Lullaby

'We need a man who understands the Chinese mentality,' Hamilton said.

The word sounded so pretty on his Jamaican tongue.

'Men-tahl-ee-tee.'

But why? Herrera wondered.

'Why?' he asked.

'The men making delivery are Chinese,' Hamilton said.

Herrera looked at him.

This was the lie. He knew this was the lie, but he didn't yet know what the lie was. He knew only that he saw the lie sitting in Hamilton's eyes on Hamilton's impassive face, and the lie had something to do with Chinese making the delivery.

'Which Chinese?' he asked.

'That is for me to know, man,' Hamilton said, and smiled.

'Sure,' Herrera said.

'So do you think you might be interested?'

'You haven't yet mentioned how much this is worth to you.'

'I thought ten dollars,' Hamilton said.

Which was very fucking high.

High by about eight.

Especially high when you figured he could just as easily send someone on his payroll.

So why such rich bait?

It suddenly occurred to Herrera that this fucking Jakie was buying a fall guy.

'Ten sounds about right,' he said.

* * * *

The return address on the flap of the envelope was 336 North Eames. The woman had signed her letter Julie. The mailboxes downstairs showed a J. Endicott in apartment. They climbed the steps to the second floor, stood outside the door listening for a moment, and then knocked. This was now a quarter to seven in the evening. Even if Julie had a job, she should be-

'Who is it?'

A woman's voice.

'Police,' Carella said.

'Police?'

Utter astonishment.

'Miss Endicott?' Carella said.

'Yes?'

The voice closer to the door now. Suspicion replacing the surprise. In this city all kinds of lunatics knocked on your door pretending they were somebody else.

'I'm Detective Carella, 87th Squad, I wonder if you could open the door for me.'

'Why? What's the matter?'

'Routine inquiry, Miss. Could you open the door, please?'

The door opened just a crack, restrained by a night chain.

An eye appeared in the crack. Part of a face.

'Let me see your badge, please.'

He held up his shield and ID card.

'What's this about?' she asked.

'Is this your handwriting?' he asked, and held up the letter so that the envelope flap showed.

'Where'd you get that?' she asked.

'Did you write this?'

'Yes, but . . .'

'May we come in, please?'

'Just a second,' she said.

The door closed. There was the rattle of the chain coming off. The door opened again. She was, Carella guessed, in her mid-twenties, a woman of medium height with long blonde hair and brown eyes. She had the look about her of someone who had just got home from work, still wearing a skirt and blouse, but she'd loosened her hair and undone the stock tie on the blouse, and she was barefoot.

'Julie Endicott?' Carella said.

'Yes?'

She closed the door behind them.

They were in a small entrance foyer. Tiny kitchen to the right. Living room straight ahead. In the living room, a young man sat on a sofa upholstered in a nubby blue fabric. There was a coffee table in front of the sofa, two drinks in tall glasses on it. A pair of medium-heeled women's shoes were on the floor under the coffee table. The young man was wearing jeans and a V necked sweater. His shoes were under the coffee table, too. Carella figured they'd interrupted a bit of fore-play. Lady home from work, boyfriend or husband waiting to mix the drinks. She lets down her hair, they kick off their shoes, he starts fiddling with her blouse, knock, knock, it's the cops.

The young man looked up at them as they came in.

He was white.

Tall.

With dark hair and blue eyes.

Joyce Chapman's vague description of ...

'Michel Fournier?' Carella asked.

His eyes opened wide. He looked at Julie. Julie shrugged, shook her head.

'Are you Michel Fournier?' Carella said.

'Yes?'

'Few questions we'd like to ask you.'

'Questions?' he said, and looked at Julie again. Julie shrugged again.

'Privately,' Carella said. He was thinking down the line. Thinking alibi. If Julie Endicott turned out to be Fournier's alibi, he'd want to question her separately later on.

'Is there anything you have to do?' he asked her.

'What?'

'Take a shower, watch the TV news

'Oh,' she said. 'Sure.'

She went through the living room and opened a door opposite the couch. A glimpse of bed beyond. The door closed.

'We know the Dean was in port on New Year's Eve,' Carella said. Straight for the jugular. 'We know the crew went ashore. Where'd you go, Mike?'

First-name basis. Reduce him at once to an inferior status. An old cop trick that usually worked. Except when you were talking to a professional thief who thought you were calling him Frankie because you liked him.

'New Year's Eve,' Meyer said.

'Where, Mike?'

'Why do you want to know?'

'Do you know a girl named Joyce Chapman?'

'No. Joyce Chapman. No. Who's Joyce Chapman?'

'Think back to October,' Carella said.

'I was nowhere near this city in October.'

'We're talking about October a year ago.'

'What? How do you expect me to remember . . . ?'

'A disco named Lang's. Down in the Quarter.'

'So?'

'Do you remember it?'

'I think so. What's . . . ?'

'A girl named Joyce Chapman. You did some dope together . . .'

'No, no.'

'Yes, yes, this isn't a drug bust, Mike.'

'Look, I really don't remember anyone named Joyce Chapman.'

'Blonde hair,' Meyer said.

'Like your friend Julie,' Carella said.

'I like blondes,' Fournier said, and shrugged.

'Green eyes,' Meyer said.

'Pretty eyes.'

'Her best feature.'

'You went back to her apartment on North Orange . . .'

'No, I don't re . . .'

'She had a roommate.'