“Yes,” Hawes said.
“You looking for Phil?”
“Yes,” Hawes said.
“He ain’t home.”
“We know that.”
“He ain’t been home for quite a while.”
“How long?”
“Months,” the woman said. “We think he moved. Around here, we think he put the house up for sale and moved. He’s the only single fellow living in the development, anyway. It’s crazy for a single fellow to live here alone. Everybody else is married. The women pay too much attention to a single fellow, and the men don’t like it. It’s good he moved away.”
“How do you know he moved away?”
“Well, he hasn’t been here. So we figure he moved.”
“When was he here last?”
“The fall,” the woman said.
“When in the fall?”
“I don’t remember. He was always coming and going. Hunting trips. He’s a big hunter, Phil. He’s got heads all over his living-room walls. Animal heads, I mean.” She nodded. “He’s a sportsman all around. Hunting, tennis. He’s a good tennis player. He’s got balls all over his bedroom.” She looked at the detectives somewhat apologetically. “Tennis balls, I mean,” she added.
“You haven’t seen him since last fall?” Carella asked.
“Nope.”
He looked at Hawes.
“Has his car been here?”
“Nope.”
“The house has just been closed up like that?”
“Yes.”
“Has anyone been around to see it?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you said you thought it was up for sale.”
“Oh. No. No one’s been to see it.”
“Was there a for-sale sign up?”
“No.”
“Then what makes you think it’s for sale?”
“Well, Phil hasn’t been here. What else would you think?”
“Is it possible Mr. Kettering has another place to live? An apartment in the city?”
“He never mentioned it.”
“Was he ever away for extended periods of time before? Except on his hunting trips, I mean.”
“No,” the woman said.
“What bank carries his mortgage?”
“He’s got no mortgage.”
“How do you know?”
“Because he told us. There’s only two people in the whole development who bought the house outright. Phil, and an old couple down the street. The rest of us put a down payment, and we make monthly payments to the bank. Not Phil. He put down the whole eighty-five hundred in one lump. Right after he got out of the Army. He came back from Germany with a lot of money.” She looked at the detectives as if she were about to say more.
“The statute of limitations covers him,” Carella said. “Besides, we’re civil authorities and can’t handle a military beef. Was he selling Government property on the black market?”
The woman nodded. “Sugar and coffee. He was an Army mess cook. A sergeant, I think. He used to order more than he needed and then sell it to the German people. He made a lot of money. Enough to buy this house cash, anyway.”
“You’re sure about that? That he has no mortgage on the house?”
“Positive.”
“Which bank handles your mortgage?”
“Greater Sand’s Spit Savings. There’s only two banks that gave mortgages in the development. Greater Sand’s Spit, and one in Isola. Banker’s Trust, I think.”
“We’ll check those,” Carella said. “Want to see what’s in the mailbox, Cotton? Look into his milk box, too, will you?”
“Sure,” Hawes said, and he walked toward the mailbox.
“What did you say his name was?” the woman asked.
“Whose?”
“That red-headed fellow. Your partner.”
“Cotton.”
“Oh,” the woman said.
“Would you know if Kettering has any relations in the city? In the area?”
“He’s from California originally,” the woman said. “He settled here after the war, when he got back from Germany. His parents are dead, and his sister lives in Los Angeles. I don’t think he gets along too well with her.”
“Do they correspond?”
“I don’t know. He never talks much about her.”
“What’s her name?”
“Susie something. He mentioned her only once. He said she was a…well…” The woman paused. “A witch. Only worse. Do you know what I mean?”
“Yes,” Carella said. “Does Kettering have any lady friends?”
“He brought girls out every now and then, yes. Nice girls. Everybody in the development kept hocking him to get married. You know how it is.” The woman shrugged. “Misery loves company.”
Carella grinned. “Where does Kettering work?”
“In the city.”
“Where?”
“Isola.”
“What does he do?”
“He has his own business,” the woman said.
“What kind of business?”
“He’s a photographer.”
Carella was silent for a moment. “Commercial? Portrait? What?”
“Magazine work, I think.”
“How’d he drift into photography from cooking?”
“I don’t know. Besides, he cooked for the Army. That isn’t real cooking. I mean, my husband was in the Army. Did you ever eat Army food?”
“Yes,” Carella said.
“So there you are. I think Phil went to school for photography after he got out of the service.”
“Does he have a big business?”
“Not so. But he makes a living at it.”
“Would you know where his office is?”
“Someplace in Isola. It’s in the phone book. Phil Kettering.”
Hawes came back from the mailbox. “Nothing in it, Steve,” he said.
“Any milk?”
“Nope.”
“His milk delivery stopped a long time ago,” the woman said. “In fact, it was me who called the company and told them it was piling up on his back porch.”
“When was this?”
“In the fall. Around October.”
“Do you remember Kettering going on a hunting trip at the beginning of September?” Hawes asked.
“Is your name really Cotton?” the woman said.
“Yes.”
“Oh.”
“Do you remember the hunting trip?”
“Yes. He was going up to the Adirondacks someplace.”
“When did he get back?”
“Well, he didn’t. That was when he moved, I figure.”