A hundred kilos of cocaine.
For which he would be paying a million dollars.
In cash, it went without saying. In this business, you did not pay for dope with a personal check.
Did the Hamilton posse have its eye on that shipment? Trinity, what a ridiculous name! But assuming it did . . . why bad-mouth Henry? Assuming the worst scenario, a Jamaican hijack of a shipment spoken for by a Chinese gang, why spread the word that Henry had stolen a paltry fifty thousand dollars?
And suddenly the operative words came to him.
Jamaican.
And Chinese.
If Hamilton had planned to knock over a shipment destined for another Jamaican gang, say the Banton Posse or the Dunkirk Boys, both far more powerful than his shitty little Trinity, he'd have done so without a by-your-leave. Go in blasting with his Uzis or his AK-47 assault rifles, Jamaican against Jamaican, head to head, winner take all.
But Henry was Chinese.
His gang was Chinese.
And if Hamilton's Jamaican people started stepping on Chinese toes, Buddha alone knew what reverberations this might cause in the city.
Unless.
All thieves understood retaliation.
In all cultures, in all languages.
If Henry had actually stolen fifty thousand dollars from the Hamilton posse, then Hamilton would be well within his rights to seek retaliation.
The fifty K plus interest.
A whole hell of a lot of interest when you considered that the stuff coming up from Miami was worth a million bucks, but honor among thieves was costly.
Hence the bullshit running around the city.
Hamilton setting up his excuse in advance: Tsu did me and now I am going to do him.
That's what you think, Henry thought, and reached for the telephone and dialed the same Miami number Herrera had called not five hours earlier.
* * * *
It was already dark when they got to Angela Quist's apartment that Sunday evening. She had been rehearsing a play at the Y all day, she told them, and was exhausted. She really wished this could wait till morning because all she wanted to do right now was make herself some soup, watch some television, and go to sleep.
'This won't take long,' Carella said. 'We just wanted to check a lead the Seattle cops are following.'
Angela sighed heavily.
'Really,' Meyer said. 'Just a few questions.'
She sighed again. Her honey-colored hair looked frazzled. Her star sapphire eyes had gone pale. She was sitting on the couch under the Picasso prints. The detectives were standing. The apartment was just chilly enough to make overcoats seem appropriate.
'Did Joyce ever mention a woman named Sally Antoine?' Carella asked.
'No. I don't think so. Why?'
'Never mentioned that her father was seeing a woman? Any woman at all?' Carella asked.
'I don't recall her ever saying anything like that.'
'Did she ever mention her father's will?'
'No.'
'When she went out to Seattle, did she say why she was going?'
'Yes. Her father was very sick. She was afraid he might die before she saw him again.' Angela looked at them, her eyes puzzled now. 'Why don't you ask Joyce all this?' she said.
And they realized all at once that they hadn't told her.
She didn't know.
'Miss Quist,' Carella said gently, 'Joyce is dead. She was murdered last Monday night.'
'Oh, shit,' Angela said.
And bowed her head.
Sat there on the couch under the Picasso prints, head bent.
Nodding.
Saying nothing.
At last she sighed heavily and looked up.
'The same person?' she asked.
'We don't know.'
'Boy.'
She was silent again.
Then she said, 'Does her sister know?'
'Yes.'
'How's she taking it?'
'Okay, I guess.'
'They were so close,' Angela said.
Both detectives looked at her.
'Saw each other all the time.'
They kept looking at her.
'All the time?' Meyer said.
'Oh, yes.'
'Even after she got pregnant?'
'Well, sure. In fact, it was Melissa who did all the groundwork for her.'
'What groundwork?' Carella asked.
'Finding an adoption agency,' Angela said.
* * * *
16
They did not get to Richard and Melissa Hammond until eleven o'clock on Monday morning because they'd had to make another stop first. The Hammonds were packing when the detectives got there. Melissa told them she'd received a call from Pearl Ogilvy in Seattle, who had advised her that her father had passed away that morning at seven minutes to eight Pacific time. The two were planning to catch an early afternoon flight to the Coast.
Carella and Meyer expressed their condolences.
'There'll be a lot to take care of, won't there?' Carella said.
'Pearl will be a big help,' Hammond said.
'I'm sure,' Carella said, and smiled pleasantly. 'I know this is a bad time for you . . .'
'Well, it was expected,' Hammond said.
'Yes. But I wonder if we can ask a few questions.'
Hammond looked at him, surprised.
'Really,' he said, 'I don't think this is ...'
'Yes, I know,' Carella said. 'And believe me, I wish three people hadn't been murdered, but they were.'
Something in his voice caused Hammond to look up from his open valise.
'So, I'm sorry, really,' Carella said, not sounding sorry at all, 'but we would appreciate a few more minutes of your time.'
'Certainly,' Hammond said.
On the other side of the bed, Melissa was neatly arranging clothing in her open bag. The detectives stood just inside the door, uncomfortable in a room as intimate as the bedroom, further uncomfortable in that no one had asked them to take off their coats.
'The last time we spoke to you,' Carella said, 'you mentioned that you hadn't seen Joyce since February sometime . . .'
'The twelfth of February,' Meyer said, consulting his notebook.
'That's right,' Melissa said.
Head still bent, packing.
'When she would've been four months pregnant,' Carella said.
'Yes.'
'But you didn't notice she was pregnant.'