Kling looked up.
The woman had hair the color of a fire truck dipped in orange juice. Eyes the color of periwinkles. Wearing a tight blue sweater that matched the eyes. Peacoat open over it. Navy-blue skirt to match the coat. Big gold-buckled belt. Blue high-heeled pumps.
“The desk sergeant said I should see you,” she said.
“Yes, he called me a minute ago,” he said. “Come on in.”
She found the latch on the inside of the railing gate, looked surprised when the gate actually opened to her touch, and came tentatively into the room. Kling stood as she approached his desk, and indicated the chair opposite him. She sat, crossing her legs, the blue skirt riding high on her thighs. She lifted her behind, tugged at the skirt, made herself comfortable in the hard-backed chair. Kling sat, too.
“I’m Michelle Cassidy,” she said. “I spoke to someone up here earlier this morning, he said I should come in.”
“Would you remember who that was?”
“He had an Italian name.”
“Carella?”
“I think so. Anyway, he said to come in. He said some-one would help me.”
Kling nodded.
“Let me get some information,” he said, and rolled a DD form into the typewriter. He spaced down to the slot calling for the date of the complaint, typed in today’s date, April 6, spaced down some more to the NAME slot, typed in C-A-S-S, stopped and looked up. “Is that A-D-Y or I-D-Y?” he asked.
“I,” she said.
“Cassidy,” he said, typing. “Michelle like in the Beatles?”
“Yes. A double L.”
“May I have your address, please?”
She gave him her address and the apartment number and her phone number there, and also a work number where she could be reached.
“Are you married?” he asked. “Single? Divorced?”
“Single.”
“Are you employed, Miss Cassidy?”
“I’m an actress.”
“Have I seen you in anything?” he asked.
“Well… I played the lead in Annie,“ she said. “And I’ve been doing a lot of dinner theater work in recent years.”
“I saw the movie,” he said. “Annie.”
“I wasn’t in the movie,” she said.
“Good movie, though,” he said. “Are you in anything right now?”
“I’m rehearsing a play.”
“Would it be a play I know?”
“I don’t think so. It’s a new play, it’s called Romance. We’re opening it uptown here, but we hope to move down-town later. If it’s a hit.”
“What’s it about?”
“Well, that’s the funny part of it.”
“What is?”
“It’s about an actress getting phone calls from somebody who says he’s going to kill her.”
“What’s funny about that?”
“Well… that’s why I’m here, you see.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Cassidy, I’m not foll…”
“I’ve been getting the same kind of calls.”
“Threatening calls, do you mean?”
“Yes. A man who says he’s going to kill me. Just like in the play. Well, not the same language.”
“What does he say? Exactly?”
“That he’s going to kill me with a knife.”
“With a knife.”
“Yes.”
“He specifies the weapon.”
“Yes. A knife.”
“These are the real calls we’re talking about, is that right?”
“Yes.”
“Not the ones in the play.”
“No. These are the calls I’ve been getting for the past week now.”
“A man saying he’s going to kill you with a knife.”
“Yes.”
“Which of these numbers does he call?”
“My home number. The other one is the backstage phone. At the theater.”
“He hasn’t called you there?”
“No. Not yet, anyway. I’m very frightened, Detective Kling.”
“I can imagine. When did these calls start?”
“Last Sunday night.”
“That would’ve been… “He looked at his desk calendar. “March twenty-ninth,” he said.
“Whenever.”
“Does he seem to know you?”
“He calls me Miss Cassidy.”
“What does he…?”
“Sort of sarcastically. Miss Cassidy. Like that. With a sort of sneer in his voice.”
“Tell me again exactly what he…”
“He says, `I’m going to kill you, Miss Cassidy. With a knife.’ ”
“Have there been any threatening letters?”
“No.”
“Have you seen any strangers lurking about your building…’’
“No.”
‘’… or the theater?’’
“No.”
“Which theater is it, by the way?”
“The Susan Granger. On North Eleventh.”
“No one hanging around the stage door…”
“No.’’
“… or following you…?”
“No.”
“… or watching you? For example, has anyone in a restaurant or any other public place…?”
“No, nothing like that.”
“Just the phone calls.”
“Yes.”
“Do you owe money to anyone?”
“No.”
“Have you had any recent arguments or altercations with…”
“No.”
“I don’t suppose you fired anyone in recent…”
“No.”
“Any boyfriends in your past who might…”
“No. I’ve been living with the same man for seven years now.”
“Get along okay with him?”
“Oh, yes.”
“I have to ask.”
“That’s okay. I know you’re doing your job. We have the same thing in the play.”
“Sorry?” Kling said.
“There’s a scene where she goes to the police, and they ask her all these questions.”
“I see. What’s his name, by the way? The man you’ve been living with.”
“John Milton.”
“Like the poet.”
“Yes. Well, actually, he’s an agent.”
“Would anyone have reason to be jealous of him?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Or want to get back at him for something? Through you?”
“Gee, I don’t think so.”
“Do you get along with all the people involved in this play?”
“Oh, sure. Well, you know, there are little…”
“Sure.”
“… tiffs and such. But for the most part, we get along fine.”
“How many people are there?”
“In the cast? Just four of us, really. Speaking roles, any-way. The rest of the people are sort of extras. Four actors do all the other parts.”
“So that’s eight altogether.”
“Plus all the technical people. I mean, this is a play. It takes lots of people to put on a play.”
“And you say you get along with all of them.”
“Yes.”
“This man who calls you… do you recognize his voice, by any chance?”
“No.”
“Doesn’t sound at all familiar, him?”
“No.”