Lullaby

'And stabbed her.'

'Yes.'

'Did he tell you that?'

'Yes.'

'That he stabbed her?'

'Yes. That he had to kill her. In self-defense.'

'Did he say how many times he'd stabbed her?'

'No.'

'And the baby? When did he . . . ?'

'The baby was still crying. So he had to work fast.'

'The baby was awake . . .'

'Crying, yes.'

'. . . when he smothered her?'

'Well, put the pillow over her face.'

'Smothered her.'

'Well, yes.'

'Was there blood on his clothing when he got home?'

'Just a little. Some spatters.'

'Do you still have that clothing?'

'Yes. But I soaked out the stains. With cold water.'

Nellie was still planning her case. Seize the clothing as evidence. Send it to the lab. It was almost impossible to soak out all traces of blood. Compare the bloodstains with those recovered from the knife's wooden handle. Get herself a match that would prove Annie Flynn's blood was on the murder weapon and on the clothes Richard Hammond had worn on New Year's Eve.

'Tell me what happened on Monday night, the sixteenth of January,' she said.

'I don't want to talk about that.'

'That's the night your sister was murdered, isn't it?'

'I don't want to talk about it.'

'Did your husband kill her?'

'I don't want to talk about it.'

'Did he?'

'You know, there are some things . . .' Melissa said, almost to herself, and shook her head. 'I mean, we'd be getting half when Daddy died, so why . . . ?' She shook her head again. 'Half to me, half to Joyce,' she said. 'Plus the trust. Which is why the baby was so important. So ... why get so greedy? Why go for it all?'

'Mrs Hammond, did your husband kill Joyce Chapman?'

'You'll have to ask him. I don't want to talk about it.'

'Was he going for all of the inheritance?. Is that what you're saying?'

'I loved my sister,' Melissa said. 'I didn't care about the baby, I didn't even know the baby, but my sister . . .'

She shook her head.

'I mean, the baby meant nothing to me. And my husband was right, you know. Why should all that money go to a child that was . . . well, a bastard? I mean, Joyce didn't even know who the father was.'

'All what money?' Nellie asked.

'I could understand that, it made sense. But my sister ... I didn't know he was going to do that to her, I swear to God. If I'd known . . .'

'But you did know he was going to kill the baby.'

'Yes. But not my sister. I'd have been happy with half, I swear to God. I mean, there are millions, why'd he have to get so damn greedy all at once? the other money, okay. Why should it go to a baby my sister never wanted? But then to ...'

'What other money?' Nellie asked again.

'It's all in the will,' Melissa said. 'You'll have to look at the will.'

'Has someone already contacted you about it?'

'About what?'

'The will. I understand your father died early this morning. Has his attorney . . . ?'

'No, no.'

'Then . . .'

Nellie looked suddenly puzzled.

'Are you saying . . . ?'

'We knew what was in the will,' Melissa said. 'We found out almost a year ago.'

'How did you find out?'

'Mr Lyons told my husband.'

'Mr Lyons?'

'Geoffrey Lyons. Who used to be my father's attorney.'

Nellie looked appalled.

'Told your husband the provisions of his client's will?' she said.

'Well, he was very fond of Dick,' she said. 'His own son was killed in Vietnam, they'd grown up together, gone to school together, I suppose he looked upon Dick as a sort of surrogate son. Anyway, there was nothing illegal about what he did. Or even unethical. My father was trying to make sure the family wouldn't just die out. He was trying to provide some incentive. Mr Lyons gave Dick a friendly tip, that was all. Told him what was in the will. Said we'd better get going, you know?'

'Get going?'

'Well, you know.'

'No, I don't know.'

'Well, get on with it.'

'I still don't know what you mean.'

'Well, you'll have to look at the will, I guess,' Melissa said, and turned away from Nellie.

And then, for some reason Carella would never understand, she looked directly into his eyes, and said, 'I did love her, you know. Very much.'

And buried her face in her hands and began weeping softly.

* * * *

The apartment Herrera was using for the testing and tasting was only three blocks east of the one he had rented on Vandermeer. Both apartments were normally rented by the hour to prostitutes turning quickie tricks, and so the separate landladies had been happy to let Herrera have them at weekly rates that were lower but more reliable than the come-and-go, on-the-fly uncertain hooker trade.

Herrera had walked here with Zing and Zang. He was carrying fifty thousand dollars in hundred-dollar bills in a dispatch case that made him feel like an attorney. The five kilos of cocaine would go into that dispatch case once the deal was consummated. The three of them would then go back to the apartment on Vandermeer, where Zing and Zang expected to take possession of their half of the coke. Two and a half keys for them, two and a half for Herrera. Just as they'd all agreed. Gentlemen. Except that Herrera planned to kill them.

It was all a matter of having been born in this city, he figured.

You take two pigtailed Chinks from Hong Kong, they did not know that the minute the door to the apartment on Vandermeer closed behind them, he would shoot them in the back.

They did not understand this city.

You had to be born here.

They stopped now at the steps to 705 East Redmond.

'I have to go up alone,' Herrera told them.

'Yeh,' Zing said.

'Because that's the way Miami wants it.'

'Yeh,' Zang said.

'It may take a while. Make sure they ain't selling us powdered sugar.'

'We be here,' Zing said.

* * * *

Kling saw Herrera go into the building.

The two Chinese men stayed outside, hands in the pockets of their overcoats. Both wearing long dark blue coats. No hats. Sleek black hair combed straight back from their foreheads. Neither of them had ever seen Kling before, he could move in closer for a better look.