He had delivered his words in anger, but he had struck very close to the truth. They were running out of people. They had begun the case by grasping at straws, and they were still grasping at straws.
Carella sighed heavily. “I suppose the head of Columbia’s story department can corroborate…”
“You want to call him from here? I’ll give you his home number. Go ahead, why don’t you call him? You might as well wake up the whole goddamn city while you’re at it.”
“I think that can wait until morning,” Carella said. “I’m sorry I disturbed you. Good night, Mr. Di Pasquale.”
“Can you find your way out?” Di Pasquale asked sarcastically.
It was close to the witching hour.
Meyer Meyer stood on the corner opposite the Redfields’ apartment building, and wondered if he should call it a day. He had positioned himself on the street corner at 6:00 that evening, and it was now 11:40, and he was certain the Redfields would turn out their lights soon and go to sleep. But at 7:00 that evening, Margaret Redfield had come down into the street with a Welsh terrier on a leash, and she had walked around the block and then returned to the building at 7:25. Meyer did not own a dog, but he was sure a 7:00 constitutional would not be the final promenade for a terrier kept in a city apartment. And yet, it was now 11:40—he glanced at his watch, no, 11:45—and there was no indication that either Margaret or Lewis Redfield would take the pooch down for another stroll before retiring, and besides, it was beginning to rain.
It was not a heavy rain at first; it was only a light, sharp drizzle that penetrated directly to the marrow. Standing on the corner, Meyer looked up again at the lit third-floor apartment window. He swore mildly under his breath, decided to go home, changed his mind, and crossed the street to stand under the awning outside a bakery. The bakery was closed. It was nearing midnight, and the streets were deserted. A strong wind suddenly came in off the river, pushing heavier rain clouds ahead of it. The deluge covered the street. The drizzle turned to a teeming downpour in a matter of seconds. Lightning streaked the sky over the tops of the buildings. Meyer stood under the awning and thought of a warm bed with Sarah beside him. He cursed the Redfields again, decided to go home, remembered that damn Welsh terrier, convinced himself the dog would be going for another walk, pulled up the collar of his coat, and again looked up at the lit third-floor window. The awning leaked. He glanced up at the tear in the canvas, and then switched his scrutiny back to the window.
The light went out.
There was what seemed like a half-hour of blackness, and then another light went on, the bedroom, he figured, and then a light came up behind a smaller window. The bathroom, Meyer thought. Thank God, they’re finally going to sleep. He waited. Both lights stayed on. On impulse, he walked across the street rapidly and into the building. The elevator was directly opposite the entrance doorway. He walked halfway into the lobby and looked up at the indicator over the closed elevator doors. The needle was stopped at the number six. He watched patiently for several moments, and suddenly the needle began to move. Five, four, three…the needle stopped again.
Three, he thought. The Redfields live on the third floor.
The needle was moving again.
He raced out of the building and crossed the street, taking up his position under the leaking awning, certain now that either Lewis or Margaret Redfield was coming downstairs with the dog before going to bed, and then wondering what the hell difference it made, and then wishing again he were home in bed. He kept his eyes on the doorway to the building. Margaret Redfield came out of the doorway, leading the terrier on a leash, just as the patrolman rounded the corner.
It was five minutes to midnight.
The patrolman glanced at Meyer as he passed him, took in the hatless, bald-headed man with the jacket collar turned up, standing outside a closed bakery, five to midnight, rain, empty streets…
The patrolman turned back.
The sniper was out of breath.
He had leaped the airshaft between the two buildings and taken up his position behind the parapet, looking down into the street now, the street empty and deserted, but knowing that she would soon turn the corner, knowing she would soon stroll leisurely up the block, leading the dog, knowing she would soon be dead, breathing hard, waiting.
The rifle felt long and lethal in his hands, more lethal because of the telescopic sight, bringing the street below into sharp focus. He sighted along the barrel at the lamppost in the middle of the block, far below, close to him because of the sight; she would make a good target.
He wondered if he should stop.
He wondered if she should be the last one, and then wondered if she shouldn’t have been the first one. He knew the dog would lead her to the lamppost. He knew she would stop there. He fixed the lamppost in the crossed hairs of the sight, and cursed the rain. He had not supposed the rain would make that much difference, and yet he could not see too clearly; he wondered if he should wait until another time.
No.
You bastards, he thought.
You, he thought.
I should have taken care of you first.
The rain drummed on his shoulders and his head. He was wearing a black raincoat, wearing the night around him, hidden by the night he felt a thrill of anticipation as he waited for her. Where are you, he thought, come walk into my rifle, come walk into my sight, come let me kill you, come, come, come.
The dog stopped alongside the fire hydrant on the corner. He sniffed, hesitated, sniffed again. Meyer, who was watching Margaret and the dog intently, didn’t even see the patrolman approaching.
“What’s the trouble, mister?” the patrolman said.
“Huh?” Meyer answered, startled.
“What are you standing around here for?”
A grin came onto Meyer’s face. Of all times for a cop to get conscientious, he thought, and then he said, “Look, I’m…”
The patrolman shoved him. The patrolman had just come on duty, he had a little heartburn, and he wasn’t ready to take any crap from a suspicious character who looked as if he was planning a burglary. “Move along,” he said angrily. “Go on, move along.”
“Look,” Meyer said, the grin dropping from his face. “I happen to be a—”
“You gonna give me trouble?” the patrolman asked, and he grabbed Meyer’s right sleeve, twisting it in his fist.
At that moment, Margaret Redfield disappeared around the corner.
He saw her turn into the block. She was partially obscured by the rain, but he recognized her and the dog immediately.
He wiped the palms of his hands on his coat, realizing only afterward that the coat was wetter than his hands.
I’m going to kill you better than the others, he thought.
You bitch, I am going to kill you better.
He was no longer out of breath, but his heart was pounding furiously, and his hands had begun to tremble. He glanced over the parapet again, saw that she was coming steadily down the block.
There was a lot of wind. He would have to compensate for the wind.
He wiped the rain from his eyes.
He put the rifle to his shoulder.
He sighted again on the lamppost, waiting.
Come on, he thought.
Come on.
Goddamn you to hell, come on!
“I’m a detective,” Meyer said. “Let go of my sleeve!”
Instead of letting go of Meyer’s sleeve, the patrolman twisted his arm up behind his back and began frisking him for a gun, which of course he found immediately.