“So why are you lying to us?” Hawes asked.
“Maybe I saw her after Labor Day,” Benson said. “What was that date you mentioned? The haircut before this last one?”
“You tell me,” Carella said.
“Whenever it was. The fourteenth, the fifteenth. Whenever.” He lifted his martini glass and took a quick swallow of it.
“But not this past week, huh? Not October sixth.”
“No, I’m sure of that.”
“You did not see Marcia Schaffer on October sixth, two days after you had your most recent haircut? You did not forget your robe in her apartment on October sixth?”
“I’m positive I didn’t.”
“Where were you on October sixth, Mr. Benson?”
“What day was that?”
“A Thursday. Thursday last week, Mr. Benson.”
“Well, I’m sure I was at work.”
“All day Thursday?”
“Yes, all day.”
“You didn’t see Miss Schaffer on Thursday night, did you?”
“No, I’m sure I didn’t.”
“How about Wednesday night?”
Benson sipped at his martini again.
“Did you see her on Wednesday night?” Hawes asked.
“The fifth of October?” Carella asked.
“Mr. Benson?” Hawes said.
“Did you see her that night?” Carella said.
“All right,” Benson said, and put down his glass. “All right, I saw her last Wednesday night, I was with her last Wednesday night. I went there right after work, we had dinner together and spent the... the rest of the night...”
The detectives said nothing. They waited.
“...in bed, I guess you’d say,” Benson said, and sighed.
“When did you leave the apartment?” Carella asked.
“The next morning. I went directly to work from there. Marcia was on her way to school.”
“This was Thursday morning, October sixth.”
“Yes.”
“Is that when you forgot the robe?”
“Yes.”
“What time was that, Mr. Benson?”
“I left the apartment at about eight-thirty.”
“And you’d had your hair cut at four o’clock on Tuesday afternoon.”
“Yes.”
“That’s a time span of about forty hours,” Carella said to Hawes.
“Close enough,” Hawes said, nodding.
“Where were you Thursday night at approximately seven o’clock?” Hawes asked.
“I thought nobody was saying I killed her,” Benson said.
“Nobody’s said it yet.”
“Then why do you want to know where I was Thursday night? That’s when she was killed, isn’t it? Thursday night?”
“That’s when she was killed.”
“So where were you Thursday night?” Carella asked.
“At seven o’clock, give or take,” Hawes said.
“I was having dinner with a friend of mine.”
“What friend?”
“A woman I know.”
“What’s her name?”
“Why do you have to drag her into this?”
“What’s her name, Mr. Benson?”
“She’s just a casual acquaintance, someone I met at the agency.”
“She works at the agency?”
“Yes.”
“What’s her name?” Hawes asked.
“I’d rather not say.”
Hawes and Carella looked at each other.
“How old is this one?” Hawes asked.
“It isn’t that. She’s not underage.”
“Then what is it?”
Benson shook his head.
“Was it only dinner last Thursday night?” Carella asked.
“It was more than dinner,” Benson said softly.
“You went to bed with her,” Hawes said.
“I went to bed with her.”
“Where?”
“My apartment.”
“On Boulder Street.”
“Yes, that’s where I live.”
“You had dinner with her at seven...”
“Yes.”
“And got back to the apartment at what time?”
“About nine.”
“And went to bed with her.”
“Yes.”
“What time did she leave the apartment?”
“At about one, a little later.”
“What’s her name, Mr. Benson?” Hawes asked.
“Look,” Benson said, and sighed.
The detectives waited.
“She’s married, okay?” Benson said.
“Okay,” Hawes said, “she’s married. What’s her name?”
“She’s married to a cop,” Benson said. “Look, I don’t want to get her in trouble, really. We’re talking about murder here.”
“You’re telling us?” Carella said.
“My point... the point is... This thing is getting a lot of attention. The one last night...”
“Oh, you know about the one last night?” Hawes asked.
“Yes, it was on television this morning. If a cop’s wife seems to be involved...”
“Involved how?” Carella asked. “Is she involved?”
“I’m talking about dragging her name into it. Suppose the newspapers found out? A cop’s wife? They’d have a field day with it.”
“We’ll keep it a secret,” Carella said. “What’s her name?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“Where does her husband work?” Hawes asked. “This cop?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“Where were you last night?” Hawes asked, and suddenly leaned into Benson.
“What?” Benson said.
“Last night, last night,” Hawes said. “When the hell was last night, Steve? You’ve got the calendar there.”
“What?” Carella said. He’d heard Hawes, he wasn’t asking what Hawes had said. He was simply surprised by the sudden anger in Hawes’s voice. So okay, Benson was bedding a cop’s wife. Not entirely unheard of in the annals of the department, witness Bert Kling’s recent divorce premised on exactly such a situation. So why the sudden anger?
“What?” he said again.
“Last night’s date,” Hawes said impatiently. “Give it to him.”
“October thirteenth,” Carella said.
“Where were you last night, October thirteenth?” Hawes asked.
“With... her,” Benson said.
“The cop’s wife?”
“Yes.”
“In bed again?”
“Yes.”
“You like to live dangerously, don’t you?” Hawes said, the same anger in his voice, his blue eyes flashing, his red hair looking as if it had suddenly caught fire. “What’s her name?”
“I don’t want to tell you that.”
“What’s her fucking name?” Hawes said, and grabbed Benson’s arm.
“Hey,” Carella said, “come on.”
“Her name,” Hawes said, tightening his grip on Benson’s arm.
“I can’t tell you that,” Benson said.
Carella sighed heavily. “Mr. Benson,” he said, “you realize...”
“Let go of my arm,” Benson said to Hawes.
“You realize, don’t you,” Carella said, “that Marcia Schaffer was killed last Thursday night...”
“Yes, damn it, I know that! Let go of my arm!” he said to Hawes again, and tried to yank it away. Hawes’s fingers remained clamped on it.
“And that your alibi for that night—”
“It isn’t an alibi!”
“...and for last night, when yet another person was...”