Diamondback was still predominantly black. In fact, one of its more clever nicknames was Diamondblack. But Hispanics from Colombia and the Dominican Republic — as opposed to the Puerto Ricans who were now third-generation citizens — and other immigrants, many of them illegal, from Pakistan, Vietnam, Korea, Bangladesh, Afghanistan and the planet Venus had begun infiltrating the area in ever-expanding pockets, foreign to most of the longtime residents and cause for cultural clashes of a minor scale — so far. The mix was a volatile and dangerous one. Except along Carter Avenue, where Johnny Milton lived with Michelle Cassidy in an apartment that used to be hers alone.
“She’s also your client, is that right?” Carella asked.
“Yes.”
“Which came first?”
“She was my client before we started a personal relationship, if that’s what you mean.”
“When was that?”
“Seven years ago.”
“The personal relationship?”
“Yes.”
“How about the business relationship?”
“That goes back a long while.”
“How long a while?”
“Since she was ten. She was a child actress, you know…”
“Yes.”
“I got her the touring company of Annie. She played Annie. The starring role.”
“So you’ve known each other how long?”
“Thirteen years.”
“Neither of you is seeing anyone else, are you?”
“No, no. It’s the same as if we’re married.”
“Would you say your relationship is a good one?”
“Very good. The same as being married.”
“Then it has its ups and downs, huh?“ Carella said. “Same as being married.”
“Yes. Exactly the same.”
“How’d you react when she told you about the threatening calls?”
“I told you. I advised her to go straight to the police.”
“Any idea why she waited so long to tell.you?” Kling asked.
“No.”
“Because apparently the calls…”
“Yes, I know…”
“… started on the twenty-ninth of March…”
“Yes, I know…”
“But she didn’t tell you about them till yesterday.”
“I think she was hoping they would stop.”
“You never talked to this man, did you?” Carella asked.
“No.”
“What I mean, you didn’t answer the phone and have someone in a Jack Nicholson voice asking for Miss Cassidy, did you?”
“No, never.”
“Any hang-ups?”
“Oh, sure. This is the city.”
“Wrong numbers, like that?”
“Yeah, like that.”
“Anyone ever say `Sorry, wrong number’ in a Jack Nicholson voice?”
“No. The wrong numbers are foreign voices mostly. Hispanic, Asian, Solly, long numbah. They don’t know how to dial a goddamn phone, you know.”
Carella made no comment.
“What time did you get to O’Leary’s?” Kling asked.
“I told you. Seven.”
“On the dot?”
“Few minutes before, maybe. My reservation was for seven.”
“When did you start getting nervous?”
“About her not showing up?”
“Yes.”
“About ten after. I knew they were supposed to break for dinner at seven. This is a play in rehearsal, you understand, everything’s racing against the clock, everything’s sliding downhill toward opening night. If the dinner break is at seven, that means seven, and it means you’re back at eight, to pick up where you left off. The theater’s, what, five minutes from O’Leary’s? I gave her till a quarter after, and then I went looking for a phone.”
“Who answered the phone at the theater?”
“Torey, I told you. There’s a phone backstage. The minute I asked to speak to Michelle, he said, `Hold on tight, Johnny. Michelle just got stabbed in the alley outside.’ ”
“His exact words?”
“Exact. I asked him where they’d taken her, and he told me Morehouse. So I left the restaurant and went right over.”
“By taxi?”
“Yes.“
“Left the restaurant at what time?”
“Soon as I got off the phone. Twenty after seven? Twenty-five after?”
“Went straight to the hospital.”
“Well, yeah. You were there when I walked in, what time was it? Quarter to eight, something like that?”
“Around then,” Carella said. “Mr. Milton, thanks for your time, we appreciate…”
“Are you gonna catch this guy?” Milton asked.
“We hope so,” Kling said. “Thanks again, sir, we appreciate your time.”
The secretary in the small waiting room was on the phone again when they walked out, explaining to Mike the Actor that Mr. Milton had had an unexpected visit, but that he was free to talk to him now. She smiled at Kling as they walked out, and then buzzed the inner office. In the hallway outside, as they waited for the elevator, Carella said, “Let’s drive uptown.”
“Sure,” Kling said. “The theater first? Or O’Leary’s?” ”
The theater,” Carella said.
No knife.
Such was what the sodden blues had reported upon their return to the station house late this morning, and neither Carella nor Kling had reason to doubt the diligence of their search. Nonetheless, he and Kling made another pass at the alley and the stretch of sidewalk and gutter in front of the theater, and confirmed in the riddling rain that indeed there was no knife.
None that they could find, at any rate.
Besides, they weren’t here primarily to search for a knife. They were here to clock the time it took to walk from the theater to O’Leary’s Steakhouse on the Stem.
They’d eliminated at once the possibility that whoever had stabbed Michelle Cassidy had run off after committing the dastardly deed; in this city, a running man attracts attention. So Kling hit the stopwatch button on his complicated digital watch, and together they began walking at a good clip, out of the alley, turning left under the theater marquee with the red-lettered title ROMANCE on a black back-ground, moving quickly past the posters announcing the April sixteenth opening of the play, Kling’s watch ticking away, both men striding out briskly like the youngsters they no longer were, but who was counting, up toward the corner of Detavoner Avenue where a red light stopped them, ticking, ticking, WALK, the traffic sign flashed, and they crossed the avenue that was still under construction after God knew how many years, but who was counting, nobody in this city counted, up toward Sexton Avenue, the watch ticking, ticking, and finally they reached Stemmler Avenue itself, the Stem of legend and lore, and made a hasty turn at the corner and headed uptown toward North Twelfth. Kling hit the button again the moment they pushed through O’Leary’s entrance door. The time was twentyseven minutes past twelve. It had taken them exactly five minutes and forty-two seconds to get here, and they’d been counting.
The place was already packed with its lunchtime crowd, and everybody was too busy to talk to a pair of cops who’d been walking fast in the spring rain. But Carella mentioned the magic name “Michelle Cassidy,” and in this celebrity-mad city, in this celebrity-worshipping nation, all at once everybody had all the time in the world to discuss the darling little thing who’d been stabbed in a theater alley, as reported on three television newscasts at eleven last night, and as plastered all over the front pages of the city’s two tabloid dailies early this morning.
“Michelle Cassidy, yes,” the headwaiter said. “She comes here frequently. They’re rehearsing just up the street, you know.”