“Was she pleased?”
“Oh, my God, she almost wet her pants. Oops, that thing’s going, isn’t it?” she said, and looked at the recorder. “Anyway, she said I probably first started running because my brother chased me a lot.”
“That’s a wonderful anecdote.”
“But I think... I started really thinking about it, you know... and I think the reason I went into running is because of how good it makes me feel, do you know what I mean?”
“Yes,” he said.
“White wine for the lady,” the waiter said, and placed her glass on the table. “And a Dewar’s on the rocks for you, sir.”
“Thank you,” he said.
“Shall I bring the menus now, sir?”
“In a bit,” he said.
“Thank you, sir,” the waiter said, and padded off.
“I don’t mean only physically good... there’s that, you know, your body feels so well-tuned...”
“Yes.”
“But how it makes me feel mentally, too. When I’m running that’s all I can think of, just running, you know?”
“Yes.”
“Nothing else is in there cluttering up my head, do you know what I mean?”
“Yes.”
“I feel... I feel as if everything’s clean and white in my head. I can hear my own breathing, and that’s the only sound in the world...”
“Yes.”
“And all the little problems, all the junky stuff just disappears, you know? It’s as if... as if it’s snowing inside my head, and the snow is covering up all the garbage and all the petty little junk, and it’s leaving everything clean and white and pure. That’s how I feel when I’m running. As if it’s Christmas all year round. With everything white and soft and beautiful.”
“Yes,” he said, “I know.”
Carella called the Hack Bureau again from home that night.
It was 9:30. The twins were asleep, and Teddy was sitting across from him in the living room, looking through the Want Ad sections of both the morning and the afternoon papers, circling ads that seemed of interest. A man answered the phone this time. Carella asked for the woman he’d spoken to earlier.
“She’s gone,” the man said. “She went home at eight. I relieved her at eight.”
“How’s the computer doing?”
“What do you mean, how’s it doing? It’s doing fine. How should it be doing?”
“It was down when I called at seven-thirty.”
“Well, it’s up now.”
“Didn’t she leave a message that I was to be called?” Carella asked. “This is Detective Carella, I’m working a homicide.”
“I don’t see nothing here on the message board,” the man said.
“Okay, I’m trying to trace a call originating at 207 Laurel Street in Calm’s Point...”
“When?” the man asked. Carella visualized him sitting before a computer keyboard, typing.
“October thirteenth,” he said.
“Time?”
“Seven P.M., more or less.”
“207 Laurel Street,” the man repeated. “Calm’s Point.”
“Right.”
“Yeah, here it is.”
“Where’d he take her?” Carella asked.
“1118 South Haley.”
“In Isola?”
“Isola.”
“What time did he drop her off?”
“Quarter to eight.”
“Any indication what that might be? Apartment house? Office building?”
“Just the address.”
“Thank you,” Carella said.
“Anytime,” the man said, and hung up.
Carella thought for a moment, and then looked through his notebook to see if he had a number for the Fire Investigation Bureau. There was no listing on his page of frequently called numbers. He dialed the 87th Precinct. Dave Murchison was the desk sergeant on duty. He told Carella they were having a reasonably quiet night, and then asked to what he owed the pleasure of the call. Carella told him he needed the night number for the Fire Investigation Bureau.
It was twenty minutes to 10:00 when he placed the call.
“F.I.B.,” the man on the other end said.
“This is Detective Carella, Eighty-seventh Squad,” he said. “I’m investigating a homicide.”
“Yep,” the man said.
“I’ve got an address on South Haley, I want to know whether it’s business or residence.”
“South Haley,” the man said. “That’s the Four-One Engine, I think. I’ll give you the number there, they’ll be able to tell you. Just a second.”
Carella waited.
“That’s 914-3700,” the man said. “If Captain Healey’s there, give him my regards.”
“I will, thanks,” Carella said.
It was a quarter to ten when he placed the call to Engine Company Forty-One. The fireman who answered the phone said, “Forty-first Engine, Lehman.”
“This is Detective Carella, 87th Squad,” Carella said.
“How do you do, Carella?” Lehman said.
“I’m working a homicide...”
“Phew,” Lehman said.
“...and I’m trying to zero in on 1118 South Haley. What do you have for it? Is it an apartment building? An office building?”
“I can hardly hear you,” Lehman said. “Will you guys pipe down?” he shouted. Into the phone again, he said, “They’re playing poker. What was that address again?”
“1118 South Haley.”
“Let me check the map. Hold on, okay?”
Carella waited. In the background, someone shouted “Holy shit!” and he wondered who had just turned over his hole card to reveal a royal flush.
“You still with me?” Lehman said.
“Still here.”
“Okay. 1118 South Haley is a six-story building, offices on the upper floors, restaurant at ground level.”
“What’s the name of the restaurant?”
“Marino’s,” Lehman said. “I never ate there, but it’s supposed to be pretty good.”
“Okay, thanks a lot.”
“Guy just had four aces,” Lehman said, and hung up.
Carella looked through the Isola directory for a listing for Marino’s. He dialed the number, identified himself to the man who answered the phone, and then said, “I was wondering if you could check back through your reservations book for the night of October thirteenth, that would have been Thursday last week.”
“Sure, what time?” the man said.
“Eight o’clock, around then.”
“What’s the name.”
“McIntyre. Corey McIntyre.”
He could hear pages being turned on the other end of the line.
“Yes, here it is,” the man said. “McIntyre at eight o’clock.”
“For how many?” Carella asked.
“Two.”
“Would you remember who he was with?”
“No, I’m sorry, we get a lot of customers, I couldn’t possibly... wait a minute. McIntyre, you said?”
“McIntyre, yes.”
“Just a second.”
He could hear the pages turning again.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” the man said.
“What’s that?”
“He’s here tonight.”
“What?”
“Yeah, came in at eight o’clock, reservation for two. Table number four. Just a second, okay?”
Carella waited.
The man came back onto the phone.
“Sorry,” he said. “He left about five minutes ago.”
“Who was he with?”
“The waiter says a young girl.”
“Jesus!” Carella said. “How late are you open?”
“Eleven-thirty, twelve, it depends. Why?”
“Keep the waiter there,” Carella said, and hung up.
The parking garage was two blocks from the restaurant. A sign on the wall advised any interested motorist of the exorbitant fees charged for parking a car here in the heart of the city, and promised that if the car was not delivered within five minutes from the time the claim check was stamped, there would be no charge at all. His claim check had been stamped seven minutes ago. He could hear the shriek of rubber as an attendant better suited for competition in the Grand Prix drove an automobile down around the hairpin turns of the garage ramp, hoping to beat the time limit, and possibly to save his job. He wondered if they’d really let him get away without paying. He was not about to argue over two or three minutes. He did not want anything to delay him tonight.