three hundred G’s.”
“Which ended up in Edelman’s safe.”
“Bought diamonds from Edelman, or whatever.”
“No record of the transaction.”
“They both come out clean. Moore launders his dope money by trading it for diamonds, and Edelman launders his cash by buying real estate in Europe.”
“Very nice,” Meyer said. “If you believe in Peter Rabbit.”
“What’s wrong with it?” Carella said.
“First, we don’t even know how much the guy inherited. It could’ve been ten, twenty thousand dollars. If that much. Next, we’re saying a medical student could find his way around those Colombian heavies down there in Miami, and make a big buy without having his head handed to him on a platter.”
“It’s possible,” Carella said.
“Anything’s possible,” Meyer said. “The sun could shine at midnight, why not? We’re also saying he made contact with a guy dealing diamonds under the table—”
“Come on,” Brown said, “that’s the easiest part. There must be hundreds of guys like Edelman in this city.”
“Maybe so. But even assuming all of it’s possible — Moore inherited a lot of money, made contact somehow in Miami, doubled his money buying pure there and selling it cut here, laundered the money buying diamonds or rubies or whatever — let’s accept all of that for the moment, okay?”
“It doesn’t sound bad,” Carella said.
“No, and it would explain why he was mistaken about so many things,” Kling said.
“Fine,” Meyer said. “Then maybe you can tell me how a man can be in two places at the same time.”
“What do you mean?” Carella said.
“How could he have been outside the Anderson girl’s apartment, shooting her dead, and be in his own apartment at the same time, studying and listening to the radio? You talked to this Loeb guy yourself, Steve, he confirmed that there were calls going back and forth all night long, he told you Moore’s radio was on, he told you—”
And just then, Detective Richard Genero walked into the squadroom with his little Japanese radio in his hand. The detectives looked at him. Genero walked to his desk, set the radio down, glanced toward the lieutenant’s open door — a certain sign that Byrnes was still out to lunch — and turned on the radio full blast.
“Okay,” Meyer said. “Let’s go.”
There was very loud music coming from inside the apartment. Brother Anthony knocked on the door again, not certain his first several knocks had been heard.
“Who is it?” a voice inside called.
“Mr. Moore?” Brother Anthony said.
“Just a second,” the voice called.
The music became softer, the guy inside had lowered the volume. Brother Anthony heard footsteps approaching the door.
“Who is it?” the voice said again, just inside the door this time.
He knew that in this city people did not open the door for strangers. Brother Anthony hesitated. He did not want to have to break down the door. “Police,” he said.
“Oh.”
He waited.
“Hold on a second, will you?” the voice said.
He heard the footsteps retreating. He put his ear to the wooden door. A lot of moving around in there. He debated breaking down the door, after all. He decided to wait it out. The footsteps were approaching the door again. He heard the lock being turned, the tumblers falling. The door opened.
“Mr. Moore?” he said.
Moore took one look and started closing the door. Brother Anthony heaved his full weight against it, knocking it open, the imploding door forcing Moore away from it and back into the room. Brother Anthony followed the door into the room, slammed it shut behind him, and locked it. Moore was standing several feet back from the door now, nursing his shoulder where the door had hit him, staring at Brother Anthony. Behind him, the radio was sitting on an end table, still playing softly. Brother Anthony decided he would steal it when he left.
“Anybody here with you?” he asked.
“Who the hell are you?” Moore said.
“I have a letter you wrote,” Brother Anthony said.
“What letter? What are you talking about?”
“From Miami. To a girl named Sally Anderson. Who is now dead,” Brother Anthony said, “may God rest her soul.”
Moore said nothing.
“Sally was getting cocaine from you,” Brother Anthony said.