“There’s the possibility,” Carella said evenly, “that the killer was after Claire.”
“I know.”
“There’s the possibility we may find out things about Claire you wouldn’t particularly like to know.”
“There’s nothing new I can find out about Claire.”
“Homicide opens a lot of closets, Bert.”
“Where do you want me to go?” Kling asked. “What do you want me to do?”
Carella and Meyer exchanged another long glance. “Okay,” Carella said at last. “Go home and shave and change your clothes. Here’s the address of Mrs. Joseph Wechsler. We’re trying to find out if any of the victims had any warnings or threats or — we want to find exactly who he was after, Bert.”
“All right.” Kling picked up the sheet of paper, folded it in two, and slipped it into his jacket pocket. He was starting out of the squadroom when Carella called to him.
“Bert?”
Kling turned. “Yeah?”
“You... you know how we feel about this, don’t you?”
Kling nodded. “I think I do.”
“Okay.”
The two men stared at each other for a moment. Then Kling turned and walked rapidly out of the room.
The city is a crazy thing of many parts that don’t quite fit together. You would think all the pieces would join, like the interlocking pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, but somehow the rivers and streams and bridges and tunnels separate and join areas that, in character and geography, could be foreign countries miles apart and not segments of the same sprawling metropolis.
Isola, of course, was the hub of the city, and the 87th Precinct was smack in the center of that hub, like a wheel within a wheel, turning. Isola was an island, aptly and literally named by an unimaginative Italian explorer who had stumbled upon America, long after his compatriot had found it and claimed it for Queen Isabella. Columbus notwithstanding, the latter-day adventurer had come upon this lovely island, had been struck speechless by its beauty, and had muttered simply, “Isola.” Not “Isola Bella” or “Isola Bellissima” or “Isola la piu bella d’Italia,” but merely “Isola.”
Island.
He had, since he had been a native Italian, born and raised in the tiny town of San Luigi, pronounced the name in perfect Italian. The name, if not the island itself, had been bastardized over the ensuing centuries, so that it was now pronounced “Ice-a-luh,” or sometimes even “Ice-luh.” This mispronunciation might have disturbed the island’s godfather had he been alive and kicking in the twentieth century, but chances are he wouldn’t even have recognized the place. Isola was thronged with skyscrapers above ground, tunnels below the surface. She roared with the thunderous pace of big business. Her ports overflowed with goods from everywhere in the world. Her shores were laced with countless bridges connecting her to the rest of the less frenetic city. Isola had come a long way from San Luigi.
Majesta and Bethtown reflected the English influence on the New World, at least insofar as their names honored British royalty. Bethtown had been named after the Virgin Queen in a burst of familiarity, the queen’s ministers having decided to call the place “Besstown.” But the man who delivered the new name to the crown colony was a man who’d lisped ever since he learned to talk, and he told the then-governor that it was the queen’s desire to call this place “Bethtown.” That’s the way it went into the official records. By the time Bess discovered the monumental goof, the name had already gone into familiar usage, and she realized she couldn’t very well reeducate the colonists, so she let it stand. Instead, she cut off the lisping messenger’s head — but that’s show biz.
Majesta had been named after George III, whose advisers at first thought it would be fitting to name the place Georgetown but who then decided there were too many Georgetowns around already. They dug into their Latin texts and came up with the word majestas, which meant, “grandeur” or “greatness” or “majesty,” and this seemed a proper tribute to their monarch. George later had a little trouble in Boston with some tea-drinkers, his majesty having diminished somewhat, by the name Majesta remained as a reminder of better days.
Calm’s Point hadn’t been named after anybody. In fact, for a very long time, hardly anyone at all lived on this small island bordering the larger island of Isola. In those days, wild animals foraged through the woods engaging each other in bloody battles — but the rest of the city nonetheless referred to the island across the River Harb as Calm’s Point. A few hardy adventurers cleared the woods of beasts, pitched a couple of tents, and began propagating. That’s the way to start a suburb, all right. After a while, when the tribe increases, you can petition the city for ferry service. In the event of a real population explosion, you can even hope for a bridge to the mainland.
Bert Kling was heading for Riverhead, where Mrs. Joseph Wechsler made her residence. There was, in actuality, no river that had its head — or even its tail — in that part of the city. In the days of the old Dutch settlers the entire part of the city above Isola was owned by a patroon named Ryerhert. Ryerhert’s Farms was good land interspersed with igneous and metamorphic rock. As the city grew, Ryerhert sold part of his land and donated the rest of it until eventually all of it was owned by the city. Ryerhert was hard to say. Even before 1917, when it became unfashionable for anything to sound even mildly Teutonic, Ryerhert had become Riverhead. There was, to be sure, water in Riverhead. But the water was a brook, really, and it wasn’t even called a brook. It was called Five Mile Pond. It was not five miles wide, nor was it five miles long, nor was it five miles from any noticeable landmark. It was simply a brook that was called Five Mile Pond in a community called Riverhead that had no river’s head in it.
The city was a crazy thing sometimes.
Mrs. Wechsler lived in Riverhead in an apartment building that had a large entrance court flanked by two enormous stone flowerpots without any flowers in them. Kling walked between the pots, and through the entrance court, and into the vestibule. He found a name plate for Joseph Wechsler, apartment 4-A, and pressed the bell. There was an answering click on the locked inner vestibule door. He opened the door and walked upstairs to the fourth floor.
He took a deep breath in the hallway outside the Wechsler apartment. Then he knocked.
A woman answered the knock.
She looked at Kling curiously and said, “Yes?”
“Mrs. Wechsler?”
“No?” It was still a question. “Are you the new rabbi?” the woman asked.
“What?”
“The new—”
“No. I’m from the police.”
“Oh.” The woman paused. “Oh, did you want to see Ruth?”
“Is that Mrs. Wechsler?”
“Yes.”
“That’s who I’d like to see,” Kling said.
“We...” The woman looked confused. “She... You see, we’re sitting shivah. That’s — are you Jewish?”
“No.”
“We’re in mourning. For Joseph. I’m his sister. I think it would be better if you came back another—”
“Ma’am, I’d appreciate it if I could talk to Mrs. Wechsler now. I... I can understand... but...”
He suddenly wanted to leave. He did not want to intrude on mourners. And then he thought, Leave, and the killer gets an edge.
“Could I please see her now?” he asked. “Would you please ask her?”
“I’ll ask her,” the woman said, and she closed the door.