The worst turned out to be the woman Manny Schwartz had described yesterday, five feet four inches tall, weighing around a hundred and ten, with brown hair and brown eyes, wearing jeans and a white T-shirt, no shoes. The detectives were still holding regulation nines in their hands when she opened the door. They had announced themselves as policemen, but she wasn't expecting drawn guns. She almost slammed, the door on them.
"That's okay, lady," Meyer said, and glanced swiftly into the room. The gun was still in his hand. He would not put it away until he made sure she was alone. "Anybody here with you?" he asked.
"No," she said. "What the hell's the gun for?" 'Okay to come in?”
Kling asked. "Let me see some ID," she said.
Both men were scanning the room. Eyes darting. Searching.
Listening. They saw nothing, heard nothing. Meyer was holding up his shield and his ID card. Mary Lynne was studying it. Both detectives were still standing in the hallway outside the door. This was a garden apartment in Calm's Point, a nice quiet neighborhood. Nobody expected cops in the hallway with guns in their fists.
"Who are you looking for?" she asked.
"Okay to come in?" Kling said again.
"No. Not till you tell me what this is about.”
"You hocked a stolen ring, lady," Meyer said. "We want to know where you got it.”
"Oh," she said. "That. Come on in, I'm alone." She stepped aside to let them into the apartment. They fanned out, guns up and ready, no search warrant here, they had to be careful. To the woman this must have looked absurd, two grown men playing cops and robbers as if they were on television. They didn't care how: foolish they looked. They cared only about taking two in the head.
"Okay to look around?" Meyer asked. "Just don't touch anything," she said. "You Mary Lynne Munro?”
“I am.”
Roaming the apartment ... "Okay to open this door?" making sure they were, in fact, alone, and only then holstering their weapons and turning their attention to the woman who'd been in Schwartz's pawnshop.
"That ring was a gift," she said at once. "If that's what's concerning you.”
"Who gave it to you?”
'"A man I met. Why? Is he some kind of thief?.”
"He is some kind of thief, lady," Meyer said.
"What's his name.”
“Arthur Dewey.”
“Where does he live?”
“I don't know.”
"He gave you a ring worth twelve thousand dollars and you don't ...”
"Twelve? That son of a bitch Jew only gave me three!" ' This did not endear her to Meyer. When he was a boy growing up, the Irish kids who chased him through the streets used to chant "Meyer Meyer, Jew on fire." Kling didn't much like it, either. "My partner's Jewish," he said. "So?" she said.
"So watch your mouth," he said.
"Oh, you mean that son of a bitch in the pawnshop wasn't Jewish?”
"Lady, don't press your luck," Meyer said. "How come you don't know where this guy lives?”
"Cause I met him in a bar, that's how come.”
“When?”
"Couple of weeks ago.”
"Met him in a bar and he gave you a twelve thousand-dollar ring?”
“Not in the bar.”
“Where then?”
“Right here?”
"Gave you the ring you hocked the other day?”
“I had no use for it. It was too big for my finger.”
“How come he gave it to you?”
"I guess he was stunned by my beauty," she said. "Oh, was that it?”
"He offered it, I took it.”
"What do you do for a living, Miss Munro?”
“I'm presently unemployed.”
"When you're not unemployed, what do you do?”
“Various jobs.”
"What was your last job?”
“It was a while ago.”
“When?”
"Two years or so.”
"Doing what?”
"I worked at a Burger King.”
“And since then?”
“What is this?”
"We're trying to figure out why a total stranger handed you a ring worth twelve thousand dollars.”
"I guess he didn't know it was worth that much. I'll tell you the truth, I was surprised when the Jew offered me three. I thought it was worth tops five hundred, like he said.”
"Like who said?”
"Arthur. If that was his name.”
"What makes you think it wasn't?”
"I don't know what it was. I don't meet many men who give me their real names.”
"You a working girl, Miss Munro?”
"Gee, you blew my cover.”
"And he offered you the ring in payment for your services, is that it?”
"Supersleuth," she said.
"Ever been arrested?”
"Never. You arresting me now?”
"Did Arthur if that was his name mention the ring was stolen?”
"Would you?”
"I'm asking what he did.”
"No, he did not.”
"Mention how he came into possession of it?”
“Really now.”
“Did he?”
"Of course not.”
"When you hocked the ring ...”
"Yeah, I know all about it.”
"You told Mr. Schwartz it was an heirloom you had to sell because you'd lost your wallet with all your money and credit cards in it. Is that right?”
“Lost it in a taxi, I told him.”
“Why?”
"What was I supposed to tell him? Some guy gave me the ring in exchange for a superior blow job?”
“Is that why he gave it to you?”
"I don't know about superior, though they say I'm pretty good. I told him the price was two hundred. He said he'd give me a gold ring worth five hundred. I looked at it, I thought maybe it was worth three, four. So we traded.”
"Ever think it might be stolen?”
"Why would I?”
"Guy carrying an antique ring in his pocket ...”
"It wasn't in his pocket. It was on his finger.”
“Took it off his finger, did he?”
“Before we started.”
“Then what?”
"Tipped his hat and left.”
"He was wearing a hat?”
"That's just an expression.”
“What was he wearing?”
“Who remembers?”
"Notice any scars, tattoos, birthmarks ... ?”
“What is this? Clinton's cock?”
“Any identifying ... ?”
"There was a finger missing on his right hand. I noticed it when he took the ring off.”
"Which finger?”
"The pinkie. It was almost disgusting.”
"Thanks, Miss Munro.”
There was a sudden silence. Their brief encounter was finished, there was nothing further to say. It was almost as if she'd entertained a pair of tricks and was now showing them the door.
"Nice after the rain, ain't it?" she said almost wistfully.
Dr. George Lowenthal's waiting room was full of women when Carella and Brown got there at four that afternoon. The office was on Stoner, just off Jefferson Avenue, a high-rent, low-crime neighborhood in the center of the city. The women glanced up curiously; two men were entering a normally females-only preserve. A woman in a green hat kept staring at them. The others went back to reading Vogue and Cosmopolitan. The detectives told a receptionist who they were. The woman in the green hat kept staring. She was still staring ten minutes later, when they were ushered into Lowenthal's private office.
Lowenthal was a man in his early fifties, Carella supposed, with graying hair and pale eyes. He looked tired. As if he had just come out of a difficult surgery, which he hadn't. The blinds behind him were drawn against the afternoon sun low on the horizon. Kate Cochran's file was open on his desk.
"I remember her well," he said. "There was a waif like air about her, a sort of otherworldly naivete. I have to tell you the truth, I don't often try to talk a woman out of breast augmentation. It's her body, after all. I assume if she's uncomfortable with what she has and wants to change it, that's her business, not mine. My job is to serve a patient's needs. But Kate ..." He tried to find words. "Let me say that her body seemed perfectly suited to her gentle, childlike manner.