"Did he ever seem depressed or despondent? During the past three months?"
"No. Always a smile on his face. He used to go around here singing, would you believe it. We're the ones supposed to be the singers, am I right, paisan? Jerry was, what, Irish, English, who the hell knows? Singing all the time. The Pavarotti of the security business. We sell and install security systems, you know. Make it tougher for the bad guys. Help you guys out a little." He winked again.
"What time did he leave here on Friday?"
"Five-thirty. He was a hard worker, Jerry. Sometimes didn't get out of here till six, seven o'clock. We're a new company, you know, but we got a brilliant future. Jerry realized that. He was giving it all he had. What a shame, huh?"
"Did he mention anything about his weekend plans?"
"No."
"Didn't say where he was going, what he planned to do?"
"No."
"Did he ever mention a woman named Marilyn Hollis?"
"No."
"Mr. Gregorio…"
"Hey, paisan," Gregorio said chidingly, and spread his arms and his hands wide. "What's with the formality? Make it Ralph, huh?"
"Thank you," Carella said, and cleared his throat. "Uh… Ralph… do you think I could have a look at Mr. McKennon's office?"
"Sure, it's right down the hall. What are you looking for?"
"Anything that might help us," Carella said.
He was looking for an appointment calendar, and he found it at once, on McKennon's desk and open to the month of March.
"Mind if I take this with me?" Carella said.
"It's no good to Jerry no more," Gregorio said.
"I'll make out a receipt…"
"Come on, paisan, you and me need receipts?"
"Well, it's required," Carella said, and began writing.
The second name on Marilyn's list was Chip Endicott. The name on his door was Charles Ingersol Endicott, Jr.
He was the one who hated her answering machine.
He was also an attorney with the firm of Hackett, Rawlings, Pearson, Endicott, Lipstein and Marsh. Willis wondered how the Jew had snuck in.
Endicott was in his late forties, Willis guessed, though it was really somewhat difficult to tell. A man in tanned good health, some five feet ten inches tall, no age wrinkles on his handsome, narrow face, dark brown eyes intelligent and alert, the only clue to his age was his white hair—but that may have been premature. He shook hands firmly with Willis, said, "This has to do with Marilyn, does it?" and then gestured toward a chair opposite his desk.
The law offices of Hackett, Rawlings, Etc., Etc. were on the twelfth floor of a Jefferson Avenue building, than which no real estate in the city came higher. Endicott's office was furnished in cool modern: a teak desk, a blue carpet, a sofa and side chairs upholstered in a darker blue, an abstract painting on the wall over the sofa picking up the predominantly blue color theme and splashing it with red as shocking as a blood stain.
"Miss Hollis gave us your name as one of her friends," Willis said.
"She's not in any trouble, is she?" Endicott said at once.
"No, sir, none at all. But we're investigating a case…"
"What case?"
"An apparent suicide."
"Oh. Who?"
"A man named Jerry McKennon."
Again, Willis watched the eyes.
Nothing in them.
And then, sudden recognition.
"Oh. Yes. Uptown someplace, wasn't it? I read a small item about it in the paper this morning."
A puzzled look.
Then: "I'm sorry, but how is Marilyn involved?"
"He was a friend of hers, too."
"Oh?" Endicott said.
"Had you ever met him?"
"No. Did Marilyn say I did?"
"No, no. I was just curious."
"I'm sorry, the name isn't familiar. McKennon? No."
"Did she ever mention him to you?"
"Not to my recollection." Endicott paused, and then said, "Are you investigating a murder, Mr. Willis, is that it?"'
"Well, not exactly, sir. But in this city we investigate suicides the same way we do homicides. Well, you're a lawyer, maybe you already know that."
"My specialty is corporate law," Endicott said.
"Well," Willis said, "that's the way we do it."
"And you say this man was one of Marilyn's friends?"
"Yes, sir."
"And she gave you my name as another of her friends?"
"Yes, sir."
"Mm," Endicott said.
"You are a friend, aren't you?" Willis said.
"Oh, yes."
"How long have you known her?"
"It must be almost a year now. We met shortly after she got here from Texas. Her father's a millionaire down there, oil or cattle, I forget which. He set her up in a town-house on… well, have you been there?"
"Yes, sir."
"Very luxurious, nothing but the best for his darling daughter. From the way she talks about him, he's a bit of a curmudgeon, but generous to a fault where it concerns his only child."
"Where in Texas, would you know, sir?"
"Houston? Yes, I'm sure she said Houston."
"And her father's name? Did she ever mention it to you?"
"If she did, I don't recall it."
"How'd you happen to meet her, Mr. Endicott?"
"I was going through a divorce… have you ever gone through a divorce?"
"No, sir."
"Ever been married?"
"No, sir."
"If marriage is purgatory, divorce is hell," Endicott said, and smiled. "Anyway, I went through the whole bit. Bought myself a hand-tailored wardrobe, starting using men's cologne, almost bought a motorcycle but sanity prevailed, started going to singles bars, took personal ads in The Saturday Journal—down there in The Quarter, you know…"
"Yes, sir."
"… and, most important for a newly divorced man on the prowl, started going to museums a lot."
"Museums?"
"Yes, Mr. Willis, museums. There are a great many available and generally higher-class women frequenting this city's museums on any given afternoon of the week. Especially the art museums. And especially on rainy days. That's where I met Marilyn. At the Fine Arts Museum uptown, on a rainy Saturday."
"And this was about a year ago."
"April, I think. Almost a year."
"And you've been seeing her ever since."
"Well, yes. We hit it off immediately. She's an extraordinary woman, you know. Well-bred, intelligent, inquisitive, marvelous fun to be with."
"How often do you see her, Mr. Endicott?"
"At least once a week, sometimes more often. Occasionally, we'll get away for a weekend, but that's rare. We're good friends, Mr. Willis. I'm fifty-seven years old…"
Willis blinked.
"… and I was raised at a time when men didn't have women as friends. All we were interested in was getting in their pants. Well, times have changed and so have I. I don't wish to discuss our personal relationship, I know Marilyn wouldn't, either. Anyway, that's not the important thing. The important thing is that we're friends. We can unburden ourselves to each other, we can totally relax with each other, we're very good friends, Mr. Willis. And that means a great deal to me."
"I see," Willis said, and hesitated. "Does it bother you that she may have other good friends?"
"Why would it? If you and I were friends, Mr. Willis, and you had other friends, would it bother me? You're thinking the way I used to think. That somehow it's impossible for a man and a woman to be true friends without all sorts of nonsense intruding on the relationship. Marilyn sees other men, I know that. She's a beautiful and intelligent woman, I wouldn't expect otherwise. And I'm sure she considers some of them to be friends. But does friendship have to be exclusive? And if she goes to bed with some of them—as well she may, I've never asked—don't I go to bed with other women? Do you understand what I'm saying, Mr. Willis?"