“If you’d like to finish your lunch, we’ll wait,” he said.
“No, let’s get it over with now,” Benson said, and looked around for a spot where they might talk privately. He settled on the bar, an oaken structure with a lead top, the length of it overhung with glasses dangling by their stems. They pulled out three stools near the end of the bar, where an old brass cash register rested on the lead top. Hawes and Carella sat on either side of Benson. Benson immediately ordered a Beefeater martini, straight up and very cold.
“So?” he said.
“So do you know anybody named Marcia Schaffer?” Carella asked, getting straight to the point.
“So that’s it,” Benson said, and nodded.
“That’s it,” Hawes said.
“What about her?” Benson asked.
“Do you know her?”
“Yes. I knew her.”
“Knew her?”
The detectives were alternating their questions now, causing Benson to turn from one to the other of them.
“She’s dead, isn’t she?” Benson said. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? Yes, I knew her. Past tense.”
“How far in the past?” Carella asked.
“I haven’t seen her in more than a month.”
“Want to elaborate on that?” Hawes said flatly.
Benson turned to him. “Maybe I’d better call my lawyer,” he said.
“No, maybe you’d better sit right where you are,” Carella said.
Benson moved back his stool, so that he could see both detectives without having to turn from one to the other.
“Elaborate how?” he asked Hawes.
“Mr. Benson,” Hawes said, “do you own a blue, hundred-percent-wool robe with white piping on the cuffs and collar?”
“Yes. Who’s kidding who? You found my robe in Marcia’s apartment, which is why you’re here, okay? So let’s cut the crap.”
“Do you own a gold Dunhill lighter?”
“Yes, it was in the pocket of the robe, okay? That doesn’t mean I killed her.”
“Who said you killed her?” Hawes asked.
“Did anybody say you killed her?” Carella asked.
“I’m assuming you’re here because...”
“Mr. Benson, when did you leave that robe in Miss Schaffer’s apartment?” Hawes asked.
“I told you. More than a month ago.”
“When, exactly?” Carella asked.
“Labor Day, it must have been. We spent the weekend together. In the city. The city’s a perfect place to spend any holiday. Everyone’s gone, you’ve got the whole place to...”
“You spent the Labor Day weekend in her apartment?”
“Yes.”
“Took clothes when you went there?”
“Yes. Well, only what I needed for...”
“Including the robe?”
“Yes. I guess I forgot to pack it when I left.”
“Forgot the robe and your lighter?”
“Yes.”
“Haven’t missed the lighter since Labor Day?”
“I have other lighters,” Benson said.
“You smoke Marlboros, do you?”
“I smoke Marlboros, yes.”
Carella took a small plastic calendar from his wallet, looked at it, and then said, “Labor Day was the fifth of September.”
“If you say so. You’re the one looking at the calendar.”
“I say so. And you haven’t seen her since, is that right?”
“That’s right.”
“How’d you happen to meet her, Mr. Benson?” Hawes asked.
“At Ramsey U. I was doing a guest lecture on creative advertising. I ran into her at a reception later on.”
“And began dating her?”
“Yes. I’m single, there’s nothing wrong with that.”
“How old are you, Mr. Benson?”
“Thirty-seven. There’s nothing wrong with that, either. Marcia was almost twenty-one. She’d have been twenty-one next month. I wasn’t robbing the cradle, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Did anyone say you were robbing the cradle?” Hawes asked.
“I have the feeling you both disapprove of my relationship with Marcia. Frankly, I don’t give a shit what you think. We had some good times together.”
“Then why’d you stop seeing her?”
“Who said I stopped seeing her?”
“You just told us that the last time you saw her was on Labor Day, September fifth.”
“That’s right.”
“Have you tried to contact her since?”
“No, but...”
“Telephone her? Write to her?”
“Why would I write to her? We both live in the same damn city!”
“But you didn’t phone her.”
“I may have, I don’t remember.”
“In any case, the last time you saw her was on September fifth.”
“How many times do I have to say it? Yes. Labor Day. September fifth, if that’s when it was.”
“That’s when it was.”
“So okay.”
Carella looked at Hawes.
“Mr. Benson,” he said, “did you have your hair cut on Saturday, September third?”
“No, I never have my hair cut on a Saturday.”
“When do you have it cut?”
“Tuesday afternoon. We have a staff meeting at two o’clock every Tuesday, and I usually go for a haircut at four.”
“You have you hair cut every Tuesday?”
“No, no. Every three weeks.”
“Then you did not have your hair cut on Saturday, September third?”
“I did not.”
“When’s the last time you had it cut?” Hawes asked.
“Last Tuesday,” Benson said.
“That would be October fourth,” Carella said, looking at the calendar.
“I suppose.”
“And three weeks before that would have been September thirteenth.”
“If that’s what the calendar says.”
“And three weeks before that would have been August twenty-third.”
“Where’s all this going, would you mind telling me? Do I need another haircut?”
“Mr. Benson, you said you left your robe in Miss Schaffer’s apartment on September fifth, the last time you saw her.”
“That’s right.”
“And you haven’t seen her since.”
“I haven’t.”
“You didn’t see her on September fifteenth, did you? Two days after you’d had a haircut?”
“I did not.”
“You didn’t see her on October sixth, did you? Again, two days after you’d had a haircut?”
“I didn’t see her on either of those days. The last time I saw her...”
“Yes, you told us. Labor Day.”
“Why are you lying to us?” Hawes asked gently.
“I beg your pardon.”
“Mr. Benson,” Carella said, “our laboratory report indicates that you had your hair cut forty-eight hours before it was deposited on that robe. You say you left the robe there on Labor Day, but you didn’t have your hair cut on September third, so either you left the robe there after an earlier haircut, or else you left it there after a later haircut, but you couldn’t have left it there on September fifth, which you say is the last time you saw Marcia Schaffer.”