“Suspicion of what?”
“Suspicion of being a big shit — how’s that? Get rid of him, somebody.”
The somebody who got rid of him was Di Maeo. He pulled him out of the chair, yanking on the handcuffs, and then shoved him through the slatted rail divider and took him downstairs to the detention cells.
“You’d better ask the old lady about this, too,” O’Brien said to Carella. “Meyer gave it to me at the hospital.”
“What is it?”
O’Brien handed him the page torn from Meyer’s pad. It read:
Carella read the note: “Where’d Meyer get this?” “Hanging on a bulletin board in the Glennon apartment.” “Okay, we’ll ask her about it. Anybody checking out this address?”
“I’m going there myself right now,” O’Brien said.
“Good. We’ll be with Mrs. Glennon. If you get anything, call us there.”
“Right.”
“Does Meyer know who wrote the note?”
“He figures it was the young girl. Eileen Glennon.”
“Why don’t we get her in here and ask her about it?”
“Well, that’s another thing, Steve. Mrs. Glennon says she has a sister in Bethtown, woman named Iris Mulhare.”
“What about her?”
“She claims Eileen went there Saturday morning. She also told Meyer the girl had stayed with Mrs. Mulhare all the while the old lady was in the hospital.”
“So?”
“So when I got back to the office, I called Mrs. Mulhare. She said yes, the kid was with her. So I said let me talk to her. Well, she hemmed and hawed a little and then told me she was sorry, Eileen must’ve stepped out for a minute. So I asked her where Eileen had stepped out to. Mrs. Mulhare said she didn’t know. So I said was she sure Eileen was there at all. She said certainly she was sure. So I said then let me talk to her. And she said, I just told you, she stepped out for a minute. So I told her I thought I’d call the local precinct and send a patrolman over to help find Eileen, and then Mrs. Mulhare cracked, and all the dirt came out.”
“Let me hear it.”
“Eileen Glennon isn’t with her aunt. The Mulhare woman hasn’t seen her for maybe six months.”
“Six months, huh?”
“Right. Eileen isn’t there now, and she wasn’t there when her mother was in the hospital either. I asked Mrs. Mulhare why she’d lied to me, and she said her sister had called that morning — must’ve been right after Meyer left her — to say, in case anyone asked, Eileen was there in Bethtown.”
“Now why would Mrs. Glennon want her to say that?”
“I don’t know. But it sure looks as if Claire Townsend was mixed up with a real bunch of prize packages.”
The prize package named Mrs. Glennon was out of bed when Carella and Willis arrived. She was sitting in the kitchen drinking a second cup of hot buttered milk, which she’d undoubtedly prepared herself. The neighborhood grapevine had already informed her of her son’s arrest, and she greeted the detectives with undisguised hostility. As if to make her anger more apparent, she slurped noisily at the milk as she answered their questions.
“We want to know the names of your son’s friends, Mrs. Glennon,” Carella said.
“I don’t know any of their names. Terry’s a good boy. You had no right to arrest him.”
“We think he and his friends attacked a police officer,” Willis said.
“I don’t care what you think. He’s a good boy.” She slurped at the milk.
“Does your son belong to a street gang, Mrs. Glennon?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“What are his friends’ names?”
“I don’t know.”
“They never come up here to the house, Mrs. Glennon?”
“Never. I’m not going to turn over my parlor to a bunch of young—” She cut herself short.
“A bunch of young what, Mrs. Glennon?”
“Nothing.”
“Young hoodlums, Mrs. Glennon?”
“No. My son is a good boy.”
“But he beat up a cop.”
“He didn’t. You’re only guessing.”
“Where’s your daughter, Mrs. Glennon?”
“Do you think she beat up a cop, too?”
“No, Mrs. Glennon, but we think she had an appointment to meet Claire Townsend on Saturday at this address.” Carella put the slip of paper on the kitchen table, alongside the cup of milk. Mrs. Glennon looked at it and said nothing.
“Know anything about that address, Mrs. Glennon?”
“No.”
“Was she supposed to meet Claire Saturday?”
“No. I don’t know.”
“Where is she now?”
“At my sister’s. In Bethtown.”
“She’s not there, Mrs. Glennon.”
“That’s where she is.”
“No. We spoke to your sister. She’s not there, and she was never there.”
“She’s there.”
“No. Now where is she, Mrs. Glennon?”
“If she’s not there, I don’t know where she is. She said she was going to see her aunt. She’s never lied to me, so I have no reason to believe—”
“Mrs. Glennon, you know damn well she didn’t go to your sister’s. You called your sister this morning, right after Detective Meyer left here. You asked her to lie for you. Where’s your daughter, Mrs. Glennon?”
“I don’t know. Leave me alone! I’ve got enough trouble! Do you think it’s easy? Do you think raising two kids without a man is easy? Do you think I like that crowd my son runs with? And now Eileen? Do you think I...? Leave me alone? I’m sick. I’m a sick woman.” Her voice trailed off. “Please. Leave me alone. Please.” She was talking in a whisper now. “I’m sick. Please. I just got out of the hospital. Please. Please leave me alone.”
“What about Eileen, Mrs. Glennon?”
“Nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing,” she said, her eyes squeezed shut, wailing the words, her hands clenched in her lap.
“Mrs. Glennon,” Carella said very softly, “we’d like to know where your daughter is.”
“I don’t know,” Mrs. Glennon said. “I swear to God. I don’t know. That’s the God’s honest truth. I don’t know where Eileen is.”
Detective Bob O’Brien stood on the sidewalk and looked up at 271 South 1st Street.
The building was a five-story brownstone, and a sign in the first-floor window advertised FURNISHED ROOMS FOR RENT BY DAY OR WEEK. O’Brien climbed the front steps and rang the superintendent’s bell. He waited for several moments, received no answer, and rang the bell again.
“Hello?” a voice from somewhere inside called.
“Hello!” O’Brien answered.
“Hello?”
“Hello!” He was beginning to feel like an echo when the front door opened. A thin old man wearing khaki trousers and an undershirt looked out at him. He had shaggy graying brows that partially covered his blue eyes and gave him a peering expression.
“Hello,” he said. “You ring the bell?”
“I did,” O’Brien answered. “I’m Detective O—”
“Oh-oh,” the old man said.
O’Brien smiled. “No trouble, sir,” he said. “I just wanted to ask a few questions. My name’s O’Brien, 87th Squad.”
“How do you do? My name’s O’Loughlin, South First Street,” the old man said, and he chuckled.
“Up the rebels!” O’Brien said.
“Up the rebels!” O’Loughlin answered, and both men burst out laughing. “Come on in, lad. I was just about to have a nip to welcome the end of the day. You can join me.”
“Well, we’re not allowed to drink on duty, Mr. O’Loughlin.”
“Sure, and who’s going to tell anyone about it?” the old man said. “Come on in.”