Lullaby

'Tell me about it.'

The man eating the French toast looked at the other man's plate. 'What you're eating there is enough cholesterol to give you six heart attacks,' he said. 'The eggs. There's more cholesterol in a single egg than there is in a whole steak.'

'Who told you that?'

'It's true.'

'So who cares?'

'So it could kill you, cholesterol.'

'So what do you think they make French toast with?'

'What do you mean?'

'French toast, French toast, what you're eating there all covered with syrup. French toast. What do you think they make it with?'

'They make it with bread.'

'And what else?'

'They fry the bread.'

'Before they fry the bread.'

'What do you mean?'

'I mean what do they dip it in?'

'I don't know. What do they dip it in?'

'Eggs.'

'No, they don't.'

'Yes, they do.'

'Are you trying to tell me there's eggs in this?'

'What do you think that stuff is?'

'What stuff?'

'All over the toast. Both sides of the toast.'

'I thought it was what they fried it in.'

'No, that's the eggs, is what it is. I'm surprised you don't know that.'

'How'm I supposed to know that? I never cooked French toast in my life.'

'So now you're gonna have a heart attack. All that cholesterol.'

'No, I'm not.'

'Sure you are. There's more cholesterol in a single egg . . .'

'Yeah, yeah . . .'

'. . . than there is in a whole steak, isn't that what you said?'

'Let me eat in peace, okay?'

They ate in silence for several moments.

'What'd you do last night?' the one eating the eggs asked. He had lowered his voice. They were sitting in a booth at the far end of the diner, with only one other person in the place, a man in a booth near the, door, but he had lowered his voice nonetheless. The man sitting across from him soaked up some syrup with a piece of the toast and brought it dripping to his mouth. He chewed for a while, licked his lips, and said, 'A supermarket.' He had lowered his voice, too.

'Where?'

'In Riverhead. A lay-in job. I worked it with Sammy Pedicini, you remember him?'

'Sure, how is he?'

'He's fine. It was his job, he called me up on it.'

'What'd you get?'

'There was only two grand in the safe. I figure this was like to put in the cash registers in the morning, get them started, you know. I'll tell you the truth, I wouldn'ta took the job if I knew Sammy was talkin' a grand apiece. I wasted the whole fuckin' night in there. First I had to knock out the alarm so I could let him in, and then we spent I don't know how long on the safe, it was one of those old boxes with a lead spindle shaft, a real pain in the ass. With the locknuts away from the shaft, you know the kind? For two lousy grand! We got through it had to be four in the morning. I told Sammy he ever calls me again with a dog like that one, I'll piss on his leg. How about you?'

'I done a private house in Calm's Point. I was watching it the past week, I figured the family was away on a trip.'

'You go in alone or what?'

'How long you know me to ask a question like that? Of course I went in alone.'

'What'd you come away with?'

'A couple of nice coats.'

'The one you're wearing?'

'No, no, I got this one New Year's Eve. This is a Ralph Lauren coat, it's worth eleven hundred bucks.'

'Itdon't look like eleven bills, Doc, I gotta tell you the truth.'

'That's what it costs, go check it out. It's camel hair.'

'I believeyou. I'm just saying it don't look the money.'

'There's a Ralph Lauren on Jefferson, go in and price the coat.'

'I told you I believe you, Doc. It's just that a cloth coat . . .'

'These two I got last night are furs.'

'What kind?'

'A raccoon . . .'

'Which ain't worth shit. I don't waste time with raccoons no more. What was the other one?'

'A red fox.'

'That's a nice fur, red fox.'

'Yeah.'

'You said Calm's Point, huh? Where you got the coats?'

'Yeah, the furs. Not the one I'm wearing.'

'You oughta be careful, Calm's Point.'

'What do you mean?'

'According to Sammy, anyway.'

'Why? What's the matter with Calm's Point?'

'There were cops came around your old building.'

His voice lower now.

'What are you talkin' about?'

His voice lowering, too.

'According to Sammy. Park Street, am I right?'

'Yeah?'

'His girlfriend lives on Park. She told him some cops came around lookin' for you.'

'What the fuck are you saying?'

'This is according to Sammy.'

'He said some cops were looking for me?'

Both men virtually whispering now.

'Yeah, is what his girlfriend told him. She lives in an apartment with two other hookers, she said some detectives . . .'

'When was this?'

'Last night. While Sammy was workin' the spindle, it took forever with that fuckin' . . .'

'I mean when did they come around looking for me?'

'Coupla days ago? You gotta ask Sammy. I think he said Friday. Give him a call, he'll tell you.'

'Did his girlfriend say why they were looking for me?'

'This is all secondhand, Doc. The cops weren't questioning her, they were talking to people in your old building.'

'On Park?'

'Yeah.'

'1146 Park?'

'Whatever. But when the cops were gone, she wandered over, you know . . .'

'Yeah?'

'And asked what the fuck was happening. So this guy in the building says they were lookin' for you.'

'For me.'

'Yeah.'

'Why?'

'To ask you some questions.'

'About what?'

'I don't know, Doc,' he said, and smiled. 'You done something bad lately?'

* * * *

6

Carella placed the call at two o'clock his time.

The receptionist who answered the phone at Chapman Lumber in Seattle was surprised to be receiving a call from a detective in the east. Carella told her that he was trying to locate Joyce Chapman, and the receptionist asked him to hold, please. Another woman came onto the line.

'Yes, may I help you?' she asked.

Carella explained all over again who he was and why he was calling. He had tried the number he'd been given for Miss Chapman . . .

'What did you wish to talk to Miss Chapman about?' the woman asked.

'Who am I talking to, please?' Carella said.

'Mr Chapman's secretary. He's been in the hospital . . .'

'Yes, I know.'

'So if you can tell me what . . .'

'I don't want to talk to Mr Chapman,' Carella said. 'I have some business with his daughter. But the number I have for her doesn't seem to be aworking number . . .'

'Yes, what sort of business?'

'What did you say your name was, ma'am?'

'Miss. Ogilvy. Miss Pearl Ogilvy.'

Figures, Carella thought.

'Miss Ogilvy,' he said, 'I'm investigating a double homicide here, and I'd like very much to talk to Joyce Chapman. If you have any knowledge of her whereabouts, you'd save me the trouble of calling the Seattle police, who, I'm sure . . .'

'Miss Chapman has been staying at the Pines.'

'Is that a hotel there in Seattle?'

'No, it's Mr Chapman's home. The Pines.'

'I see. Do I have the correct number there?' he asked, and read off the number Angela Quist had given him.

'No, the Last digit is a nine,' Miss Ogilvy said, 'not a five.'

'Thank you very much,' Carella said.