Lullaby

'Not at all,' Miss Ogilvy said, and hung up.

Carella pressed the receiver rest on his phone, got a fresh dial tone, dialed the 206 area code again, and then the number, with a nine this time. The phone on the other end kept ringing.

And ringing.

He was about to give up when-

'Hello?'

A muffled, sleep-raveled voice.

'Miss Chapman?'

'Mmmm.'

'Hello?'

'Mmmm.'

'This is Detective Carella of the 87th Precinct, I'm calling from . . .'

'Who?'

'I'm sorry if I'm waking you up,' he said, 'is this Joyce Chapman?'

'Yes, what time is it?'

'A little after eleven your time.'

'Who did you say this was?'

'Detective Carella, I'm calling from Isola, Miss Chapman, we're investigating a double homicide here, I wonder if ...'

'A what?'

'A double homicide.'

'Jesus.'

'We spoke earlier today to a woman named Angela Quist . . .'

'Angie? Is she involved in a murder?'

'No, Miss Chapman. We talked to her because she was the person we found at the last address we had for you.'

'For me?'

'Yes.'

'The last address you had for me?'

'Yes.'

'What've I got to do with a homicide? And where'd you get my last address?'

'From the Cooper-Anderson Agency,' Carella said.

There was a long silence on the line.

'Who got killed?' Joyce finally said. 'Mike?'

'Who do you mean?' Carella asked.

'Mike. The baby's father. Did somebody kill him?'

'Mike who?' Carella said.

There was another silence. Then:

'Is he dead or isn't he?'

'He may be, for all I know,' Carella said. 'But he's not one of the victims in the case we're investigating.'

'Then what is he? A suspect?'

'Not if he was on a ship in the Persian Gulf on New Year's Eve. May I have his last name, please?'

'How'd you know he was a sailor?'

'A merchant seaman,' Carella said.

'Same thing.'

'Not quite. Miss Quist mentioned it.'

'Is she the one who told you I'd put the baby up for adoption?'

'No.'

'Then how'd you know about Cooper-Anderson?'

'The baby's adoptive parents told us.'

'And Cooper-Anderson gave you my name? That's a fucking violation of. . .'

'Miss Chapman, it was your baby who got killed.'

He thought he heard a small sharp gasp on the other end of the line. He waited.

'She is not my baby,' Joyce said at last.

'Not legally perhaps…'

'Not emotionally, either. I gave birth to her, Mr Carella, is that your name?'

'Yes, Carella.'

'That was the extent of my involvement with her.'

'I see. But she is nonetheless dead.'

'I'm sorry to hear that. Why are you calling me, Mr Carella?'

'Miss Chapman, we know you were in Seattle on New Year's Eve . . .'

'Is that when she was killed?'

'Yes.'

'Who else was killed? You said a double . . .'

'Her baby-sitter. A young girl named Annie Flynn. Does the name mean anything to you?'

'No'

Miss Chapman, can you tell me the father's full name?'

'Why do you want to know? If you think he's the one who . . .'

'We don't think anything yet. We're merely trying to . . .'

'He didn't even know I was pregnant. I was with him on a Saturday night, and he sailed the next day.'

'Where'd you meet him, Miss Chapman?'

'At a disco called Lang's. Down in the Quarter.'

'Yes, I know the place. And you took him back to the Orange Street

'Yes.'

'And spent the night with him?'

'Yes.'

'Did you see him again after that?'

'No. I told you. He sailed the next day.'

'For the Persian Gulf.'

'To pick up Kuwaiti oil. At least, that's what he told me. It may have been bullshit. Some guys try to impress girls by saying they do dangerous work.'

'Do you know if he's still in the Persian Gulf?'

'The last time I saw him was at eight o'clock on the morning of October eighteenth, fifteen months ago.'

'You keep track of time nicely,' Carella said.

'So would you if you gave birth nine months after you kissed somebody goodbye.'

'Then Susan was conceived that . . .'

'Is that what they named her?'

'Susan, yes.'

'Susan,' she repeated.

'Yes.'

'Susan,' she said again.

He waited.

Nothing more came.

'That weekend,' Carella concluded.

'Yes,' she said.

'What's his last name?' Carella asked. 'The father.'

'I don't know,' Joyce said.

Carella raised his eyebrows.

'You don't know his last name,' he repeated.

'I do not know his last name.'

'He didn't tell you his . . .'

'Sue me,' she said.

Carella nodded to the squadroom wall.

'What'd he look like?' he asked.

'Tall, dark hair, blue eyes, who knows?'

'Uh-huh,' he said.

'I'm not promiscuous,' she said.

'Okay,' he said.

'I was stoned.'

'Okay.'

'We were having a good time, I asked him to come home with me.'

'Okay. Was he white, black, Hispanic . . . ?'

'White.'

'And he never mentioned his last name?'

'Never.'

'And you never asked.'

'Who cared?'

'Okay. Did he tell you what ship he was on?'

Silence.

'Miss Chapman?'

'Yes, I'm thinking.'

He waited.

'A tanker.'

'Yes?'

'Do they name them after generals?'

'I guess they can.'

'The General Something?'

'Maybe.'

'Putnam? Or Putney? The General Putney? Could that be a tanker?'

'I can check it out.'

'But how could he have killed her?' Joyce asked. 'He didn't even know she existed.'

'Well, we would like to talk to him, if we can find him,' Carella said. Miss Chapman, does the name Scott Handler mean anything to you?'

'No.'

'He isn't anyone you might have known?'

'No.'

'Or might have met somewhere even casually?'

'Like at a disco? she said, her voice turning suddenly hard and mean. 'I told you, Mr Carella, I'm not promiscuous.'

'No one said you were, Miss Chapman.'

'You stressed the word "casually" . . .'

'I didn't intend to.'

'But you did! How the hell am I supposed to know who this Scott…'

'Handler.'

'Whoever the fuck, how am I supposed to know him?'

'I was only asking if his name sounded . . .'

'No, you wanted to know if I'd met him casually . . .'

'Yes, but I . . .'

'The way I'd met Mike?'

Carella sighed.

'I don't know him,' Joyce said.

'Okay,' he said.

There was a long awkward silence. 'Listen,' she said.

'Yes?'

'If you . . . if you find who . . . who . . . who killed . . .'

It was hard for her to say it. It seemed as if she would never say it. But at last the name formed on her lips and came over the telephone wires like a whisper.

'Susan,' she said. 'If you find who killed Susan . . .'

Her voice caught.

'Let me know, okay?' she said, and hung up.

* * * *

Eileen was taking her measure.

This was only the second time she'd seen the woman, and she wasn't sure she'd be seeing her again. Like a cop studying a suspect, she scrutinized Karin Lefkowitz.

Big-city Jewish-girl looks. Barbra Streisand, but prettier. Brown hair cut in a flying wedge. A sharp intelligence in her blue eyes. Good legs, she probably looked terrific in heels, but she was wearing Reeboks. A dark blue business suit - and Reeboks. Eileen liked what she saw.