"I'm fine," she said, and lifted her chin.
Together, they went upstairs, the son and the wife of the victim, and the man who would present their case to a jury not composed of Sonny Cole's peers-the word meant equals, and none of these men or women were murderers-who would determine whether the man who without question had shot and killed Anthony Carella had, in fact, actually shot and killed him. In the sunswept, wood-paneled second-floor courtroom that was General Sessions, Part III, twelve men and women would seek justice. Carella prayed they would find it.
Up close, Emma Bowles was even prettier than in the photograph her husband had shown him. The black-and-white picture hadn't even hinted at the peaches-and-cream complexion or the luster of her dark eyes. Blonde hair cascading long and straight to her shoulders, aglow in the Monday morning sunlight that slanted through the blinds. She was wearing a jumpsuit the color of her eyes, flat sandals with gold thongs that echoed her hair and the slender gold clip that swept it back on the right side of her head. She had a full-lipped mouth, the tented upper lip revealing a wedge of white.
"It's just that ... well, I'll tell you the truth," she said, "a bodyguard would embarrass me.”
"I'm not a bodyguard, Mrs. Bowles,”
Andrew said. "I'm a private investigator.”
"Whatever. But, don't you see, Mr.
Darrow? The police are already working on this, there's no need ...”
"Mrs. Bowles," he said, "your husband hired me to do a job, and with your permission, I'd like to try doing it.”
She was thinking he seemed pretty confident of himself. Tall, slender blond man wearing a brown turtleneck shirt and a corduroy jacket that matched the amber color of his eyes, dark brown slacks, brown socks, brown highly polished loafers. Easy, pleasant smile, soft, well-modulated voice, - not the sort of man she had expected. Not the sort at all.
"What exactly does he want you to do?" she asked.
"Two things," Andrew said. "First, he wants me to protect you. ...”
"Which is bodyguarding, isn't it?" she said.
"Well, no, not exactly. Because he also wants me to find out who's trying to kill you.”
"How much is he paying you for this?”
"Well, I think that's between me and your husband.”
"No, I don't think so," she said.
"Well," Andrew said, and shrugged. "The going rate for a private detective is thirty-five dollars an hour.”
"I see.”
"In Chicago," he said.
"And what's the going rate here?”
"I don't know what it is here," he said.
"I'm charging your husband what I'd charge him in Chicago. Thirty-five an hour. Plus expenses.”
"I'm not sure I know what you're saying.
What's Chicago got to do with any of this?”
"That's where I'm from. Chicago. That's where I'm licensed to operate.”
"I still don't understand," she said. "If you're from Chicago ...”
"Your husband called me there and asked if I'd like to do this work for him.”
"Called you all the way in Chicago?”
"All the way in Chicago, yes.”
"You must be good," she said.
"I am," he said, and smiled. "Your husband hired me to find out who's trying to hurt you, and I'm pretty sure I can do that.”
"I already know who's trying to hurt me.”
"You do?" he said, opening his eyes wide in surprise.
"Yes, I do.”
"Well ... who is it?”
"His name is Roger Tilly. My husband knows who this man is, I told him who this man is, he knows this man, he used to drive for him. It's just that he doesn't trust the police to find him. So he goes all the way to Chicago to hire a bodyguard, when really ...”
"A private investigator," he said, gently correcting her. "Not a - bodyguard, ma'am.”
She said nothing for several moments.
She was wondering if perhaps he might be able to help, after all.
"Well," she said, and hesitated.
He kept watching her expectantly.
"I suppose we can give it a try," she said.
Fat Ollie Weeks kept shaking his head.
Not because he'd found a dead man hanging from an asbestos-covered pipe in the basement, but because he could hear a record player going somewhere upstairs, and the song being sung was a little item called "Fuck tha Police." This was a fine way to teach respect. Black people singing a song like that. Rapping out a song like that. Ollie shook his head again. Ollie hated black people even more than he hated Jews.
He did not wonder what a white man was doing all the way up here in Darkest Africa, because he knew that a lot of goddamn white fools came up here to get their crack thrills. He also didn't wonder how come this particular white man had ended up with a rope around his neck, because he further knew that a lot of goddamn white fools came up here to Zimbabwe West and went back home in body bags. He didn't even wonder how all this had come about. All in good time, he thought, and first things first. Ollie Weeks was a terrible bigot, but he happened to be a good cop.
He phoned in the shit and sat back to wait.
By six-thirty that Monday night, his stomach was grumbling and his patience was running out. He had come on at a quarter to four and had caught this stupid squeal at five-ish, ten minutes after his partner had gone down for coffee and burgers for both of them. Now his partner was only Christ knew where while Ollie was here in this fuckin basement with dripping pipes on the ceiling and a dead man hanging from one of them and a lot of cops in heavy overcoats hanging around freezing cold with their hands in their pockets and Monoghan and Monroe from Homicide just coming down the steps and still no fuckin M.E.
"What've we got here, Weeks?”
Monoghan said.
"A little lynching?" Monroe said, looking up at the dangling man, his witticism missing fire in that the victim was white. Ollie pulled a face nonetheless.
"Where's the fuckin M.E.?" he asked no one. "I called this shit in an hour ago.”
"Busy night tonight," Monoghan said.
"Yeah, why's that?" Ollie asked.
"Guy Fawkes Day," Monoghan said.
"What the fuck's that, Guy Fawkes Day?”
Ollie asked.
"Lots of parties tonight," Monroe said, picking up on the gag. "Guy Fawkes Day.”
"I never heard of no fuckin Guy Fawkes Day," Ollie said.
"Anyway," one of the blues said, "Guy Fawkes Day is in November.”
"Who asked you?" Ollie asked.
"Anyway, it ain't," Monroe said.
"November the fifth," the uniformed cop insisted.
"No, it's in January," Monroe said, shaking his head. "It's today. The seventh of January.”
"Be sure to remember the fifth of November," the cop said.
"Who gives a fuck when Guy Fawkes Day is?" Ollie said. "Where the fuck's the M.E.?”
"My mother was born in England," the cop explained.
"Who gives a fuck where your mother was born?”
Ollie said.
"I'm only saying. Guy Fawkes Day,”
the cop said, and shrugged.
"Dumb fuck hangs himself from the ceiling,”
Ollie said, "I got to wait for my fuckin supper.”
"How do you know somebody else didn't hang him there?" Monroe asked.
"How do you know Guy Fawkes didn't hang him there?" Monoghan asked, and both Homicide detectives burst out laughing. They were both wearing black overcoats and black fedoras. Monoghan had taken to wearing a white silk scarf lately. So had Monroe. They stood with their hands in the pockets of their coats, hats tilted raffishly. They thought they looked like Fred Astaire and Cary Grant in the same old black-and-white movie, going to a party together on Guy Fawkes Day. Actually, they looked like two fat penguins.
"Who gives a fuck who hung - him?" Ollie said, and just then the M.E. came down the steps. "Where the fuck you been?" Ollie asked. "Some fuckin Guy Fawkes party?”