"But did you notice anything unusual?”
Meyer asked, pursuing his line of reasoning out loud. "In the neighborhood? Around the building?”
"No," Carmen said. "Unusual?”
"Anything peculiar. During the twenty-four hours preceding the murder, I mean.”
"No. Like what?”
"Someone watching the building ...”
"No.”
"... or checking the mailboxes ...”
"No.”
"... or asking questions?”
"No, I didn't see anyone ... what do you mean? Asking who?”
"Asking the super ...”
"No, nothing like that.”
"... asking people who live in the building?”
"No.”
"You know, trying to get a bead on him,”
Meyer said, and shrugged, and looked at Carella.
The clock on the wall read eleven-thirty-five. Carmen was finishing - off the last of the fries.
"Did you and Tilly ever leave the building together?" Carella asked, picking up on Meyer's line of questioning.
"Yes?”
"Ever see anyone following you?”
"No.”
"Ever have the feeling you were being followed?”
"No.”
"Or observed?”
"No.”
"Did Tilly ever mention any threatening phone calls or letters?”
"No.”
"And you never saw anyone who looked as if he didn't belong in the neighborhood. ...”
"No.”
"I'm not talking about the twenty-four hours before the murder, I'm talking ...”
"Well, yes, but ...”
"Who?" Meyer said at once. "Who did you see?”
"Well, it wasn't so much a person ...”
"Then what was it?" Carella asked.
"It just looked so strange up there," Carmen said.
"What did?”
"The limo," she said.
She was wearing a floppy black sweater, a gray flannel skirt cut just several inches above the knee, black French-heeled pumps, and what he assumed were black pantyhose. She stepped out of the pumps the moment she'd taken off her coat. Padding into the kitchen, she began measuring coffee into the pot, and then looked up and said, "Or would you prefer a drink?”
"Are you having one?" he asked.
"I rarely drink anything but wine," she said.
"I'll have a little vodka, if you've got some," he said.
He followed her back into the living room where she lowered the drop-leaf front of the bar and then searched among the decanters for the one containing vodka, studying the little hanging silver tags as if discovering them for the first time, squinting to decipher the lettering etched on them.
"I thought for sure we had vodka," she said, and knelt suddenly to open a pair of doors below the bar, her skirt riding up higher on her legs, the black nylon tightening over her knees. "Here it is," she said, and triumphantly held up a sealed bottle of Stolichnaya, swiveling toward him to display it, still kneeling, smiling. She rose in one swift motion then, like a dancer, the bottle in one hand, the other arm extended for balance. "How do you take it?" she asked.
"On the rocks, please," he said.
"I'll get the ice," she said, and put the bottle of vodka down and picked up the ice bucket. "Why don't you open it?" she said.
"And put on some music.”
He tore the seal on the vodka bottle and loosened the cap. Opening several doors on the wall unit, he located the digital disc player and a selection of discs on a shelf beneath it. Most of the discs looked like symphonies and such. He had lived his life by telling the truth only when it didn't matter. "I'm not too familiar with this kind of music," he said. "What would you suggest?”
"Try the Leningrad," she said.
"The what?”
"Shostakovich," she said. "The Seventh.”
"Okay.”
He searched through the discs, trying to find whatever it was she'd said, and surprisingly came across a Sinatra recording. "How about Sinatra?" he called to the kitchen.
"Oh sure," she said.
"Okay to put it on?”
"Whatever you like," she said, and came back into the room, cradling the ice bucket against her chest and holding a bottle of white wine in the other hand.
"Do you know how that works?" she asked.
"I think I can manage it.”
She put down the bucket, dropped three ice cubes into a short glass, and said, "I'll let you pour your own. You can open the wine for me, too, if you like.”
"Sure," he said, "just let me get this going.”
He had already turned on the power and was now studying the various little push buttons on the face of the player, each of them marked. He hit a few of them in succession, got the faint hum that told him the speakers were working and the disc was rotating, and then there was the sudden roar of trumpets as music boomed into the apartment. Emma grimaced and covered her ears with her hands, but he had already found the right control and was lowering the volume. The trumpets segued into muted trombones as Sinatra launched into the first tune.
"Nice," she said.
"Mm.”
He peeled the yellow lead foil from the neck of the wine bottle, worked the corkscrew into the cork, and yanked the cork free. Emma handed him a stemmed glass. He filled it for her, and then took the cap off the vodka bottle and poured a hefty drink over the ice already in the glass.
"Let's drink a toast," she said.
"Sure," he said, and held out his glass.
"To openness," she said.
"To openness," he repeated.
"And honesty," she said.
"And honesty," he repeated.
They clinked glasses. He sipped at the vodka. She sipped at the wine. In the background, Sinatra sang of unrequited love.
"Openness and honesty," she said. "You drank to it.”
"I did.”
"Are you planning to kill me?”
He arched his eyebrows in surprise.
"Are you?" she said.
"No," he said, "I'm not planning to kill you. What kind of question is that?”
"Well, you just show up out of the blue ...”
"I didn't just show up. Your husband hired me.”
"But not to kill me, huh?”
"To protect you.”
"Uh-huh," she said, and looked at him levelly. "Well, maybe so.”
They were sitting side by side on the leather sofa now, turned to face each other, her feet tucked up under her, his legs stretched, his head resting on the sofa back. A new song had started. A bouncier tune. Saxophones and flutes repeating a catchy riff. Sinatra rode the riff in.
"Because, you see," she said, "Martin has another woman.”
"Oh, come on.”
"Well, it's true," she said.
"How do you know?”
“Little things. I love the way he sings, don't you?”
"Yes. What little things?”
"Unexplained absences, breaks in the routine, credit-card expenses ... the usual. He's got another woman.”
"You sound pretty sure.”
"Yep.”
"Do you know who she is?”
"Yep.”
"Who?”
"A woman named Lydia Raines. She owns a flower shop on Parade, near Davidson.
I've been in there. She didn't know who I was, may I help you, madam? I didn't tell her, either.”
"How'd you get onto her?”
"We went to visit my sister in L.A. for Thanksgiving. She called me in December sometime, when she got her phone bill, asked if I'd made any long-distance calls while I was out there. Gave me a number listed on her bill. Three calls to the same number, right here in this city. All of them on the Friday after Thanksgiving. So I called the phone company here, and they gave me the name of the shop. I guess he was desperately lonely for her," she said, rolling her eyes on the operative word.
"Want to come work for me?" he asked, smiling, still playing the private eye.
"I'd be good at it," she said, and returned the smile.
"Have you asked him about her?”
"Nope.”
"Think he'd admit it?”