"Who'd you used to buy from?" Carella asked.
"What do you mean?"
"At the lion house. You said this Gonzo was new. Who pushed to you before?"
"Oh, Yeah, yeah. Listen, can't we talk a doctor into fixing me? You know, I mean, like I'll puke all over the floor or something."
"We'll give you a mop," Havilland said.
"Who was the other pusher?" Carella asked again.
Hemingway sighed wearily. "A kid named Annabelle."
"A broad?" Havilland asked.
"No, some spic kid. Annabelle. That's a spic name."
"Aníbal?" Carella asked, his scalp prickling.
"Yeah."
"Aníbal what?"
"Fernandez, Hernandez, Gomez? Who can tell with these spies? They all sound alike to me."
"Was it Aníbal Hernandez?"
"Yeah, I think so. Yeah, that sounds as good as any. Listen, can't I get a fix? I mean, I'll puke."
"Go ahead," Havilland said. "Puke."
Hemingway sighed heavily again, and then he frowned, and then he lifted his head and asked, "Is there really a writer named Ernest Hemingway?"
Chapter Seven
The lab report on the rope and the I.E. report on the fingerprints came in later that afternoon. There was only one piece of information in either of them that surprised Carella.
He was not surprised to learn that an analysis of the rope found around Hernandez' neck completely discounted the possibility of the boy having hanged himself. A rope, you see, has peculiar properties of its own, among which are the fibers of which it is constructed. Had Hernandez hanged himself, he undoubtedly would have first tied one end of the rope on the barred window, then tied the other end around his neck, and then leaned into the rope, cutting off his oxygen supply.
The fibers on the rope, however, were flattened in such a way as to indicate that the body had been pulled upwards. In short, the rope had first been affixed to Hernandez' neck, and then the loose end had been threaded through the bars and pulled upon until the body assumed its leaning position. The contact of the rope's fibers with the steel of the bar had given the fibers a telltale direction. Hernandez may have administered his own fatal dose of heroin, but he had certainly not strung himself to the barred window.
The fingerprints found on the syringe seemed to discount the possibility of suicide completely, and this hardly surprised Carella either. None of the fingerprints—and there were a good many, all from the same person, all clear sharp prints—matched up with the fingerprints of Aníbal Hernandez. If he had used the syringe at all, then he had wiped it clean before handing it to a second unknown party.
The unknown party bit was the part that surprised Carella. The Identification Bureau had done a run-through on the prints, and come up with a blank. Whoever had handled the syringe, whoever had allegedly pumped that heroin into Hernandez, did not have a criminal record. Of course, the F.B.I, had not yet had been heard from, but Carella was nonetheless disappointed. In his secret heart, he was halfway hoping that someone who had access to a syringe and the staggering amount of heroin it had taken to kill Hernandez would also be someone with a record.
He was mulling over his disappointment when Lieutenant Byrnes poked his head out of the office.
"Steve," he called. "See you a moment?"
"Yes, sir," Carella said. He rose and walked to Byrnes' door. The lieutenant was silent until Carella closed the door.
"Bad break, huh?" he asked then.
"Sir?"
"Couldn't get a make on those fingerprints."
"Oh, no. I was kind of hoping we would."
"I was, too," Byrnes said.
The two men stared at each other thoughtfully.
"Is there a copy around?"
"Of the prints?"
"Yes."
"May I have it?"
"Well, it's already been checked. I mean, we couldn't…"
"I know, Steve. It's just that I have an idea I want to… to work on."
"About the Hernandez case?"
"More or less."
"Feel like airing it?"
"No, Steve." He paused. "Not yet."
"Sure," Carella said. "Whenever you feel like."
"Get me those prints before you check out, will you, Steve?" Byrnes asked, smiling weakly.
"Sure," Carella said. "Will that be all?"
"Yes, go ahead. You're probably anxious to get home." He paused. "How's the wife?"
"Oh, fine," Carella said.
"Good, good. It's important to have…" Byrnes shook his head and let the sentence trail. "Well, go ahead, Steve, don't let me keep you."
He was bushed when he got home that night. Teddy greeted him at the door, and he kissed her in a perfunctory, most un-newlywedlike way. She looked at him curiously, led him to a drink waiting in the living room and then, attuned to his uncommunicative mood, went out to the kitchen to finish dinner. When she served the meal, Carella remained silent.
And because Teddy had been born with neither the capacity for speech nor the capacity for hearing, the silence in the small kitchen was complete. She looked at him often, wondering if she had offended him in some way, longing to see words on his lips, words she could read and understand. And finally, she reached across the table and touched his hand, and her eyes opened wide in entreaty, brown eyes against an oval face.
"No, it's nothing," Carella said gently.
But still her eyes asked their questions. She cocked her head to one side, the short raven hair sharply detailed against the white wall behind her.
"This case," he admitted.
She nodded, waiting, relieved that he was troubled with his work and not with his wife.
"Well, why the hell would anyone leave a perfect set of fingerprints on a goddamn murder weapon, and then leave the weapon where every rookie cop in the world could find it?"
Teddy shrugged sympathetically, and then nodded.
"And why try to simulate a hanging afterwards? Does the killer think he's dealing with a pack of nitwits, for Christ's sake?" He shook his head angrily. Teddy shoved back her chair and then came around the table and plunked herself down in his lap. She took his hand and wrapped it around her waist, and then she snuggled up close to him and kissed his neck.
"Stop that," he told her, and then—realizing she could not see his lips because her face was buried in his throat—he caught her hair and gently yanked back her head, and repeated, "Stop it. How can I think about the case with you doing that?"
Teddy gave an emphatic nod of her head, telling her husband that he had exactly understood her motivations.
"You're a flesh pot," Carella said, smiling. "You'll destroy me. Do you think…"
Teddy kissed his mouth.
Carella moved back gently. "Do you think you'd leave—"
She kissed him again, and this time he lingered a while before moving away.
"… syringe with fingerprints all over it on a mmmmmmmm…"
Her face was very close to his, and he could see the brightness in her eyes, and the fullness of her mouth when she drew back.
"Oh God, woman," he said.
She rose and took his hand and as she was leading him from the room he turned her around and said, "The dishes. We have to…" and she tossed up her back skirts in reply, the way can-can dancers do. In the living room, she handed him a sheet of paper, neatly folded in half.
"I didn't know you wanted to answer the mail," Carella said. "I somehow suspected I was being seduced."
Impatiently, Teddy gestured to the paper in his hand. Carella unfolded it. The white sheet was covered with four typewritten stanzas. The stanzas were titled: ODE FOR STEVE.
"For me?" he asked.
Yes, she nodded.
"Is this what you do all day, instead of slaving around the house?"