Killer's Choice

'Detective Kling,' he said. 'Bert.'

'Oh, hello, Bert,' Monica said warmly. 'How are you?'

'Fine thanks. Yourself?'

'Oh, just fine. I got second prize in school today.'

'Really? What for?'

'Painting.'

'That's wonderful. Honey, can I ask you something?'

'Sure.'

'We already asked your grandmother this, but she didn't know. Maybe you would.'

'What is it?'

'Your mother used to see a person named Jamie. Did she ever mention him to you?'

'Jamie?'

'Yes.'

'Do you mean Jamison? Jamison Gray?'

'What was that name, Monica?'

'Jamison Gray. She told me all about him once. She said he was the sweetest saddest man in the whole world, and she said he was very kind and very gentle, and she said that someday she would take me to see him.'

'You're not fooling me, are you, Monica?'

'No, not at all. Jamison Gray. Yes, that's his name. Is that the Jamie you mean?'

'Oh honey, I hope so,' Kling said. 'I certainly hope so. Thanks a lot.'

'Bert?'

'Yes?'

'Do you know when Mommy's coming back from her vacation?'

Kling hesitated. 'Uh… no, honey, I don't. I'm awfully sorry.'

'I sure wish she'd hurry,' Monica said.

'Yes.'

'Well, I'll let you go,' she said brightly. 'You probably have lots of crooks and things to lock up.'

'G'bye, Monica. Thanks again.'

He hung up and lifted the Isola telephone directory from the bottom drawer of his desk.

'Anything?' Meyer asked.

'Maybe,' Kling said. 'Keep your fingers crossed. Gray, Jack…Gray, Jacqueline… Gray, James… Gray, James… Gray, James… oh my God, six of them… wait a minute, wait a minute!… here it is, Meyer! Jamison Gray! 1220 North 30th. Get your hat!'

'Hat?' Meyer said, running his hand over his bald pate. 'I never wear a hat. Makes you lose your hair, don't you know?'

1220 North 30th was a clean-looking four-storey brown-stone. Meyer and Kling found a mailbox listing for Jamison Gray, and then climbed to the fourth floor of the building and knocked on the door of Apartment 44.

'Who is it?' a young voice asked.

'Open the door,' Meyer answered.

'It's open,' the voice said.

Kling, who was remembering Hawes's near fatal error, had his hand on the butt of his service revolver. Meyer snapped open the door standing to one side of it. There was no sound from within the apartment.

'Come in,' the voice said.

His hand still on the gun, Kling peered around the door-frame. A boy of no more than twenty was sitting at the far end of the dark room, his face turned to the window.

From the doorway, Kling asked, 'Jamie Gray?'

'Yes,' the boy said. He wore black trousers and a white shirt open at the throat. His sleeves were rolled up over thin forearms. He did not turn from the window. He kept staring straight ahead of him, as if unaware there was anyone in the room with him.

'You know Annie Boone?' Kling asked.

'Yes,' the boy said. He turned slightly from the window, but he looked at Meyer as if he thought he'd asked the question. 'Did she send you?'

'No,' Kling said. He blinked at the boy. The room was very dark. Except for the filtered shaftway light which came through the window, there was no illumination. He found it difficult to see the boy's features clearly.

'She didn't?' Gray asked.

'No.'

'Oh,' Gray said. 'I thought she might have. She hasn't been to see me lately, so I thought maybe she sent a message or something.' He turned back to the window. Kling and Meyer moved closer to him, into the room. The boy paid no attention to them.

'She come to see you often?' Meyer asked.

'Yes. Once a week, at least. It helped. She's a wonderful person.'

'Ever take her out?'

'Once. We walked around the neighbourhood. I don't feel like going out much.'

'Where'd you meet, Gray?'

'In a bar. I don't know how. I went out one afternoon. I felt like having a glass of beer. Do you ever feel like that? Like having a glass of beer? Nothing tastes better than a glass of beer when you really feel like having one. She sat down at the table with me. Just like that.'

'What'd she say?'

'She said "What's your name?" I told her. I told her Jamie Gray. She was pretty drunk.'

'Annie Boone?' Kling asked, surprised.

'Yes.'

'Are you sure?'

'Certain. Her breath smelled terribly, and she was talking strangely. She was drunk. In fact, that's why she came up here with me. I asked her if she'd like a cup of coffee. She said " Sure," and we came back here.'

'And after that, she kept visiting you, huh?'

'Yes. She came to talk. She said it was soothing.'

'You live here alone, Gray?'

'Yes.'

'What do you do for a living?'

'I used to be a pretty good piano player. I played with a band.'

'What do you mean used to be? No more?'

'Well, I can still play. Naturally I can still play. What happened has nothing to do with my playing. But it's a little tough getting jobs. Going out and finding them, I mean. Besides, I don't much feel like it any more.'

'What do you mean?'

'Well, after what happened…'

'You mean what happened to Annie?'

'What?' Gray said, lifting his head.

'Do you own a gun, Gray?'

'What did you say about…?'

'Do you own a gun?'

'No, of course not. What would I do with a gun? You said something about Annie. What…?'

'Where were you on the night of June 10th, Gray?'

'I don't know. What difference does it make? You said…'

'Don't play dumb, Gray!'

'Dumb? Why? What happened on June 10th?'

'You've seen the newspapers, Gray! Come off it!'

'Newspapers? How could I… what is it? What are you trying to say?'

'Were you out of this apartment on June 10th?'

'I don't go out much at night. Or even during the day. Not since the accid…'

'Where were you on June 10th?' Meyer snapped. 'Where were you on the night Annie Boone was killed?'

'Killed!' Gray screamed. He leaped out of the chair and whirled to face the two men. 'Killed!' He stared at them blankly. 'Killed! Killed!'

Kling's service revolver was already in his hand, pointing at Gray's mid-section. Meyer stared at Gray, at the blank eyes in the old-young face.

'Put up the gun, Bert,' he said softly. 'He's blind.'

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Cotton Hawes vindicated himself on the day they captured Charles Fetterick.

The call from Sam Kaplowitz came in at 8.27 a.m. Hawes was summoned to the phone.

'Detective Hawes,' he said.

'Mr Hawes, this is Sam.' He paused. 'Kaplowitz.'

'How are you, Mr Kaplowitz?'

'Fine, thank you. I've located Charlie Fetterick.'

'Where?' Hawes asked quickly.

'He's working for a place called Simpson Engraving. That's in Riverhead.'

'Are you sure?'

'Yes. From what Mr Simpson told me, he's ready to fire him. He hasn't been in to work for the last week or so.'

'Thank you,' Hawes said. 'Mr Kaplowitz, I want to get on this right away. Thanks a million for calling.'

'Don't mention it. Glad to be of assistance.'

Hawes hung up. He looked up the number for Simpson Engraving and called it. There was no answer. He had a cup of coffee and tried again at 9.10. He spoke to a man named Alec Simpson who said that Fetterick had been working for him for six months. He was a good worker, until just recently. Without calling in or anything, he'd stayed away from work. It came as no surprise to Hawes that the absenteeism had started on the day after Havilland's death, the day after Fetterick had been wounded. He asked if Simpson had an address for Fetterick. Simpson had two. The one Fetterick had first used—his mother's apartment, 312 Bragin Street in Riverhead—and a later one, 127 Boxer Lane. Hawes jotted down the Bragin Street address, thanked Simpson, took his service revolver from the top drawer of his desk, and walked over to where Carella was typing.