“Make me pretty, Mommy,” April said, looking directly up at her mother. Teddy smiled, and then slowly and carefully moved her fingers in the universal language of the deaf-mute while Carella and the little girl watched.
“She says she doesn’t have to make you pretty,” Carella said. “You are pretty.”
“I could read almost all of it,” April said, and hugged Teddy fiercely. “I’m the Good Princess, you know,” she said to her father.
“That’s true, you are the Good Princess.”
“Are there bad princesses, too?”
Teddy was replacing the caps on the felt-tipped markers to keep them from drying out. She smiled at her daughter, shook her head, reached into her purse for a lipstick tube, and then carried it to where April waited patiently for the touches that would transform her into a true good princess. Kneeling before her, Teddy expertly began to apply the lipstick. The two looked remarkably alike, the same brown eyes and black hair, the clearly defined widow’s peak, the long lashes and generous mouth. April wore a long gown and cape fashioned of hunter-green velvet by Fanny, their housekeeper. Teddy wore tight blue jeans and a white T-shirt, her hair falling onto her cheek now as she bent her head, concentrating on the line of April’s mouth. She touched her fingertip to the lipstick and brushed a bit of it onto each of April’s cheeks, blending it, and then reached for the eye shadow she had used on her son, using it more subtly on April’s lids, mindful of the fact that her daughter was not supposed to be a bloodthirsty vampire. Using a mascara brush, she darkened April’s lashes and then turned her to face Carella.
“Beautiful,” Carella said. “Go look at yourself.”
“Am I, Mommy?” April asked and, without waiting for an affirming nod, scurried out of the room.
Fanny came in not a moment later, grinning.
“There’s a horrid little beast rushing all about the kitchen with blood dripping from his mouth,” she said, and then, pretending to notice Carella for the first time even though he’d been home for more than half an hour, added, “Well, it’s himself. And will you be taking the children out for their mischief?”
“I will,” Carella said.
“Mind you’re back by seven, because that’s when the roast’ll be done.”
“I’ll be back by seven,” Carella promised. To Teddy, he said, “I thought you said there were no bad princesses.”
“And what is that supposed to mean?” Fanny asked.
She had come to the Carellas more than eight years ago as a one-month gift from Teddy’s father, who had felt his daughter needed at least that much time to rearrange the household after the birth of twins. In those days Fanny’s hair was blue, and she wore a pince-nez, and she weighed 150 pounds. The prepaid month had gone by all too quickly, and Carella had regretfully informed her that he could not afford a full-time housekeeper on his meager salary. But Fanny was an indomitable broad who had never had a family of her own, and who rather liked this one. So she told Carella he could pay her whatever he might scrape up for the time being, and she would supplement her income with night jobs, she being a trained nurse and a very strong healthy woman to boot. Carella had flatly refused, and Fanny had put her hands on her hips and said, “Are you going to throw me out into the street, is that it?” and they had argued back and forth, and Fanny had stayed. She was still with them. Her hair was now bleached red, and she wore harlequin glasses with black frames, and her weight was down to 140 as a result of chasing after two very lively children. Her influence on the family unit was perhaps best reflected in the speech of the twins. As infants, they’d been alone with her and their mother for much of the day, and since Teddy could not utter a word, much of their language had been patterned after Fanny’s. It was not unusual to hear Mark referring to someone as a lace-curtain shanty Irish son of a B, or little April telling a playmate to go scratch her arse. It made life colorful, to say the least.
Fanny stood now with her hands on her ample hips, daring Carella to explain what he had meant by his last remark. Carella fixed her with a menacing detective-type stare and said, “I was referring, dear, to the fact that you are sometimes overbearing and raucous and could conceivably be thought of as a bad princess, that is what it’s supposed to mean,” and Fanny burst out laughing.
“How can you live with such a beast?” she asked Teddy, still laughing, and then went out of the room, wagging her head.
“Daddy, are you coming?” Mark shouted.
“Yes, son,” he answered.
He folded Teddy into his arms and kissed her. Then he went out into the living room and took his children one by each hand, and went out into the streets to ring doorbells with them. He almost forgot, but not quite, that he had seen a seventeen-year-old girl squashed flat on the pavement today because she had scrawled “Irene Loves Pete” into a heart on the brick parapet of a roof.
The call to the squadroom came at 9:45 P.M.
Meyer Meyer, who was alone and catching, picked up the receiver and said, “87th Squad. Detective Meyer.”
“This is Patrolman Breach,” the voice said, “Benny Breach.”
“Yeah, Benny?”
“I figured I’d better call this one in. I was passing a bar on Culver and the owner of the place stopped me and asked me to come inside.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, so I went in and there’s a guy standing on one of the tables and saying all sorts of crazy things.”
“Like what, Benny?”
“Like he said he killed some dame.”
The guy who had said he’d killed a girl was a huge man, six feet five inches tall and weighing more than 200 pounds. His nose was massive, his cheekbones high with an angled, chiseled look, his mouth wide, his chin rough-hewn. When he came into the squadroom with Patrolman Breach, he was still reeling a bit from the effects of all the alcohol he’d consumed.
“What is the matter here in this city,” he asked, his words slurred, “when a man can’t have a few little drinks without the police picking him up like this in this city?”
“He’s been drinking pretty heavy, sir,” Breach said.
“Yeah,” Meyer answered. “See if there’s any coffee in the Clerical Office, will you?”
“Yes, sir,” Breach said, and went down the corridor.
“I am not drunk,” the man said.
“What’s your name?” Meyer asked.
“That is my business.”
“All right, if you’re not drunk, then please listen to what I’m going to say now, because it can be important to you.”
“I’m listening,” the man said.
“In keeping with the Supreme Court decision of 1966 in the case of Miranda versus Arizona, I’m required to advise you of your rights, and that’s what I’m doing now.”
“Fine,” the man said.
“First, you have the right to remain silent if you choose, do you understand that?”
“Absolutely.”
“Do you also understand that you do not have to answer any police questions?”
“Oh, sure.”
“And do you understand that if you do answer questions, your answers may be used as evidence against you?”
“Yep, yep. Yep.”
“You have the right to consult with an attorney before or during police questioning, do you understand that?”
“Perfect, perfect.”
“And if you decide to exercise that right but do not have the funds with which to hire counsel, you are entitled to have a lawyer appointed without cost, to consult with him before or during questioning. Have you got that?”
“Got it. Right on the button.”