Lullaby

'Asleep when you came in . . .'

'Still asleep when you left early the next morning.'

'Angela Quist.'

'I don't know her, either.'

'Okay, let's talk about New Year's Eve.'

'A year ago? If you expect . . .'

'No, Mike, the one just past.'

'Where'd you go and what'd you do?'

'I was with Julie. I stay here with Julie whenever the Dean's in port.'

'How long have you known her?'

'I don't know, it must be six, seven months.'

'She came after Joyce, huh?'

'I'm telling you I don't know anybody named . . .'

'Wants to be a writer,' Meyer said.

'She was studying writing here in the city.'

'Her father owns a lumber company out west.'

'Oh,' Fournier said.

Recognition.

'You got her now?' Carella said.

'Yeah. I think. A little tattoo on her ass?'

Nobody had mentioned a tattoo to them.

'Like a little bird? On the right cheek?'

'Picasso prints on the wall over the couch,' Meyer said. 'In the apartment on Orange.'

'Like some kind of modern stuff?' Fournier said.

'Yeah, like some kind of modern stuff,' Meyer said.

'I think I remember her. That was some night.'

'Apparently,' Carella said. 'Ever try to get in touch with her again?'

'No. I'll tell you the truth, I didn't even remember her name.'

'Never saw her again after that night, huh?"

'Never.'

'Tell us about New Year's Eve, Mike.'

'I already told you. I was with Julie. Did something happen to this girl? Is that why you're asking me all these questions?'

'You were here on New Year's Eve, is that it?'

'Here? No. I didn't say here.'

'Then where?'

'We went out.'

'Where?'

'To a party. One of Julie's friends. A girl named Sarah.'

'Sarah what?'

'I don't remember. Ask Julie.'

'You're not too good on names, are you, Mike?'

'All right, you want to tell me what happened to this girl?'

'Who said anything happened to her?'

'You come here, you bang down the door . . .'

'Nobody banged down the door, Mike.'

'I mean, what the hell is this?'

The outraged citizen now. Guilty or innocent, they all became outraged at some point in the questioning. Or at least expressed outrage. People of Italian descent, guilty or innocent, always pulled the 'Conesce chi son'io? line. Indignantly. Roughly translated as 'Do you realize who I am?' You could be talking to a street cleaner, he came on like the governor of the state. 'Do you realize who I am?' Fournier was doing the same high-horse bit now. 'What the hell is this?' Outrage on his face and in his blue eyes. The innocent bystander, falsely accused. But they still didn't know where he'd been on New Year's Eve while Susan and her sitter were getting killed.

'What time did you leave here?' Meyer asked.

'Around ten. Ask Julie.'

'And got home when?'

'Around four.'

'Where were you between twelve-thirty and two-thirty?'

'Still at the party.'

'What time did you leave there?'

'Around two-thirty, three.'

'Which?'

'In there. Closer to three, I guess.'

'And went where?'

'Came straight back here.'

'How?'

'On the subway.'

'From where?'

'Riverhead. The party was all the way up in Riverhead. Something happened to this girl, am I right?'

'No.'

'Then what happened?'

'Her daughter got killed,' Carella said, and watched his eyes.

'I didn't know she had a kid,' Fournier said.

'She didn't.'

Still watching the eyes.

'You just said . . .'

'Not when you knew her. The baby was six months old.'

Both detectives watching his eyes now.

'The baby was yours,' Carella said.

He looked first at Carella and then at Meyer. Meyer nodded. In the kitchen, a water tap was dripping. Fournier was silent for a long time. When he spoke again, it was stop and go. A sentence, a silence, another sentence, another silence.

'I didn't know that,' he said.

'I'm sorry,' he said.

'I wish I'd known,' he said.

'Will you tell her how sorry I am?' he said.

'Do you know where I can reach her?' he said.

The detectives said nothing.

'Or maybe you can give her the number here,' he said. 'If you talk to her. If she'd like to call me or anything.'

In the kitchen, the water tap dripped steadily.

'You don't know how sorry I am,' he said.

And then:

'What was the baby's name?'

'Susan,' Meyer said.

'That's my mother's name,' he said. 'Well, Suzanne.'

There was another long silence.

'I wish I'd known,' he said again.

'Mr Fournier,' Carella said, 'we'd like to talk to Miss Endicott now.'

'Sure,' Fournier said. 'I really wish I could . . .'

And let the sentence trail.

Julie Endicott told them that on New Year's Eve they had left the apartment here at a little past ten o'clock. They had gone to a party at the home of a friend named Sarah Epstein, who lived at 7133 Washington Boulevard in Riverhead, apartment 36. Julie Endicott went on to say that they had stayed at the party until ten minutes to three, had walked the two blocks to the subway station on Washington and Knowles, and had got back to the apartment here at a few minutes after four. They had gone straight to bed. Mike Fournier had been with her all night long. He had never left her side all night long.

'Did you want Sarah's phone number?' she asked. 'In case you plan to call her?'

'Yes, please,' Carella said.

Sarah Epstein corroborated everything they'd been told.

They were back to square one.

* * * *

12

Carella placed the call to Seattle on Thursday morning, at a little after nine Pacific time. He tried the number for the Pines, and got no answer. He then called the Chapman Lumber Company, and spoke to the same woman he'd spoken to nine days ago. Pearl Ogilvy, his notes read. Miss. He explained that he had a message for Joyce Chapman, and couldn't reach her at the house. He wondered if she might pass the message on to her.