Los Angeles, Carella thought. Terrific. What do we do now? Let’s say McIntyre is our man. Let’s say he was here in the city on October sixth when somebody killed Marcia Schaffer, and again on October thirteenth when somebody, presumably the same person, killed Nancy Annunziato. Let’s say I call him and ask him where he was on those nights, and he hangs up, and runs for Mexico or wherever. Great. He leafed through his personal telephone directory, found a listing for the L.A.P.D., dialed the number, and asked for the Detective Division. A man came on the line.
“Branigan,” he said.
“Detective Carella in Isola,” Carella said. “I’ve got a problem.”
“Let’s hear it,” Branigan said.
Carella told him about the murders. He told him about the name circled in Nancy Annunziato’s copy of Sports USA. He told him that the man lived in L.A. He told him that he was afraid a phone call might spook him, if indeed he was the killer. Branigan listened.
“So what is it?” he said at last. “You want somebody to drop in on him, is that it?”
“I was thinking...”
“First of all,” Branigan said, “suppose we go there, okay, first of all? And suppose the guy says he was out bowling those nights, and we say ‘Thank you very much, sir, can you tell us who you were bowling with?’ and he gives us the names of three other guys, okay, that’s first of all. Then suppose we leave the house to go check on those three other guys who maybe don’t exist, so what does our man do meanwhile? If our man’s the killer, he runs to China. He does just what you’re afraid he’ll do, anyway, so what’s the use of wasting time out here? If he’s the killer, he ain’t about to tell us he was Back East there doing the number on those girls, is he? Especially when he’s probably smart enough to know we ain’t got jurisdiction to arrest him without specific charges pending on your end.”
“I thought if you really questioned him...”
“You got Miranda-Escobedo back there, or are you working in Russia? You’re saying we go to his house, right, this is in the second place. And he doesn’t have anything that looks good for where he was those two nights, or maybe he even tells us he was there on those nights, Back East there, which I don’t think he’d be stupid enough to do if he’s the killer and there are two cops standing on his doorstep. But let’s say he sounds maybe not like real meat but at least a hamburger medium rare and we say, ‘Sir, would you mind accompanying us downtown because there are a few more questions we’d like to ask you?’ So he puts on his hat, and we take him here and we sit him down and read him Miranda because this ain’t a field investigation anymore, Carella, this is now a situation where an investigation is focusing on a man, and he is technically in police custody, and we cannot ask him any questions until he knows his rights. So suppose he says he doesn’t want to answer any questions, which is his privilege? Then what? You expect us to charge him with two counts of Murder One on the say-so of a call from the East?”
“No, I certainly wouldn’t...”
“Of course not, because if you were on our end of the deal, and if we called you to go talk to some guy, you’d recognize what kind of trouble you were buying, wouldn’t you? The Supreme Court doesn’t like lengthy interrogations or incommunicado detention, Carella. If this guy clams up, what do we do then? Hold him here till you can hop a plane out? L.A.P.D. would get its ass in a sling so tight we wouldn’t be able to shit for a month.”
“I hear you,” Carella said.
“Look, Carella, I recognize your problem. You call this guy on the phone, you start asking him questions, he thinks right away ‘Uh-oh,’ and he reaches for his hat. But it seems to me you’ve got to take that chance. Anyway, how do you know it’s not somebody Back East just picked the man’s name out of the magazine and used it? This guy out here may be clean as a whistle.”
“I realize that.”
“Carella,” Branigan said, “it’s been nice talking to you, but I got headaches, too.”
There was a click on the line.
Nothing ventured, nothing gained, Carella thought, and looked up at the squadroom clock. Seven-thirty. It was still only 4:30 on the Coast. The night watch had relieved at a quarter to four here. Hawes was busy at his desk, typing up the report on what they’d learned at the Annunziato house. Both detectives had been working the day watch since a quarter to eight this morning. Carella was tired; there was nothing he wanted more than a drink and a hot shower. He looked again at the slip of paper on which he’d written Corey McIntyre’s address and phone number. Okay, here goes nothing, he thought, and dialed the 213 area code and then the number. A woman picked up after the fourth ring.
“Hello?” she said.
“Corey McIntyre, please,” Carella said.
“This is his wife,” the woman said. “May I know who’s calling?”
“Detective Carella of the 87th Squad,” he said. “In Isola.”
“Just a moment,” the woman said.
He could hear voices mumbling in the background. He heard a man say, quite distinctly, “Who?” Carella waited.
“Hello?” the voice on the other end said.
“Mr. McIntyre?”
“Yes?” Puzzlement in the voice. Or was it wariness?
“Corey McIntyre?”
“Yes?”
“Is this the Corey McIntyre who works for Sports USA?”
“Yes?”
“Mr. McIntyre, I’m sorry to bother you this way, but would the name Nancy Annunziato mean anything to you?”
Silence on the other end of the line.
“Mr. McIntyre?”
“I’m thinking,” he said. “Annunziato?”
“Yes. Nancy Annunziato.”
“No, I don’t know her. Who is she?”
“How about Marcia Schaffer?”
“I don’t know her, either. Sir, can you tell me...?”
“Mr. McIntyre, were you in the East on October the thirteenth? That was a Thursday night. Last Thursday night.”
“No, I was right here in L.A. last Thursday night.”
“Can you remember what you were doing?”
“What is this?” McIntyre said. “Diane, what were we doing last Thursday night?”
In the background, Carella heard the woman say, “What?”
“Last Thursday night,” McIntyre called to her. “This guy wants to know what we were... listen,” he said into the phone again, “what’s this in reference to, would you mind telling me?”
“We’re investigating a series of murders...”
“So what’s that got to do with me?”
“I’d appreciate it if...”
“Listen, I’m going to hang up,” McIntyre said.
“No, I wish you wouldn’t,” Carella said.
“Give me a good reason why I shouldn’t.”
Carella took a deep breath.
“Because a copy of Sports USA in the most recent victim’s possession had your name circled in it.”
“My name?”
“Yes, sir. On the page with the masthead. Page four. Your name, sir. Corey McIntyre. Under Writer-Reporters.”
“Who’s this? Is this you, Frank?”
“Is it Frank again?” his wife said in the background.
“This is Detective Stephen Louis Carella of the Eighty-seventh...”
“Frank, if this is another one of your harebrained...”
“Mr. McIntyre, I assure you...”
“What’s your number there?” McIntyre said.
“377-8034,” Carella said.
“In Isola, did you say?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll call you back,” McIntyre said. “Collect,” he added, and hung up.