But he was disappointed.
6
At 11:30 Wednesday morning, Anne Gilroy called the squadroom and asked to talk to Kling.
“Hello,” she said, “I hope I didn’t wake you.”
“Well, no,” he said, “I’ve been here for quite some time.”
“Do you remember me?” she asked.
“Yes, sure.”
“Gilroy was here,” she said.
“Mm-huh.”
“I thought of something,” she said.
“Oh?”
“Remember, you said if I thought of anything I should give you a call?”
“Well, actually you said it,” Kling said.
“That’s right, I did. You have a very good memory.”
“Well,” he said, and waited.
“Don’t you want to know what I thought of?”
“Is this in reference to the Leyden case?”
“Of course. You don’t think I’d call you just to chat and waste your time, do you?”
“No, of course not.”
“Of course not,” Anne said, and he knew she was smiling. He was surprised, moreover, to discover that he was smiling, too.
“Well, what is it?” he asked. “What did you think of?”
“I was the one who called Rose Leyden last Friday.”
“I’m sorry, I’m not following you,” he said.
“I’m sorry you’re not following me, too,” she said, and the line went silent. “Hello?” she said.
“Yes, I’m here.”
“Oh, good. Do you remember we got a wire from Mr. Leyden, asking the office to call his wife? About the checkbook?”
“Oh, yes,” Kling said.
“I was the one who called her.”
“I see.”
“Don’t you want to know what we talked about?”
“Yes, sure.”
“I can’t talk right now,” Anne said.
He almost said, Then why’d you call right now? But he didn’t. And then he wondered why he hadn’t.
“When can you talk?” he asked instead.
“I can meet you in a half hour,” she said. “We can discuss it over a nice long lunch.”
“I don’t take long lunches.”
“A short one, then. I’m very easy to get along with.”
“Even so, Miss Gilroy—”
“Call me Anne.”
“Even so, I’m afraid I couldn’t possibly meet you for lunch. Why don’t I stop by at the office later today, and we can—”
“I’ll meet you for a drink at five o’clock,” she said.
The line went silent.
“I know,” she said. “You’re not allowed to drink on duty.”
“I go off duty at four forty-five,” he said, and wondered why he’d said it.
“The Roundelay Bar on Jefferson,” she said. “Five o’clock.”
“Make it five-fifteen,” he said. “I’ll probably be coming straight from the squadroom.”
“Do bring your pistol,” Anne said, and hung up.
“Who was that?” Carella asked from his desk. “Cindy?”
“No,” Kling said, and debated lying. “It was the Gilroy girl.”
“What’d she want?”
“She was the one who talked to Rose Leyden last Friday.”
“Oh? Anything?”
“I don’t know. She hasn’t told me what they talked about yet.”
“Why not?”
“She couldn’t talk right then.”
“Then why’d she call right then?” Carella asked.
“To let me know.”
“Let you know what? She didn’t tell you anything.”
“I know. I’m going to see her later. She’ll fill me in then.”
“I’ll just bet she will,” Carella said, and paused. “Or vice versa,” he said, and opened the top drawer of his desk. He took his holstered.38 Detective’s Special from where it rested alongside a box of cartridges, and clipped it to his belt. “If you’re interested,” he said, “I was just talking to Pistol Permits. Nobody named Walter Damascus ever registered a .22 Iver Johnson.”
“Great,” Kling said.
“Let’s go,” Carella said. “Got to hit some of those people in the Leyden building.”
“Yeah,” Kling said, and put on his shoulder holster, and thought about Anne’s parting shot, and about what Cindy had said concerning fixed psychological symbols, and was suddenly very nervous and a little scared and also a little excited. He looked at Carella sheepishly, as though his partner could read his mind, and then followed him out of the squadroom.
Mrs. Carmen Leibowitz was a widow in her middle fifties, a chic woman with an agreeable and cooperative manner. She lived directly across the hall from the Leydens and was of course shocked, and not a little frightened, by what had happened. The neighbors were getting up a petition, she told the detectives, asking for better protection in the building. It was terrible the way the neighborhood was deteriorating, people getting killed and robbed in elevators and in their own beds, absolutely frightening. She had been living in this same building for thirty-four years now, had come here as a young bride, had raised a family here, had continued living here even after her husband’s fatal coronary more than three years ago. But it had never been like this, with animals waiting to stab you or shoot you, she was afraid of going downstairs any more.
“I’m a woman living alone,” she told them. “It’s very difficult for a woman living alone.”
She spoke in a very loud and somewhat grating voice, sitting on a well-worn Louis XVI settee against a paneled wall in a living room hung with oil paintings. She was wearing a Chanel suit, and Henri Bendel pumps, her hair meticulously coiffed, her makeup impeccable; she told the detectives they’d caught her on her way downtown to do some shopping. Carella promised they would not delay her long, and then declined her offer of coffee and raisin cake. In the kitchen, they could hear someone puttering around, dishes and silverware clinking.
“Who’s that?” Carella asked, and gestured toward the kitchen.
Mrs. Leibowitz, watching his face intently, said, “My girl.”
“Your daughter?”
Still studying his face, she said, “No, no, my maid.”
“Oh,” Carella said.
“Does she sleep in?” Kling asked.
“No,” Mrs. Leibowitz answered. She had given his face that same intense scrutiny, and she continued to gaze at him now, as though waiting for him to say something more. When it became apparent that he was not going to speak, she turned back to Carella, studying him with an identical attitude of concentrated expectancy.
“What time does she come in?” Carella asked.
“Nine in the morning. Except Thursdays and Sundays.”
“And what time does she leave?”