He called back ten minutes later. The collect person-to-person call went through the switchboard downstairs, and was transferred to the squadroom, where Carella accepted charges.
“Okay,” McIntyre said, “you’re a genuine cop. Now what’s this about my name circled in the magazine?”
“In the dead girl’s room,” Carella said.
“So what’s that supposed to mean?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out.”
“Was she killed last Thursday, is that it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Okay. You want to know where I was last Thursday? Here’s where I...”
“Tell him where we were,” his wife said in the background, loudly and angrily.
“My wife and I were at a dinner party in Brentwood,” McIntyre said. “The party took place at the home of Dr. and Mrs. Joseph Foderman. We got there at a little before eight...”
“Give him the address,” his wife said.
“...and we left at a little after twelve. There were...”
“And the telephone number,” she said.
“There were eight of us there in addition to the host and hostess,” McIntyre said. “I can give you the names of the other guests, if you’d like them.”
“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Carella said.
“Do you want the Fodermans’ address?”
“Just the telephone number, please.”
“You plan to call them?”
“Yes, sir.”
“To tell them I’m a suspect in a murder?”
“No, sir. Just to ascertain that you were in fact there last Thursday night.”
“Do me a favor, will you? Tell them some guy Back East is using my name, will you, please?”
“I’ll do that, sir.”
“And I’d sure like to know who he is,” McIntyre said.
“So would we,” Carella said. “May I have that number, please?”
McIntyre gave him the number, and then said, “I’m sorry I yelled at you.”
“Don’t apologize,” his wife said in the background.
There was a sharp click on the line.
Carella sighed and dialed the number McIntyre had just given him. He spoke to a woman named Phyllis Foderman who told him that her husband was at the hospital just then, but asked if she could be of any assistance. Carella told her who he was and from where he was calling, and then he said they had reason to believe someone here in the city was using Corey McIntyre’s name, and they were trying to ascertain the whereabouts of the real Mr. McIntyre for last Thursday night, October 13. Mrs. Foderman told him at once that Corey McIntyre and his wife Diane had been with them at a small dinner party here in Brentwood, and that six other people besides her and her husband could vouch for that fact. Carella thanked her and hung up.
In this city, any licensed taxicab was required to turn in to the Hack Bureau a record of all calls made that day, listing origin and time of pickup, destination, and time deposited at destination. This because very few taxi passengers ever looked at the name or number of the driver on the card prominently displayed on the dashboard, and often would have to call the bureau to inquire about a parcel or a personal belonging carelessly left behind in a cab. By cross-checking, the bureau could come up with the name and number of the driver, and follow up on the loss. This was almost always an academic exercise; nearly everything left in a taxicab vanished from sight in ten seconds flat. But a side-effect of such scrupulously kept and computerized records was that the police department had access to a minute-by-minute record of pickup locations and destinations.
Carella’s call to the Hack Bureau, on a special twenty-four-hour hot line, was routinely made and routinely answered. He identified himself and told the woman on the other end of the line that he wanted the final destination of a pickup at 207 Laurel Street in Calm’s Point at approximately seven on the night of October 13.
“The computer’s down,” the woman told him.
“When will it be up again?” Carella asked.
“Who knows with computers?” the woman said.
“Can you check the records manually?”
“Everything goes into the computer,” she said.
“I’m investigating a homicide,” Carella said.
“Who isn’t?” the woman said.
“Can you call me at home later tonight? When the computer’s working again?”
“Be happy to,” she said.
Darcy Welles had taken a taxi to Marino’s restaurant on Ulster and South Haley, and had asked the driver for a receipt that she handed across the table the moment she sat down opposite the man she thought was Corey McIntyre of Sports USA. He was, she supposed, somewhere in his late thirties, not bad-looking for someone that old, and really in pretty good condition no matter what age he was. Somehow, he looked familiar. She’d been thinking about that ever since she first met him this afternoon, but she still couldn’t place where she’d seen him before.
“I checked the magazine, you know,” she said, as he signaled the waiter to their table.
“I’m sorry?” he said, tilting his head as if he hadn’t quite heard her. “To see if you were legit,” Darcy said, and smiled. “I looked for your name in the front, where they list all the editors and everything.”
“Oh, I see,” he said, and returned the smile. “And am I legit?”
“Yeah,” she said, and shook her head, embarrassed. “I’m sorry, but... well... it isn’t every day of the week Sports USA comes knocking on my door.”
“Yes, sir, can I help you?” the waiter said. “Something to drink before dinner?”
“Darcy?”
“I’m in training,” she said.
“A glass of wine?”
“Well... I’m really not supposed to.”
“Some white wine for the lady,” he said. “And I’ll have a Dewar’s on the rocks.”
“Yes, sir, a white wine and a Dewar’s on the rocks. Would you like to see menus now? Or would you like to wait a bit?”
“We’ll wait.”
“No hurry, sir,” the waiter said. “Thank you.”
“This is really nice,” Darcy said, looking around the restaurant.
“I hope you like Italian food,” he said.
“Who doesn’t?” she said. “I just have to watch the calories, that’s all.”
“We ran an article once that said an athlete needs something like twice the number of calories a non-athlete requires.”
“Well, I sure like to eat, I’ll tell you that,” Darcy said.
“A daily caloric intake of four thousand calories isn’t unusual for a runner,” he said.
“But who’s counting?” she said, and laughed.
“So,” he said. “Tell me about yourself.”
“You know, it’s funny, but...”
“Would you mind if I used a tape recorder?”
“What? Oh. Gee, I don’t know. I mean, I’ve never...”
He had already placed the pocket-sized recorder on the table between them. “If it makes you uncomfortable,” he said, “I can simply take notes.”
“No, I guess it’ll be all right,” she said, and looked at the recorder. She watched as he pressed several buttons.
“The red light means it’s on, the green light means it’s taping,” he said. “So. You were about to say.”
“Only that is was funny how your questions this afternoon started me thinking. I mean, who can remember how I first got interested in running? You know what my mother said?”
“Your mother?”
“Yeah, when I called her. She said I...”
“You called her in Ohio?”
“Oh, sure. I mean, how often does little Darcy Welles get interviewed by Sports USA?”