If, for example, the blonde arguing with Father Michael on Easter Sunday had threatened to expose his love affair unless he paid her a substantial sum of money or gave her property worth money a house in the country, a diamond bracelet, an Arabian show horse this would have been blackmail.
This is blackmail, the priest had shouted.
According to Alexis O'Donnell.
Who had seen a blonde.
Blackmail, or extortion, was punishable by a max of fifteen years.
A long stretch up the river if you threatened to tattle unless someone paid you off. Which potential stay in the country often provided a good reason for murder. Most often, of course, it was the intended victim who murdered his blackmailer. Better murder than exposure. But what if the victim threw all caution to the winds and threatened to report the blackmail attempt? Oh, yeah? Take this, you dirty rotten rat!
Not so funny when it happened in real life.
If Alexis O'Donnell had heard and seen correctly, a blonde had been with Father Michael on Easter Sunday, and she had threatened him with what he'd considered blackmail. If that blonde was Krissie Lund... "Hi, have you been waiting long?" she said, and took his arm.
Carella was waiting outside the First Fi, Savings and Trust when Andrew Hobbs came the bank at a quarter past five that afternoon. and without an umbrella, he pulled up the his raincoat, ducked his head, and plunged into the teeming rain.
"Mr. Hobbs?" Carella said, and fell into beside him. "I'm sorry to bother you again...”
“Yes, well, you are," Hobbs said.
"But we've been unable to reach your mother "I don't want to hear another word about bitch.”
The rain was relentless. Both men virtu galloped through it, Hobbs obviously intent reaching the subway kiosk on the corner, merely trying to keep up. When at last the' reached the sanctuary of the underground Carella grabbed Hobbs's arm, turned him and somewhat angrily said, "Hold up a minute, you?”
Hobbs was reaching into his trouser pocket subway token. His blond hair was plastered to forehead, his raincoat, trouser legs, and shoes thoroughly soaked. He shook off Carella's impatiently, found his token, glanced toward platform to see if a train was coming in, and impatiently said, "What is it you want from me?”
"Your mother's phone number.”
Sodden, homeward-bound commuters rushed past on their way to the token booth and the turnstiles. Standing against the graffiti-sprayed tile wall some four or five yards away were two young men, one of them playing acoustic guitar very badly, the other sitting against the wall with a cardboard sign hanging around his neck. The sign read: WE ARE HOMELESS, THANK YOU FOR YOUR HELP. Hobbs glanced again toward the platform, and then turned back to Carella and said in the same impatient voice, "I don't have her number, I already told you that. Why don't you look it up in the damn phone book?”
"We have, she's not listed.”
"Don't be ridiculous. Abby not listed? Abby taking the risk of missing a phone call from a man?
Really.”
"Mr. Hobbs," Carella said, "your mother was one of the people who'd had contact with Father Michael in the several weeks before his death. We'd like to talk to her.”
"You don't think she killed him, do you?”
"We don't know who killed him, Mr. Hobbs.
We're merely exploring every possibility.”
"Wouldn't that be a hoot! Abby killing the asshole who was supposed to save me from the Devil!”
"The point is...”
And here Carella launched into a somewhat creative improvisation, in that the real reas wanted to talk to Abigail Hobbs was to further her son's anger and his potential violence... "... whatever Father Michael may have her, however unimportant it might have the time, could possibly be of enormous value to now, in retrospect, if it sheds light on events in past that could conceivably relate to the though at the time it may have a insignificant.”
Hobbs tried to digest this.
Then he said, "You're not suggesting he have confided in Abby, are you?
Because frankly, Mr. Carella, that would be tantamount confiding in a boa constrictor.”
"We won't know until we talk to her, will Carella said.
"Don't you people have ways of getting numbers?”
"We do. And we tried them. The phone doesn't have a listing anywhere in the city anyone named Abigail Hobbs.”
“Small wonder," Hobbs said, and smiled.
Carella looked at him.
"Her name isn't Abigail Hobbs.”
"Your mother''s name...”
“She divorced my father ten years ago," said.
"She's been using her maiden name ever since.”
The hotel had a French name but its staff was strictly American and when the ma3tre d' in what was called the Caf du Bois said, "Bonn swart, mess-yoor, will there be two for drinks?" Hawes didn't feel particularly transported to Gay Paree. The maitre showed him through a glade of real birch trees under a glass canopy, usually nourished by sunshine but not today when the rain was beating steadily overhead. At the far end of the lounge a man was playing French-sounding songs on the piano. Krissie slung her shoulder bag over the back of the chair, sat, tossed her hair, and said, "I have to call my agent when I get a minute. She'll want to know how it went." On the way here in the rain, she'd told Hawes that they'd asked her to read two scenes rather than the one scene they'd asked all the other actresses to read.
She considered this a good sign. Hawes said he hoped she'd get the part.
He ordered drinks for both of them now - the gin and tonic Krissie requested, and a Diet Pepsi for himself since he was still on duty -- and then he said, "There are some questions I have to ask you, Krissie, I hope you don't mind.”
"Don't look so serious," she said.
"I want you to tell me, first of all, where you were between six-thirty and seven-thirty on the night of May twenty-fourth.”
“Oh, my," she said, and rolled her eyes.
serious, isn't it?”
"Yes.”
"That's when Father Michael was killed, "Yes.”
"And you want to know where I...”
"Where you were while he was being killed, "My, my.”
“Yes," he said.
"What are you going to ask next? Was I affair with him?”
"Were you?”
“As for where I was that night," she said, "I tell you in a minute.”
“Please do," he said.
"Because I write down everything in appointment calendar," she said, and swung shoulder bag around so that she could reach into, and pulled out a binder book with black covers. "Although I can't say I appreciate inviting me for a drink under false pretenses.”
"Krissie," he said wearily, "I'm investigating murder.”
"Then you should have told me on the phone this was a business meeting.”
"I told you I...”
“You said you wanted to see me," she angrily flipping pages, "not that you wanted to me to question me. Here," she said, "May," she "let's see what I was doing on the twenty-fourth, r'' The waiter came back to the table.
"The gin and tonic?" he asked.
"The lady," Hawes said.
It occurred to him that she had not yet said whether or not she was having an affair with Father Michael.
The waiter put down her drink, and then turned to Hawes and said, "And a Diet Pepsi," giving him a look that indicated real men drank booze.
"Enjoy your drinks, folks," he said, and smiled pleasantly, and. walked off. At the other end of the room, the piano player was playing a song about going away.
Krissie took a sip of her drink and turned immediately to her calendar again.
"May twenty-fourth," she said.
Hawes waited.
"To begin with, the twenty-fourth was a Thursday, so I was working that day, I worked at the church on Tuesdays and Thursdays, remember?”