"I just don't want some shyster saying we held him too long before questioning," Nellie said.
"Sure, but ...”
"So if we can speed them along ...”
"Well, there's only one guy working this time of night," Carella said, and looked up at the clock again. "And he promised me.”
"What time did he say?”
"Three-thirty, four o'clock.”
"I sure would like that make before we start the Q and A.”
"I think we're okay even without it," Meyer said.
"Because then we can go in blazing. Without it ...”
"I think we're okay even without it," Meyer said again.
Nellie turned to him.
Meyer figured she hadn't heard him the first time around.
"How do you figure?" she asked.
"Long story," Carella said.
"You got a taxi waiting?" Nellie said.
"Better get the file," Meyer said, and eased himself off the corner of Carella's desk, and went across the room to where a row of green metal filing cabinets stood against the wall. He pulled one of the hanging file folders from the second drawer, carried it back to the desk, and took from it a thick manila folder. Hand-lettered onto the front of the folder was the name BOWLES, EMMA. Carella opened the folder. He took a single sheet of paper from it and handed it to Nellie. She was looking at a standard Complaint Report form, the likes of which she'd seen at least a thousand times before. This one was dated December 28. Since midnight, today was the eighteenth day of January.
"She came in three weeks ago," Carella said.
Nellie nodded.
She was reading through the vital statistics on the form. White female, full name Emma Katherine Bowles, maiden name Emma Katherine Darby. Married to a man named Martin Bowles.
Lived right here in the Eight-Seven, on the outer fringes, up near Smoke Rise. Age thirty-two, weight one-twenty, height five-seven. Blonde hair, brown eyes.
No visible scars, birthmarks, or tattoos.
No regional accent or- "Anybody named Carella up here?" someone said from the slatted wooden railing that divided the squadroom from the corridor outside. A uniformed cop was standing there, holding a manila envelope in his gloved hands.
Carella signaled to him. "I'm Carella,”
he said.
The cop fiddled with the catch on the gate, came into the squadroom, and walked directly to Carella's desk.
"I need your signature," he said.
The printing across the face of the manila envelope read IDENTIFICATION SECTION- BALLISTICS. Carella signed the receipt slip fastened to the envelope. The cop tore off the top yellow copy, waved vaguely, and went out.
The room was suddenly very still.
Carella unlooped the little red string from around the little red cardboard button, lifted the flap of the envelope, and pulled out several typewritten forms. He was looking at the report on Denker's gun and the cartridges and bullets fired from it. Meyer was standing on his right, Nellie on his left, both of them slightly behind where he was sitting. All three silently read the report.
"Let's go get him," Nellie said.
15.
He was much better-looking than Nellie had expected. You hear somebody's a hit man from Chicago-with a handle like Denker, no less-you expected some kind of gorilla. A big unshaven guy still wearing the threads the state gave him when he was released on parole. The cold, flat eyes of a professional killer. A thin-lipped mouth. Broken nose, lotsa muscles, no brains. That's what you visualized.
But Andrew Denker-who didn't like to be called Andy-was a tall, well-dressed, slender blond man with an easy, pleasant smile and a gentle voice. When she entered the interrogation room, he was in quiet conversation with a man wearing a brown sharkskin suit. Nellie heard no dems, deses, or doses. Denker was altogether attractive. She was quite taken aback.
"Mr. Denker," Carella said, "we'd like to ask you some questions now. Before we do, though, I want to be sure you still understand what your rights are.
Earlier tonight, we ...”
"Speaking of rights," the man with Denker said, "my client's already been here ... how long have you been here now, Mr. Denker?”
"They entered my apartment illegally at ...”
"We had a warrant," Carella said.
"No-Knock," Meyer said.
"I'm Nellie Brand," Nellie said, extending her hand to Denker's lawyer. "District Attorney's Office. I don't believe we've met.”
"Harvey Keller," he said, "Legal Aid," but did not accept her hand. "Miss Brand, I've been here for an hour and a half already, and my client's been here since ... when was it, Mr. Denker?”
"About twelve-thirty," Denker said.
Keller looked at his watch.
"That makes it more than three hours already, three hours and ten minutes to be exact, and no one has told him why he's here or what he's been charged with. I believe you're familiar with the section in Miranda that ...”
"He hasn't been unduly detained, Counselor," Nellie said. "And with his permission, we'll start the questioning as soon as we're sure he still understands his rights.”
“What am I doing here, anyway?" Denker asked, and smiled. His eyes met Nellie's.
An invitation in those eyes. He was a man accustomed to using his charm on women.
"Detective Carella?" Nellie said, ignoring Denker's steady gaze. "Would you read Mr. Denker his rights, please?”
Carella read Miranda by rote.
Denker affirmed that he still understood all his rights.
"Mr. Denker?" Nellie said. "Are you willing to answer our questions now?”
"What's this in relation to?" Keller asked.
"A homicide that occurred last night, the seventeenth of January.”
"Am I to understand you'll be charging my client with murder?”
"That is our intention, yes, sir," Nellie said.
"So why should he answer any questions?”
"He doesn't have to, of course. You know Miranda as well as ...”
"I would advise you to remain silent,”
Keller said.
"Why?" Denker said. "I didn't do anything.
I have nothing to hide. Besides, I'd like to put on the record that these two officers broke into my apartment and began shooting at ...”
"Mr. Denker, excuse me, sir,”
Nellie said, "but before you say anything else, would you please affirm that you're willing to answer our questions?”
"I would still advise ...”
"Yes, I'll answer any questions you have,”
Denker said.
He was slumped casually in a wooden armchair, long, slender fingers laced across his chest, long legs extended under the table around which they all were sitting. A one-way mirror was on the wall facing him, but no one was in the room behind it.
A detective from the Photo Unit was running the video camera. A police stenographer sat behind a stenograph machine, taking backup notes. Nellie read the date and time into the record and named everyone there present. "Mr.
Denker," she said, and the Q and A began: Q: Can you tell me your full name, please?
A: Andrew Nelson Denker.
Q: And your address, please? A: 321 South Lewiston, Apartment 4C.
Q: Is that a permanent residence?
A: No, I make my home in Chicago.
Q: How long have you been in this city?
A: I got here on the second. Right after New Year's Day.
Q: What is your occupation, Mr. Denker?
A: At present, I'm unemployed.
Q: What is your usual occupation?
A: I do various jobs.
Q: Of what sort?
A: Well, I usually do bodyguard work.
Q: Mr. Denker, did you present yourself to Emma Bowles as a private detective from Chicago?
A: Yes, I did.
Q: Why did you lie to her?
A: To put her at ease. I thought she might feel more secure if she thought I was a licensed detective.