Lullaby

'Where was he between one-forty-five and two-thirty?'

'Pitching the blonde.'

'The dentist and Grandma . . .'

'Corroborate, correct.'

'How about the other boyfriend?'

'Name's Harley Simpson, she dated him in her junior year, before she met Gillette. He has an alibi a mile long for the night she was killed. And he was here in Seattle on New Year's Eve.'

'Mmm,' Carella said.

'So that's it,' Bonnem said.

'How's the old man taking this?'

'He doesn't even know she's dead. He's heavily sedated, on the way out himself'

'Is there anyone else in the family? Any other brothers or sisters?'

'No. Mrs Chapman died twelve years ago. There were just the two sisters. And the husband, of course. Melissa's husband. You want my guess, they'll be out here settling a will before the week's out.'

'He's that bad, huh?'

'Be a matter of days at most.'

'How do you know there's a will?'

'Do you Know any zillionaires who die intestate?'

'I don't know any zillionaires,' Carella said.

'I know there's a will because I've been following an idea of mine out here. I'll tell you the truth, Carella, I don't think this is linked to your New Year's Eve case. I think what we have here are two separate and distinct cases. I guess you've been a cop long enough to know about coincidence . . .'

'Yes.'

'Me, too. So while I ain't forgetting what happened there, I also have to treat this like a case in itself, you follow me? And I started thinking love or money, those are the only two reasons on God's green earth, and I started wondering if the old man has a will. Because you see, he was playing house with this younger woman before he got . . .'

'Oh?'

'Yeah, before he got sick. Her name's Sally Antoine, good-looking woman runs a beauty parlor downtown. Thirty-one years old to his seventy-eight. Makes you wonder, don't it?'

'It'd make me wonder,' Carella said.

'About whether she's in the old man's will, right? If there is a will. So I started asking a few questions.'

'What'd you find out?'

'Miss Antoine told me she has no idea whether she's in the old man's will. In fact, she said she saw no reason why she should be. But when I get an idea in my head, I ain't about to let go of it that easy. Because if the lady is in his will, and if the younger daughter found out about it somehow . . .'

'Uh-huh.'

'. . . then maybe she came out here to pressure the old man into changing the will while he could still sign his own name. Get the bimbo out of it. Though she isn't a bimbo, I can tell you that, Carella. She's a decent woman, divorced, two kids of her own, came up here from LA, been working hard to make a go of it. I can hardly see her pumping two shots into Joyce Chapman.'

'Did you take a look at the will?'

'You ought to become a cop,' Bonnem said drily. 'What I did, I couldn't ask the old man if there's a will because he's totally out of it. So I asked his attorney

'Who's that?'

'Young feller who took over when Melissa and her husband moved east. Hammond used to be the Chapman attorney, you know. Got the job shortly before Melissa married him, little bit of nepotism there, hmm? Met her when he got back from Vietnam, used to be in the army there, next thing you know he's the old man's lawyer.'

'Did he draw the will for him?'

'Hammond? No. Neither did the new lawyer. Said he had no know ledge of it. Protecting his ass, I suppose. So I asked him who might have knowledge of it, and he suggested that I talk to this old geezer here in town, name's Geoffrey Lyons, used to be Chapman's attorney, retired just before the son-in-law took over. He told me he'd drawn a new will for Chapman twelve years ago, yes, right after Mrs Chapman died, but a will's a privileged communication between attorney and client, and there was no way I could compel him to waive that privilege.'

'Does he know you're investigating a murder?'

'Tough.'

'Does Chapman have a copy of the will?'

'Yes.'

'Where?'

'Where do you keep your will, Carella?'

'In a safe deposit box.'

'Which is where Miss Ogilvy told me the old man keeps his. So I go for a court order to open the box, and the judge asks me if I know what's in this will, and I tell him "No, that's why I want to open the box." So he says "Do the contents of this will provide probable cause for the crime of murder," and I tell him that's what I'm trying to find out, and he says "Petition denied."'

'Who typed the will?' Carella asked.

'What do you mean? How the hell do I know who typed it?'

'You might try to find out.'

'Why?'

'Legal typists have long memories.'

The line went silent. Bonnem was thinking.

'Find the secretary or whoever,' he said at last.

'Uh-huh,' Carella said.

'Ask her does she remember what's in the will.'

'It'd be a start.'

'And if she says the will does name Sally Antoine . . .'

'Then you've got to go see Miss Antoine again.'

'Won't that be fruit of the Poison Tree?'

'Once the old man dies, which you say is any day now…'

'Any day.'

'Then the will goes to Probate and becomes a matter of public record. In the meantime, you're working a murder.'

'Yeah. But you know, the Antoine woman was here in Seattle on New Year's Eve. So that would let out any connection with your case. Even if she is in the will.'

'Let's see what the will says.'

'The husband's back east, you know. Why don't you ask him?

'Hammond? Ask him what?'

'What's in the will.'

'How would he know?'

'Well, maybe he won't. But if I'm going to bust my ass looking for a person typed a will God knows how many years ago, the least you can do is pick up a telephone. Which, by the way, are you guys partners with AT&T?'

Carella smiled.

'Let me know how you make out,' he said.

'I'll call collect,' Bonnem said.

* * * *

There had been times during the past month when Herrera wished his partners were Puerto Rican, but what could you do? The roll of the dice had tossed him two Chinks who, as agreed, had not given him either a beating or Henry Tsu's regards on the twenty-seventh day of December. Instead, on that day, Herrera had disappeared with the dope money, and Zing and Zang had gone back to Hamilton - seemingly shamefaced - to return his deposit. By the twenty-eighth of December, the year was running out through the narrow end of the funnel and Herrera was still sitting on the fifty K, hoping to turn it into a fortune overnight. He knew that the only way to do that was through dope. Any other way of turning money into more money was dumb. In America, there were no streets of gold anymore. Nowadays, the streets were heaped with cocaine. Coke was the new American dream. Herrera sometimes figured it was all a Communist plot. But who gave a shit?