“Yes, sir, I’ll send it to your office,” Murchison said.
“No!” Frick said at once. “Don’t send any damn bomb to my office!”
“Where shall I send it?” Murchison said.
“I told you. Back to the post office.”
“Yes, sir, is that your order, sir? If it later explodes at the post office?”
“It won’t explode if the Bomb Squad looks at it first,” Frick said, and realized an instant later that he’d been outflanked.
“Thank you, sir,” Murchison said, “I’ll call the Bomb Squad.”
Frick hung up thinking that if there was no bomb in that package, the Bomb Squad boys would be telling jokes about it for months — chickenhearted 87th Precinct calls the Bomb Squad when it gets a package without a return address on it. He almost wished there was a bomb in that damn bag. He almost wished it would explode before the Bomb Squad got here.
There was no bomb inside the bag.
The Bomb Squad boys were laughing when they left the station house. Shaking his head, Frick watched them from his upstairs window and hoped he didn’t run into any departmental rank within the next few weeks.
There was a woman’s pocketbook inside the mailing bag.
The pocketbook contained a small packet of Kleenex tissues, a rat-tailed comb, a compact, a package of Wrigley’s Spearmint chewing gum, a checkbook, a small spiral-bound notebook, a ballpoint pen, a tube of lipstick, a pair of sunglasses, and a wallet. No keys. The detectives thought that was odd. No keys. The wallet contained four ten-dollar bills, a five-dollar bill, and two singles. The wallet also contained a Ramsey University student I.D. card giving the girl’s address here in the city. The girl’s name, as typed on the I.D. card, was Marcia Schaffer. A photograph was sealed between the protective plastic layers of the card.
The girl was smiling in the photograph.
She was not smiling in the photographs the PU had taken at the scene of the hanging on Friday morning, October 7.
Aside from that, the photographs were virtually identical.
Kling and Carella were studying the photographs when Meyer Meyer walked into the squadroom. They pretended they didn’t know him. That was because Meyer was wearing a wig.
“Yes, sir, can I help you?” Carella asked, looking up.
“Come on, “Meyer said, and started pushing his way through the gate in the railing.
Kling leaped to his feet at once, starting for the railing.
“Excuse me, sir,” he said, “this is a restricted area.”
“Would you please state your business, sir?” Carella said.
Meyer kept advancing into the squadroom.
Kling pulled his gun from his shoulder holster.
“Hold it right there, sir!” he shouted.
Carella’s gun was already in his hand. “State your business, sir!” he shouted, moving forward.
“It’s me,” Meyer said. “Cut it out, will you?”
“It’s who, sir?” Kling said. “State your goddamn business!”
“My business is kicking the asses of wise-guy flatfoots,” Meyer said, and went to his desk.
“It’s Meyer!” Carella said in mock surprise.
“I’ll be a son of a gun!” Kling said.
“You’ve got hair!” Carella said.
“No kidding,” Meyer said. “What’s the big deal? Man buys a hairpiece, right away it’s a reason for hilarity.”
“Are we laughing?” Kling asked.
“You see us laughing?” Carella asked.
“Is it real hair?” Kling asked.
“Yes, it’s real hair,” Meyer said testily.
“Boy, you sure had us fooled,” Carella said.
“Real hair from where?” Kling asked.
“How do I know from where? It’s people who sell their hair, they make hairpieces out of it.”
“Is it virgin hair?” Kling asked.
“Is it head hair or pubic hair?” Carella asked.
“The shit a man has to take up here,” Meyer said, shaking his head.
“I think he looks beautiful,” Kling said to Carella.
“I think he looks adorable,” Carella said.
“Is this shit going to go on all morning?” Meyer said, sighing. “Nothing better to do around here? I thought you caught a homicide last week. Go arrest some shopping bag ladies, will you?”
“He’s ravishing when he gets angry,” Kling said.
“Those flashing blue eyes,” Carella said.
“And those curly brown locks,” Kling said.
“They’re not curly,” Meyer said.
“How much did it cost?” Kling asked.
“None of your business,” Meyer said.
“Virgin pubic hair must cost a fortune,” Carella said.
“Very difficult to come by,” Kling said.
“How does Sarah feel about you wearing a merkin on your head?” Carella asked, and both he and Kling burst out laughing.
“Very funny,” Meyer said. “Typical crude squadroom humor. Man buys a hairpiece...”
“Who’s that sitting in my chair?” a voice boomed from beyond the railing, and Arthur Brown walked into the squadroom. Brown was the color of his surname, a six-foot-four, two hundred and twenty pound detective who stood now with an amazed look on his handsome face. “Why, I do believe it’s Goldilocks,” he said, opening his eyes wide. “Fetch some porridge,” he said to Kling. “What cute curls you have, Goldilocks.”
“Another county heard from,” Meyer said.
Brown approached Meyer’s desk. He tiptoed around the desk, eyeing the hairpiece. Meyer didn’t even look at him.
“Does it bite?” Brown asked.
“He rented it from a pet shop,” Kling said.
“Ha-ha,” Meyer said.
“It looks like a bird done on your head,” Brown said.
“Ha-ha,” Meyer said.
“Do you comb it, or just wipe it off?” Brown asked.
“Wise guys,” Meyer said, shaking his head.
He’d been dreading walking in here all morning. He knew just what would be waiting for him here when he showed up wearing the hairpiece. He would rather have faced a bank robber holding a sawed-off shotgun than these smart-asses in the squadroom. He busied himself looking over the slips on the Activity Reports spindle. He desperately wanted a cigarette, but he’d promised his daughter he’d quit smoking.
“What’s this about the Bomb Squad being here?” Brown asked.
Good, Meyer thought. They’re getting off my goddamn rug.
“False alarm,” Carella said. “You ought to wear it in braids,” he said to Meyer.
Meyer sighed.
“So what was it?” Brown asked.
“You can sweep it up on top of your head when you go to the Governor’s Ball,” Kling said.
“Anti-Semites,” Meyer said, and laughed when the other men did. “Is the Governor holding one of his balls again?” Brown asked, and they all laughed again.
“Did you see the picture?” Carella said.
“What picture?” Brown asked.
“It was a handbag, not a bomb,” Kling said. “Somebody sent us the hanging victim’s handbag.”
“No shit?” Brown said.
“Picture of her on her I.D. card,” Carella said.
The men all looked at each other.
They were each thinking the exact same thing. They were thinking that whoever had hanged that lady from a lamppost wanted them to identify her. They had been running all over the city for the past three days trying to get a positive make so they’d have someplace to start. Now somebody had made the job easy for them. He had sent them the dead girl’s handbag with identification in it. They could only think of one person in the world who would ever want to make things easy for the cops up here. Or seemingly easy. None of them wanted to mention his name. But they were all thinking that’s who it was.