He found no bankbooks or bank statements, either, no receipts, no copies of paid bills, odd for a woman who'd been on her own for four years, "an independent," as she'd put it, a woman amassing two million bucks. Where'd she keep all that money? Under her mattress?
Well, maybe she was the kind of person who threw out a bankbook when an account was closed, a bill as soon as it was paid, a bank statement the moment next month's statement arrived. There were people like that; the clutter of paperwork simply overwhelmed them. But then why had she saved these mountains of clippings? A saver saves, a pack rat is a pack rat. Why not a scrap from those years in Argentina?
He began going through the clippings.
The collection was encyclopedic, she seemed to have saved anything and everything that captured her momentary fancy There was an article on something called labonotation which was a system for recording ballet positions, another article on cha-no-yu, the Japanese tea ceremony originated in China and later practiced by Zen priests in Japan. There were articles on Mane Curie and Ancient Egyptian furniture and massage techniques and Robert Burns and data processing. There were articles on English art and architecture, Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, the Punic Wars, motorcycles, color photography, and Gerommo the Indian. And then, lying on top of a stack of articles in one of the cartons, Willis found
CHAPTER 15
Meyer figured it was boring to tail a lawyer because lawyers were essentially boring. He had met only three interesting lawyers in his entire life. The rest of them were as dull as the telephone book. And more often than not, they were his adversaries. Tell me, Detective Meyer, when you made this arrest, were you aware of the fact that…?
But Meyer had not yet met every lawyer in the world, and the possibility existed that one day he might run across yet another interesting one: Hope is the thing with feathers. Meanwhile, he did not like lawyers. And Charles Endicott, Jr., was a lawyer.
Moreover, he was a lawyer who may or may not have poisoned two people and stabbed a third. Which, if such proved to be the case, made him a bit more interesting but far more dangerous than your usual learned adversary. Meyer did not appreciate tailing him, and he wished the lieutenant had chosen someone else for the job.
Besides, it was raining cats and dogs.
Meyer had started his surveillance two hours earlier by reading all the D.D. reports Willis and Carella had filed.
He then called Endicott's office, identified himself as Lieutenant Charles Wilson, in charge of public relations, and asked if the police officers assigned to his earlier protection had been courteous and respectful. Endicott said they had been, and wanted to know why they had been pulled off the case. Meyer said he didn't know anything about that, but he was glad the assigned men had done their jobs properly.
He had called only to ascertain that Endicott was in his office.
That was at seven minutes past eleven, five minutes after he'd finished reading the D.D. reports. He wanted to get downtown before the lunch hour, start the actual tailing. The lieutenant had told him that Hawes would relieve on post at four o'clock. Hawes, in turn, would be relieved by O'Brien at midnight. Wall to wall coverage.
At a quarter to twelve, Meyer called Endicott again, this time from a phone booth across the street from his office on Jefferson Avenue. Lowering his voice to a deep growl, he asked if Endicott handled divorce cases, and when he was assured that the firm of Hackett, Rawlings, Pearson, Endicott, Lipstein and Marsh did indeed handle such cases, he gave his name as Martin Milstein and made an appointment to see Endicott at four-thirty on Friday. He would call sometime later in the week to cancel the appointment; in the meantime, he knew that Endicott was still in his office, and he hoped he would be going out for lunch sometime between twelve and one, when most people did.
The only detective on the squad who knew what Endicott looked like was Hal Willis. For reasons not divulged to Meyer, it was thought best that he not be assigned to the surveillance. That was why a patrolman in plainclothes was waiting for Meyer when he came out of the phone booth. The patrolman was one of the six men earlier assigned to protect Endicott. He was with Meyer only for purposes of initial identification. The moment he pointed out Endicott, he was expected to go back to his duties uptown.
For now, both men stood in the rain outside the office building.
The patrolman complained bitterly about the lousy weather.
Meyer kept watching the front door of the building. Only one way in or out. If Endicott left, he would have to come through those revolving doors.
"Keep your eye on the doors," he told the patrolman.
"Don't I know that?" the patrolman said.
Meyer wondered if he did.
At ten after twelve, the patrolman nudged Meyer.
The man coming through the revolving doors was tall and slender, with brown eyes and white hair. Endicott's description in the D.D. reports. The patrolman nodded, and Meyer took off. Endicott was wearing a Burberry raincoat, not a good thing for somebody following him. In this city, when it rained, Burberry raincoats sprouted like mushrooms.
He was a fast walker, Endicott was, and apparently he enjoyed the rain. Hatless, he bounded through it like Gene Kelly, mindlessly stepping in puddles, dashing across streets against the lights, a man in one hell of a hurry. Meyer did not like surveillances involving fast walkers. Meyer preferred stakeouts that took place in cozy liquor stores.
The man walked eight goddamn blocks in the pouring rain.
Meyer could swear he was whistling.
He turned off Jefferson Avenue at last, into a side street where the rain was blowing in sheets from north to south off the River Harb. Endicott plunged into the rain like a galleon under full sail, went halfway up the block, turned in under a red, white and green awning, opened a brass-studded wooden door, and disappeared from sight. The lettering on the awning identified the place as Ristorante Bonatti. Feeling very much like Popeye Doyle in The French Connection, Meyer hunched his shoulders against the wind and the rain and hoped Endicott's lunch would not be a long one.
The trouble with tailing your partner's girlfriend was that it made you feel like some kind of a shit. Carella had picked up Marilyn Hollis outside the building on Harborside Lane at ten-thirty this morning, had followed her to her hairdressing salon, was waiting outside for her when she emerged at twenty after twelve, and followed her on foot crosstown to the Stem where she hailed a taxi. He'd immediately flagged another taxi, identified himself to the driver, and told him not to lose that taxi up ahead. The cabbie did not appreciate driving a cop. Visions of getting stiffed danced through his head.
Marilyn's cab proceeded downtown, first on the Stem, then on Culver, then around Van Buren Circle and southward on Grover Park West, continuing southward to Hall Avenue, hanging a right, driving three blocks farther downtown, then hanging a left and pulling up in front of a building with a red, white and green awning. Marilyn got out of the cab, paid the driver, and walked swiftly toward a brass-studded door. Carella's cab pulled into the curb some two cars back. To the driver's enormous surprise, Carella tipped him generously and then stepped out into the rain.
The lettering on the awning read Ristorante Bonatti.
Meyer Meyer was standing outside the restaurant, peering through the plate glass window, his hands cupped to the sides of his face.
Carella came up beside him, and tapped him on the shoulder.