The man was in his late twenties, a tall blond man with dark brown eyes and a leonine head. He was on crutches. His left leg was heavily bandaged. A tattered white tennis sneaker was on his right foot.
There were, Carella surmised, possibly ten thousand men in this city at this moment who were wearing white tennis sneakers on their right feet, their left feet, and perhaps even both feet. He did not know how many of them had a shop on King’s Circle, though, four blocks from Harrison Street, where a boy had been nailed to the wall five days ago, and where a left-footed tennis sneaker had been found in an empty apartment down the hall.
“Yes, sir?” the man said. “May I help you?”
“I’m a police officer,” Carella said.
“Uh-huh,” the man said.
“Detective Carella, 87th Squad.”
“Uh-huh,” he said again. He did not ask for identification, and Carella did not show any.
“I’m investigating a homicide,” he said.
“I see.” The man nodded, and then hobbled on his crutches to one of the long tables. He sat on the edge of it, beside a sculpture of his slender young model at repose in bronze, legs crossed, head bent, eyes downcast like a naked nun. “My name’s Sanford Elliot,” he said. “Sandy, everybody calls me. Who was killed?”
“We don’t know. That’s why I’ve been going around the neighborhood.”
“When did it happen?” Elliot asked.
“Last Sunday night.”
“I was out of town last Sunday,” Elliot said, and Carella suddenly wondered why he felt compelled to establish an alibi for a murder that had thus far been discussed only in the most ambiguous terms.
“Really?” Carella said. “Where were you?”
“Boston. I went up to Boston for the weekend.”
“Nice up there,” Carella said.
“Yes.”
“Anyway, I’ve been showing a picture of the victim...”
“I don’t know too many people in the neighborhood,” Elliot said. “I’ve only been here in the city since January. I keep mostly to myself. Do my work in the studio back there, and try to sell it out front here. I don’t know too many people.”
“Well, lots of people come in and out of the shop, don’t they?” Carella said.
“Oh, sure. But unless they buy one of my pieces, I never get to know their names. You see what I mean?”
“Sure,” Carella said. “Why don’t you take a look at the picture, anyway?”
“Well, if you like. It won’t do any good, though. I really don’t know too many people around here.”
“Are you from Boston originally?”
“What?”
“You said you went up to Boston, I figured...”
“Oh. No, I’m from Oregon. But I went to art school up there. School of Fine Arts at B.U. Boston University.”
“And you say you were up there Sunday?”
“That’s right. I went up to see some friends. I’ve got a lot of friends in the Boston area.”
“But not too many around here.”
“No, not around here.”
“Did you hurt your leg before you went to Boston, or after you came back?”
“Before.”
“Went up there on crutches, huh?”
“Yes.”
“Did you drive up?”
“A friend drove me.”
“Who?”
“The girl who poses for me.” He made a vague gesture at the pieces of sculpture surrounding them.
“What’s wrong with the leg, anyway?” Carella asked.
“I had an accident.”
“Is it broken?”
“No. I sprained the ankle.”
“Those can be worse than a break, sometimes.”
“Yeah, that’s what the doctor said.”
“Who’s the doctor?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“Just curious.”
“Well,” Elliot said, “I don’t think that’s any of your business.”
“You’re right,” Carella said, “it isn’t. Would you mind looking at this picture?”
“I mean,” Elliot said, gathering steam, “I’ve given you a lot of time as it is. I was working when you came in. I don’t like being disturbed when I’m...”
“I’m sorry,” Carella said. “If you’ll just look at this picture...”
“I won’t know who he is, anyway,” Elliot said. “I hardly know any of the guys in this neighborhood. Most of my friends are up in Boston.”
“Well, take a look,” Carella said, and handed him the photograph.
“No, I don’t know him,” Elliot said, and handed it back almost at once.
Carella put the photograph into his notebook, turned up the collar of his coat, said, “Thanks,” and went out into the rain. It was coming down in buckets; he was willing to forsake the goddamn May flowers. He began running the instant he hit the street, and did not stop until he reached the open diner on the corner. Inside, he expelled his breath in the exaggerated manner of all people who have run through rain and finally reached shelter, took off his trench coat, hung it up, and sat at the counter. A waitress slouched over and asked him what he wanted. He ordered a cup of coffee and a cheese Danish.
There was a lot that bothered him about Sanford Elliot.
He was bothered by the tattered white tennis sneaker, and he was bothered by the fact that Elliot’s left foot was in bandages — or was it only coincidence that the sneaker they’d found was left-footed? He was bothered by the speedy alibi Elliot had offered for his whereabouts on the night of the murder, and bothered by the thought of a man on crutches taking a long car trip up to Boston, even if he was being driven by someone.
Why hadn’t Elliot been willing to tell him the name of his doctor? And how had Elliot known that the murder victim was a man? Even before Carella showed him the photograph, he had said, “I won’t know who he is, anyway.” He. When up to that time Carella had spoken of the dead man only as “the victim.”
Something else was bothering him.
The waitress put his cup of coffee on the counter, sloshing it into the saucer. He picked up his Danish, bit into it, put it down, lifted the coffee cup, slipped a paper napkin between cup and saucer, drank some coffee, and suddenly knew what was nudging his memory.
He debated going back to the shop.
Elliot had mentioned that he’d been working when Carella came in; the possibility existed that the girl was still with him. He decided instead to wait a while and talk to her alone, without Elliot there to prompt her.
He finished his coffee and Danish, called the squadroom to find out if there had been any messages, and was informed by Meyer that another manila envelope had arrived in the mail. Carella asked him to open it. When Meyer got back on the line, he said, “Well, what is it this time?”