His little married sister with a husband and three goddamn kids?
"Heard the shots," Lowell said to her, "and saw the killer, and saw the gun in the killer's hand. And next we have Haggerty from Ballistics saying he tested the gun and it's definitely the gun that fired the murder bullets ...”
"I thought he was very good, too," Angela said.
"Excellent witness," Lowell agreed, nodding, and all but patting her left hand where it rested on the tabletop, her gold wedding band and diamond engagement ring clearly in evidence for any and all to see. "Addison couldn't get anywhere with his cross, he knew there - wasn't a damn thing he could do to shake him. And then we had Wade saying this was the very gun he'd taken from Sonny Cole, which of course establishes a direct line from the gun to Ballistics ...”
"He seems like a very good cop," Angela said to her brother.
"He is," Carella said.
"Strong witness, very strong," Lowell said.
"Addison went at him hammer and tongs, but he wouldn't be shaken, either. He'll score well with the jury, wait and see. It doesn't hurt that he's black, by the way.”
"Does that bother you?" Angela asked. "The number of blacks on the jury?”
"Well, I discussed this with your brother before the trial began. What I've been trying to do is stay away from the black-white angle ...”
"I don't think it's been brought into the trial at all," Angela said.
"And I hope it won't be. But Addison's still to be heard from, you know. Point is, we then had Dr. Mazlova saying the bullets he sent to Ballistics were the bullets he'd recovered during autopsy. The last link in a clear and direct chain. I merely hope the jury followed it all.”
"Oh, I'm sure they did," Angela said. "It was all very clear and ... well, direct.”
Carella looked at her.
"Addison's star witness is Cole himself,”
Lowell said, "and of course he'll lie about everything that happened. He's a habitual criminal being tried for Murder Two, and what-ever the verdict in this trial, he'll be standing trial later for the murder of that little girl.
I argued initially that both counts be tried together, you know, because there are overlapping transactions, you see, and the evidence in one case would appear to be probative evidence in the other. Cole's taking of a hostage, for example, when confronted by the police ..." He turned suddenly to Angela and said in explanation, "He and his partner were holding a sixteen-year-old girl hostage ...”
"Yes, I know.”
"And the partner killed her. Guiltlike flight would be admissible as evidence, you see, the hostage-taking. On the other hand, trying both murders at the same time would obviously - be prejudicial to the accused, so perhaps the decision was a fair one, who knows? In any case, we're stuck with two trials, and my job is to win this one.”
"Yes," Angela said, and smiled encouragingly.
"My job is to make sure he never sees another sunrise without bars in front of it.”
He thinks that's poetic, Carella thought.
And realized with amazement that Angela thought so, too.
"Point is," Lowell said, "Cole's going to lie to save his neck. The only people who tell the truth in court are law-abiding citizens. The murderers and thieves lie. Always.”
Angela nodded as if she were hearing wisdom dispensed by a guru on a mountaintop.
"I want Addison to lead him down the garden," Lowell said, almost gleefully. "I want Cole to parade all his damn lies, so I can knock them over one by one.”
"Are you confident you can do that?" Carella asked.
"Oh, am I!" Lowell said, and grinned in evil anticipation. And then, suddenly, he turned to Angela again and said, "Were either of you planning to have lunch downtown? Because the food here is marvelous, and I'd be delighted if you'd join ...”
“I have to run," Carella said.
Angela hesitated. Her eyes met Carella's. There was nothing in his eyes that she could read, but they'd been brother and sister for a good long time now.
"Thank you," she said, "I have to get back home.”
And could not resist adding, "Maybe some other time.”
They wandered from gallery to gallery, walking along Hopper Street toward the Scotch Meadow Park, the area taking its name from the fact that Hopper ran parallel to the park, hence Hopscotch, trendy and memorable. O'Brien and Meyer followed at a respectable distance behind them, enjoying the sunshine but not the fierce cold, turning to look into a window whenever Denker and Emma did, moving on again past art gallery and boutique, glancing now and again at windows displaying sandals, or jewelry, or antiques, or drug paraphernalia imported from Bombay, trying to make themselves look like tourists browsing a tourist area, rather than detectives following a possible killer and his prey.
At a little before two o'clock, Denker and Emma went into a little soup-and-sandwich joint on Matthews. Meyer and O'Brien bought hot dogs and Cokes from a street-corner cart, and stood outside in the cold, eating and drinking, waiting for them to emerge again.
They hoped it would not be a long lunch.
It was.
They did not come out onto the street again until close to three-thirty.
"Let's go home, kiddies," Meyer whispered.
But they were not going home. They continued wandering the area all afternoon, seemingly impervious to the cold.
Shivering, the detectives at last saw Denker hailing a taxi and putting Emma into it. He himself caught another cab. He was their prey; they followed him.
At twenty minutes to five that afternoon, the four detectives converged outside Bowles's office building. Hawes and Kling were already in a car parked across the street, ready to follow Bowles's limo, which was waiting for him at the curb.
O'Brien and Meyer had followed Denker downtown, surprised when he led them to Bowles's building, but unsurprised-now that he was here- to see Bowles come out and walk directly toward him. The stock market had closed at four; they guessed that Bowles had asked Denker to meet him here at four-thirty, and had been a little late getting downstairs.
The two men did not shake hands. All four detectives watched as they walked toward the limo at the curb. O'Brien and Meyer stood there as the limo moved off. Across the street, they saw Hawes pull the unmarked Dodge away from the curb and into a wide U-turn. A moment later, the Dodge fell in some four car-lengths behind the limo.
Like a submarine in murky waters, the limo nosed its way through late afternoon traffic. Dusk was upon the city; knife-edged towers loomed against a sky turning purple to the west.
It had been a sunny day; it would be a spectacular sunset. There were things in this city that still caused the heart to leap in something other than fright.
The men sat in a black leather, tinted-window cocoon. The glass privacy panel was up, and the driver could not hear what they were saying.
Nonetheless, Andrew spoke in a voice almost a whisper; he did not trust limos with their little toggles and switches, and he especially did not trust men who drove limos for a living.
"Do you own a gun?" he asked.
"No," Bowles said. "A gun? No. Of course not.”
"I thought you might.”
"No, I don't.”
Bowles had lowered his voice, too. The limo purred gently in the encroaching darkness.
Outside, there was a city waiting to pounce. But the limo was impervious. The limo spoke the same language in every nation on earth. The limo said, Here is wealth, here is power.
"Is there a safe in the apartment?”
"Yes.”
"Where is it?”
"In the master bedroom. Why?”
"I plan to do a burglary.”
Bowles looked at him.
"Can you let me have the combination?”
"I'm not sure that's such a good idea,”
Bowles said.
"I think it'll work.”