I have further information based upon my personal knowledge and belief that such distilling apparatus, commonly known as "a still" (drawing attached), may be on the premises of Miss Marilyn Hollis, who resides at 1211 Harborside Lane in Isola.
Based upon the foregoing reliable information and upon my personal knowledge and belief, there is probable cause to believe that a still in possession of Marilyn Hollis would constitute evidence in the crime of murder.
Wherefore, I respectfully request that the court issue a warrant in the form annexed hereto, authorizing a search of the premises at 1211 Harborside Lane.
No previous application in this matter has been made in this or any other court or to any other judge, justice or magistrate.
The second request was identical in every way except for the name and address. For Marilyn Hollis, Carella had written in Charles Endicott, Jr. For 1211 Harborside Lane, he had written in 493 Burton Street. Each request was accompanied by a photocopy of Grossman's sketch of a stilclass="underline"
The magistrate carefully read the first request, started reading the second one, and then looked up and said, "These are identical, aren't they?"
"Yes, Your Honor," Carella said. "Except for the names and addresses."
"And there have been two nicotine poisonings, is that correct?"
"Yes, Your Honor. In addition to a fatal stabbing that is not relevant to the search-warrant requests."
"Where's your reasonable cause, Detective Carella?"
"Your Honor, two people were poisoned by…"
"Yes, yes, where's your cause?"
"The three victims were all close friends of Miss Hollis. Mr. Endicott is also a close friend of…"
"I'm looking for a reason to allow you to walk into a private citizen's home and conduct a search."
"I recognize, Your Honor, that I may be short on cause…"
"I'm happy you recognize that."
"But if someone manufactured that poison…"
"That's exactly the point. Someone may have. But why should you believe the someone was either Miss Hollis or Mr. Endicott?"
"Your Honor, Miss Hollis was intimately linked with all three of the victims."
"And Mr. Endicott?"
"With him as well."
"Did he know the victims?"
"No, Your Honor. Not according to…"
"Then what are you suggesting? That they acted in concert?"
"I have no evidence to support such a theory."
"Do you have evidence for an arrest?"
"No, Your Honor."
"What evidence do you have that would lead you to believe a still may be on either of these premises?"
"None, Your Honor. Except that distillation is a means of…"
"This is not Russia, Detective Carella."
"No, sir, it's America. And three people have been killed. If I can find a still…"
"I'm denying both requests," the magistrate said.
That was the way Monday morning started.
It was also raining.
Carella was soaking wet when he got to the squad-room. A soggy manila envelope was sitting on his desk. Seal of the Medical Examiner's Office in the lefthand corner. Carella glanced at it cursorily and then went to the sink in the corner of the room, yanked some paper towels from the rack there and tried to dry his hair. Andy Parker was sitting at his own desk, reading through a sheaf of D.D. reports on a burglary.
"I heard a good joke the other day," Carella said.
"Yeah?" Parker said.
Carella told him Grossman's joke about the black penis.
"I don't get it," Parker said. "M.E.'s office delivered an envelope for you."
"I saw it," Carella said, and went to his desk and ripped open the flap on the envelope. The envelope contained Blaney's typewritten report on the McKennon murder.
Carella looked at the calendar on his desk.
April 14.
McKennon had been murdered on the twenty-fourth of March.
Three weeks to get the paperwork, not bad for this city. He leafed through the pages. Most of the report detailed what Blaney had already told him on the phone. There was a dental chart, though, and he looked at that now:
He read Blaney's notes on what the markings for the variously numbered teeth meant—
1. Tooth missing.
3. % crown, gold.
7. Composite filling.
9. Root canal, porcelain jacket crown.
12. Full crown, porcelain fused to metal.
14. Silver fillings, cavity.
12. Tooth missing.
14. Silver filling, cavity.
16. Silver filling.
17. Silver filling.
20. Full crown, porcelain fused to metal.
21. Full crown, porcelain fused to metal.
28. Root canal, temporary crown, cavity.
29. Silver filling.
30. Silver filling.
—leafed through the rest of the report, put it back into the envelope and then carried it to the M-Z filing cabinet, where he put it into the manila folder marked McKENNON. He looked up at the clock. Twenty minutes past nine.
"The lieutenant in yet?" he asked Brown.
"Got here at nine."
"Willis is due in, isn't he?"
"Should be."
Carella debated calling him at the Hollis house.
He looked at his own watch.
Twenty-one minutes past nine.
He went to the lieutenant's door, and knocked on it.
"Come!" Byrnes shouted.
The lieutenant was sitting in a shaft of sunlight that streamed through his open windows. He looked like a religious miracle.
"How'd you make out?" he asked.
"Denied."
"I knew it."
"So did I. But it was worth a shot."
"What now?"
"I want round-the-clocks on Hollis and Endicott."
"Protection?"
"No. Surveillance."
Byrnes nodded. "Granted," he said.
There was something about Marilyn's story that bothered Willis.
He had immediately asked "How come?" when she told him that Hidalgo had cut her loose after a bit more than a year. He still wondered how come. He didn't know what it had cost Hidalgo to spring her from that Mexican prison but from what he understood about Mexican justice, la mordida came high. In that meeting in the warden's office, Hidalgo had told her he was a businessman. Oh, yes, a humanitarian as well, but first a businessman. It seemed odd to Willis that any businessman—especially if he happened to be a pimp—would be willing to give up an asset for which he had laid out cold cash. Even assuming she'd more than earned her keep in the year or so she'd worked for him, why would he have turned over her passport and given her her walking papers? Pimps didn't operate that way, not any pimps Willis knew. Pimps were on the gravy train. Pimps were users and takers. Hidalgo's act of generosity simply didn't ring true. Willis wanted to believe her, but he didn't.
He was not in the squadroom that morning because he was busy doing some detective work outside the squad-room. She had left the house at ten-thirty, heading downtown for an appointment with her hairdresser. It was now a quarter to eleven, and Willis was in the wing of the house that served as a storeroom, rummaging through the cartons of junk Marilyn had saved. He was looking for something that would shed some light on those years she had spent in Buenos Aires. A year and a bit more with Hidalgo, another four years on her own.
He found no letters.
Well, that was understandable. She'd lost touch with her friends in Los Angeles and Houston and her mother's whereabouts were unknown at the time. Besides, she'd been busy fucking her brains out, and that didn't leave much time for letter-writing.