“She’ll be doin hair commercials next week.”
“Commercials for fire extinguishers,” the first blue said, and both of them burst out laughing.
The rain kept pouring down, sobering them.
“You see any fuckin knife in this alley?” the first one asked.
“I see rain in this alley, is what I see.”
“Let’s try the sidewalk.”
“The gutter.”
“Maybe he threw it in the gutter.”
“Maybe he took it home and tucked it under his pillow, fifty-dollar switchblade knife.”
“What time you got?”
“Almost two.”
“Wanna call in a pee break?”
“Too early.”
“Ain’t you hungry?”
“I could go for a slice a’pizza.”
“So let’s give it a shot.”
“We only been on two hours.”
“More than two.”
“Two and a quarter.”
“In the fuckin rain, don’t forget.”
“Even so.”
“Lookin for a knife don’t exist.”
“He coulda tossed it in the gutter.”
“Knife we’ll never find.”
“Let’s check the gutter.”
Twenty minutes later, they were eating pizza in an all-night joint just off Mapes Avenue.
Seven hours after that, Carella and Kling were sitting in the squadroom going over the notes they’d taken at the theater last night. The rain had tapered a bit, but not enough to keep them from feeling that winter was still here. This was the seventh day of April. Spring had been here for two weeks and three days already, but it had been a rotten winter, and it was still a rotten winter as far as anyone in this city was concerned.
“The way it looks to me,” Kling said, “everybody had already left the theater when she came out into that alley.”
“Except the costume designer,” Carella said. “According to Kendall, she stayed behind for a fitting with the costume designer.”
“Woman named Gillian Peck,” Kling said, and yawned. “Stage manager gave me her address and phone number, too.”
“Late night?” Carella asked, and stifled the urge to yawn himself.
“I got home around three. We talked a lot.”
“You and Sharon?”
“Sharyn.”
“She finally agreed to let you come all the way out to C.P., huh?”
“No, she met me here in the city. Anyway, how’d you…?”
“Small squadron.”
“Big ears.”
“I muri hanno orrecchi,“ Carella said.
“What’s that mean?”
“The walls have ears. My grandmother used to say that all the time. So who is she?”
“Your grandmother?”
“Yes, my grandmother.”
“Sharyn, you mean?”
“Sharon, I mean.”
“Sharyn.”
“Must be an echo in this place.”
“No, it’s Sharyn. With a ‘y.’ ”
“Ahh, Sharyn.“
“Sharyn, yes.”
“So, who is she?”
“A cop,” Kling said.
He guessed it was reasonable to call a one-star chief a cop.
“Anyone I know?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Where’d you meet her?”
“On the job.”
Which was also true, more or less.
“If all of them had already left the theater,” he said, changing the subject, “any one of them could have been out in the alley stabbing her. So…”
“Are you changing the subject?” Carella asked.
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
“I just don’t want to talk about it yet,” Kling said.
“Okay,” Carella said, but he looked hurt. “Where do we start here?”
“Steve…”
“I know.”
“How long are we gonna beat this thing to death? She was out of the hospital a minute and a half after she checked in. She’ll be back at rehearsal today, the show will go on. I’ve got three backed-up murders and a dozen…”
“I know.”
“This isn’t that important, Steve.”
“You know it’s not important, and I know it’s not important, but does Commissioner Hartman know it’s not important?”
“What are you saying?”
“Pete called me at home this morning.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Said he’d just got off the phone with Hartman. The Commish and the Mayor both wanted to know what the Eight-Seven was doing about this big star who got stabbed right outside the theater. Said they understood she’d been up here previously to report…”
“Three hours previously!”
“But who’s counting? Said it didn’t look good that we knew about threatening phone calls and still allowed…”
“Allowed?”
“… the vic to get stabbed…”
“Oh yes, we allowed her to get stabbed.”
“Is what the Commish told Pete. Which Pete repeated to me on the phone this morning at seven-thirty. The media’s making a big deal out of this, Bert. Another feeding frenzy. Pete wants the knifer. Fast.”
A uniformed black doorman asked Carella who he was here to see, please, and Carella showed him his shield and gave him Morgenstern’s name. The doorman buzzed upstairs, announced Carella, and then told him he could go right up, it was Penthouse C, elevator just to the right there. A uniformed black maid opened the door for Carella and told him that Mr. Morgenstern was in the breakfast room, would he care to follow her, please? He followed her through a sumptuously decorated apartment with windows facing the park everywhere.
Marvin Morgenstern was sitting in a bay window streaming midmorning sunlight, wearing a blue silk robe with a blue silk collar and a blue silk sash. Silk pajamas of a paler blue hue showed below the hem of the robe and in the open V of its front. He was munching on a piece of toast as the maid led Carella into the room. “Hello,” he said, “nice to see you,” and then rose and wiped either butter or jelly from his hand, and offered it to Carella. They shook hands, and then Morgenstern said, “Sit down, sit down. Have some coffee. Some toast? Ellie, bring some hot toast and another cup. You want some orange juice? Ellie, bring him a glass of juice, too. Sit down. Please.”
Carella sat.
He’d had breakfast at eight this morning, and it was now a little past ten. Morgenstern hadn’t yet shaved, but he’d combed the sleep out of his hair, sweeping it back from his forehead without a part. He had shaggy black brows to match the hair, though the hair was so black it looked dyed. Maybe the brows were dyed, too. Narrow thin-lipped mouth, bright blue eyes, mouth and eyes seeming to join in secret amusement, though Carella could find nothing funny about assault.
“So do you know who did it yet?” Morgenstern asked.
“Do you?” Carella said.
“Who knows, the bedbugs in this city? What ideas do you have?”
“We’re still investigating,” Carella said vaguely.