The city in these pages is imaginary.

The people, the places are all fictitious.

Only the police routine is based on established investigatory technique.

The five-year-old, unmarked sedan Steve Carella was driving to the scene was fitted with an air conditioner that had been repaired last summer and that now � when it was desperately needed � had perversely decided to malfunction. The windows front and back were open, but the air that flowed through the car was sodden and hot, the humidity in this city frequently accompanying the soaring temperature like a leaden ballet dancer lifting a fat partner. Bert Kling sat suffocating in silence beside Carella as the car moved uptown and crosstown.

The initial call had been received by Communications on High Street at 8:30 a.m., an Emergency 911 call that had been routed immediately to a dispatcher who�d radioed car Eight-Seven Frank to the scene. The responding patrolmen weren�t at all surprised to find a corpse: the woman who�d called 911 had reported that she�d just come home to find her husband dead in their apartment. The dispatcher had ended his radio message with �See the lady,� and the lady had indeed been waiting for the police in the lobby of the building. But they had not called back to the station house with a request for detectives until they�d entered the sixth-floor apartment and seen for themselves that there was, in fact, a body on the living-room floor.

The building was in a section of the precinct that was rather more elegant than many of the others, sitting in a semicircle of apartment houses that partially surrounded Silvermine Oval and overlooked Silvermine Park, the River Highway, and the river itself beyond. The buildings themselves had succumbed to the onslaught of the graffiti writers, a visual attack as numbing as a blackjack blow, but there were still doormen in livery here, and the security was presumably tight. A trio of radio motor patrol cars and an Emergency 911 van were all angle-parked in front of the building as Carella nosed the unmarked sedan into the curb. It was then that Kling, who had been silent all the way from the station house, said, �Steve, I think my wife is playing around with somebody.�

One of the patrolmen who�d responded to the dispatcher�s call was standing at the curb, waiting for the detectives. He recognized the faded maroon car as Carella cut the ignition, and then he recognized Carella and Kling as well, and moved toward the car as the doors on either side opened. Carella was staring at Kling over the roof of the car. Kling, his head ducked, began walking toward the patrolman. He had, until just recently, been the youngest man on the squad, blond and blue-eyed, with a boyish, clean-shaven face and an innocent gaze that belied his line of work. He was slightly taller than Carella, and broader in the shoulders; he was wearing a lightweight jacket, darker slacks, a white shirt, and � in keeping with the lieutenant�s recent dictum � a tie. Carella, a stunned look still on his face, came around the side of the car and stepped onto the curb. He walked with the casual stride of an athlete, a man with dark hair and dark eyes peculiarly slanted downward to give his face a somewhat Oriental look. The tropical suit he�d put on at a quarter to seven that morning had already wilted; it resembled an insulted dishrag.

�Where is it?� he asked the patrolman.

�Upstairs, apartment 6B. My partner�s in the hall outside. Lady�s in the lobby, with the doorman there. Came home and found the spouse dead.�

The lady was a tall brunette, her hair cut in the wedge an ice-skating star had made famous, looking fresh and cool in a cotton print dress and high-heeled pumps. Her face was narrow, almost lupine, dominated by startlingly green eyes and a wide mouth. She had been crying; her eyes still glistened with tears, and mascara was running down her cheeks. Carella hesitated before approaching her. This was the part he hated; this was the part that was always most difficult. He took a deep breath.

�I�m Detective Carella,� he said, �87th Squad. I�m sorry, ma�am, but I have to ask you some questions.�

�That�s all right,� she said. Her voice was low and throaty. She seemed numb as she blinked back the tears and nodded.

�Can you tell me your husband�s name, please?�

�Jeremiah Newman.�

�And your name?�

�Anne. Anne Newman.�

�I understand you came home to��

�Yes.�

�When was that, Mrs. Newman?�

�Just before I called the police.�

�What time was that?�

�Around eight-thirty.�

�And you were coming home, did you say?�

�Yes.�

�Do you work nights?�

�No, no. I�ve been away. I came here directly from the airport.�

�Away where?�

�Los Angeles. I caught the Red Eye last night at ten-thirty and was supposed to get here at six-thirty this morning. But the plane was late, and we didn�t land till almost seven-thirty.�

�Is that when you left the airport?�

�As soon as I�d picked up my luggage, yes.�

�And came immediately here?�

�Yes.�

�When you went upstairs, was the door locked?�

�Yes.�

�Did you touch anything in the apartment?�

�Nothing.�

�Not even the telephone?�

�I called from downstairs in the lobby. I couldn�t have stayed in that apartment another minute.�

The apartment was a malodorous oven.

The moment the detectives opened the door, they were assailed with a blast of heat and an accompanying stench that caused them to back off at once. Covering their noses with their handkerchiefs, they moved into the apartment as though it were the lair of a foul, fire-breathing dragon, and walked directly into the living room. The dead man lay on his back on the rug, his body cavities, tissues, and blood vessels bloated with gas, the skin on his hands, face, and throat � where it showed in the open neck of his bathrobe � discolored a brown that was almost black. The internal gaseous pressure had protruded his lips and forced his tongue out between his lips. His eyes were bulging. His nose had bled, and the blood was now caked beneath his nostrils and on his upper lip, where it had merged with a greenish fluid. He smelled of bacterial invasion and vomited stomach contents and expelled fecal matter.

�Jesus, let�s open some windows,� Kling said.

�Not till the techs get here.�

�Then how about the air conditioner?�

�The M.E.�ll want the temperature the way we found it.�

�So what do we do?�

�Nothing.�

There was, in fact, nothing they could do till the rest of the team arrived. It was almost a full hour before the Mobile Laboratory technicians finally dusted the apartment for latent prints, but even then Carella would not open any of the windows till the Medical Examiner got there. The assistant M.E., who�d been stuck in traffic on his way uptown, got there at twenty minutes past ten. He winced when he stepped into the apartment and then automatically checked the thermostat on the wall, and said to Carella, �If this thing�s right, the temperature in here is a hundred and two degrees.�

�Feels like a hundred and ten,� Carella said. �Can we turn on the air conditioner?�

�Not till I�m through,� the M.E. said, and knelt beside the body and went to work.

Anne Newman was waiting in the corridor outside. There were two expensive suitcases alongside the wall, apparently where she�d dropped them before unlocking the door. Her eyes were dry now, and she had wiped her face clean of the mascara stains. She still looked amazingly cool in her cotton print dress.

�If you feel up to it,� Carella said, �I�d like to ask a few more questions.�

�Yes, certainly,� she said.

�Mrs. Newman, can you tell me when you left for California?�

�On the first.�

�A week ago today?�

�Yes.�

�Just in time to miss the heat wave.�

�It was hot the morning I left.�

�What time would that have been?�

�I caught a ten o�clock plane.�

�What time did you leave the apartment here?�

�At about a quarter to nine.�

�Was your husband here when you left?�

�Yes.�

�I have to ask this, Mrs. Newman. Was he alive?�

�Yes. We had breakfast together.�

�What time would that have been?�

�At eight o�clock, I would guess.�

�Is that the last time you saw him alive?�

�When I left the apartment, yes.�

�What was he wearing?�

�I don�t remember.�

�Was it the robe he has on now?�

�No, I don�t think so.�

�Did you speak to him at any time after you got to California?�

�Yes, I called him last Friday, after I checked into the hotel. And I spoke to him again on Tuesday.�

�That would�ve been...�

�This past Tuesday.�

�The fifth. Three days ago.�

�Yes.�

�What�d you talk about?�

�Which time?�

�The last time you spoke.�

�I called to tell him I�d be catching a late plane out on Thursday night, and would be home this morning.�

�How did he sound?�

�Well... it was sometimes difficult to tell with Jerry.�

�What do you mean?�

�He was an alcoholic. He had his ups and downs.�

�Did he sound as if he�d been drinking when you talked?�

�He sounded depressed.�

�What time was this, Mrs. Newman? When you made the call?�

�It was after dinner, around nine California time.�

�That would have made it midnight here.�

�Yes.�

�Was he awake when you called?�

�Yes. He told me he�d been watching television.�

�How old was he, Mrs. Newman?�

�Forty-seven.�

�Can you tell me your age?�

�I�m thirty-six.�

�How long had you been married?�

�Fifteen years. Well, it would�ve been fifteen years in October.�

�Was this a first marriage for both of you?�

�No. Jerry was married before.�

�Would you know his first wife�s name?�

�Yes. Jessica.�

�Jessica Newman, would it be?�

�I don�t know if she�s still using her married name.�

�Would you know her maiden name?�

�Jessica Herzog.�

�Does she live here in the city?�

�I believe so.�

�Did your husband have any living relatives?�

�His mother. And a brother in San Francisco.�

�Can you tell me their names?�

�Susan and Jonathan.�

�Both Newman?�

�Yes.�

�Does your mother-in-law live here in the city?�

�Yes.�

�I assume you have her address.�

�Yes.�

�I�d like it before we leave, if you don�t mind.�

�Not at all.�

�Mrs. Newman, can you tell me where you were staying in Los Angeles?�

�The Beverly Wilshire.�

�Were you there on business or pleasure?�

�Business.�

�What sort of work do you do?�

�I�m an interior decorator. There was a trade show out there this week.�

�Did you call your brother-in-law while you were out there?�

�Jonathan? No. He�s in San Francisco.�

�Well, that�s relatively close to Los Angeles, isn�t it?�

�I didn�t call him.�

�When did the show start?�

�What?�

�The trade show.�

�Oh. Monday.�

�But you went out the Friday before.�

�Yes. I thought I�d relax a bit over the weekend.�

�Mrs. Newman, you told me the door was locked when you got home...�

�Yes, it was.�

�Would anyone but you or your husband have a key to the apartment?�

�No.�

�Do you have a housekeeper?�

�A cleaning woman. But she doesn�t have a key.�

�Do you know where I can reach her?�

�She�s in Georgia just now, her mother��

�When did she leave for Georgia?�

�The middle of July. Her mother�s very sick.�

�Can you tell me her name, please?�

�Bonnie Anderson.�

�Where does she live?�

�I don�t know her address. Someplace in Diamondback.�

�Do you know her phone number?�

�It�s in the book. Bonnie Anderson.�

�You the investigating detective?� a voice at Carella�s elbow asked.

He turned to find a pair of uniformed cops, their hands on their hips, and he knew before seeing their arm patches that they were Emergency 911 cops. There was something about this all-volunteer arm of the Police Department that telegraphed itself from miles away: a swagger, a bravado, an attitude that told all other cops they were only mere mortals.

�Carella,� he said, nodding. �The Eight-Seven.�

�I hear we got a real blob inside there,� the 911 cop said. �You want us to bring up a body bag?�

�This is the man�s wife,� Carella said.

�Nice to meet you,� the 911 cop said obliviously, and then gallantly touched the peak of his cap. �Yes or no?�

�I think we�ll need one,� Carella said, and turned away from him.

Tears were forming in Anne Newman�s eyes again.

�Where will you be staying tonight?� Carella asked gently.

�I thought with my mother-in-law. She doesn�t know about Jerry yet, I�ll have... I�ll have to call her.�

�If you�d like someone to take your bags downstairs, and hail a taxi...�

�Yes, I�d appreciate that, thank you,� she said.

�Just one other thing, Mrs. Newman. If we find any good latents in the apartment��

�Latents?�

�Fingerprints, we�d want to compare them against your husband�s, and yours, and your cleaning woman�s when she gets back from Georgia. Have you ever been fingerprinted? I�m certain there�s no criminal record in your past...�

�None.�

�But have you ever held a governmental position? Or were you in the armed forces?�

�No.�

�Then I wonder if I could ask you to stop in at the station house, at your convenience, when you�ve had a chance to��

�I don�t understand.�

�It�ll just take a few minutes, the stuff washes off with soap and water, and it�ll be a great help to us.�

�I still don�t understand.�

�I�m sorry, ma�am, but we�re required to investigate any apparent suicide exactly like a homicide.�

�Oh.�

�Yes, ma�am. Before we can close it out.�

�Oh. Well, then, certainly.�

�Thank you,� Carella said.

He asked the patrolman on duty outside the apartment to take the lady�s bags down for her, and then � as they walked together toward the elevator bank � turned to examine the lock on the front door. It was a double-cylinder deadlock, which meant that it could only be unlocked by key on either side, inside or out. Anne Newman had just told him that only she and her husband had keys to the apartment. He could see no visible jimmy marks on the outside cylinder or doorjamb. He was still studying the lock when Kling and one of the lab technicians came out of the apartment.

�Better take a look at this,� Kling said. �Found it on the bathroom floor.�

�I was just about to tag it,� the tech said. He was wearing white cotton gloves, and holding a small plastic bottle in his right hand. There was only one gelatin capsule in the bottle. He held it up so that Carella could read the label:

Carella jotted down the name and telephone number of the dispensing pharmacy and beneath that the name of the doctor. He was putting his notebook back in his pocket when the M.E. came out of the apartment.

�You can ventilate whenever you want to,� he said.

�What�ve we got?� Carella asked.

�No visible wounds, cause of death�ll have to wait till we open him up.�

�Fucking temperature in there,� the tech said, �I wouldn�t be surprised he died of heat stroke.�

It was almost noon when they started back for the station house. In this city, homicides and suicides were treated in exactly the same way, and so � still lacking evidence of either � they had made their drawings of the scene, and talked to the other tenants on the sixth floor and the doorman on duty in the lobby, and had learned only that Anne Newman had indeed left for someplace on the first of August, and that no one had seen her husband, Jerry, for the past week or so. According to the tenants and the doorman, this wasn�t particularly unusual: Jerry Newman was a freelance commercial artist who worked out of his own apartment and who sometimes locked himself in for days while trying to meet an illustration deadline.

The car windows were open, the heat ballooned around the two men as Carella edged the vehicle through the heavy lunch-hour traffic. He glanced sidelong at Kling, who was staring straight ahead through the windshield, and then said, �Tell me.�

�I�m not sure I want to talk about it,� Kling said.

�Then why�d you bring it up?�

��Cause it�s been driving me crazy for the past month.�

�Let�s start from the beginning, okay?� Carella said.

The beginning, as Kling painfully and haltingly told it, had been on the Fourth of July, when he and his wife, Augusta, were invited out to Sands Spit for the weekend. Their host was one of the photographers with whom Augusta had worked many times in the past. Carella, listening, remembered the throng of photographers, agents, and professional models, like Augusta, who had been guests at their wedding almost four years ago. He preferred not to dwell too often on that day because it had culminated in the abduction of Augusta by a lunatic who�d fanatically followed her career over the years and who had made a virtual shrine of the apartment in which he�d kept her captive for three days.

�...on the beach out there in Westphalia,� Kling was saying. �Beautiful house set on the dunes, two guest rooms. We went out on the third, and there was a big party the next day, models, photographers... well, you know the crowd Gussie likes to run with. That was when I got the first inkling, at the party.�

He had never felt too terribly close to his wife�s friends and associates, Kling said; they had, in fact, had some big arguments in the past over what he called her �Tinsel Crowd.� He supposed much of his discomfort had to do with the fact that as a detective/3rd he was earning $24,600 a year, whereas his wife was earning $100 an hour as a top fashion model; the joint IRS return they�d filed in April had listed their combined incomes as a bit more than $100,000 for the previous year. Moreover, most of Augusta�s friends were also earning that kind of money, and whereas she felt no qualms about inviting eight or ten of them for dinner at any of the city�s most expensive restaurants and signing for the tab afterward (�She keeps telling me they�re business associates, it�s all deductible,� Kling said), he always felt somewhat inadequate at such feasts, something like a poor relative visiting a rich city cousin, or � worse � something like a kept man. Kling himself preferred small dinner parties at their apartment with friends of his from the police force, people like Carella and his wife, Teddy, or Cotton Hawes and any one of his dozens of girlfriends, or Artie and Connie Brown, or Meyer Meyer and his wife, Sarah, people he knew and liked, people he could feel relaxed with.

The party out there on the beach in Westphalia, some hundred and thirty miles from the city in Sagamore County, was pretty much the same as all the parties Augusta dragged him to in the city. She�d get through with a modeling job at four, five in the afternoon, and if he�d been working the Day Tour, he�d be off at four and would get back to the apartment at about the same time she did, and she�d always have a cocktail party to go to, either at a photographer�s studio or the offices of some fashion magazine, or some other model�s apartment, or her agent�s � always someplace to go. There were times he�d be following some cheap hood all over the city, walking the pavements flat and getting home exhausted and wanting nothing more than a bottle of beer, and the place would be full of flitty photographers or gorgeous models talking about the latest spread in Vogue or Harper�s Bazaar, drinking the booze Augusta paid for out of her earnings, and wanting to know all about how it felt to shoot somebody (�Have you ever actually killed a person, Bert?�), as if police work was the same kind of empty game modeling was. It irked him every time Augusta referred to herself as �a mannequin.� It made her seem as shallow as the work she did, a hollow store-window dummy draped in the latest Parisian fashions.

�Well, what the hell,� Kling said, �you make allowances, am I right? I�m a cop, she�s a model, we both knew that before we got married. So, okay, you compromise. If Gussie doesn�t like to cook, we�ll send out for Chink�s whenever anybody from the squad�s coming over with his wife. And if I�ve just been in a shootout with an armed robber, the way I was two weeks ago when that guy tried to hold up the bank on Culver and Third, then I can�t be expected to go to a gallery opening or a cocktail party, or a benefit, or whatever the hell, Gussie�ll just have to go alone, am I right?�

Which was just the way they�d been working it for the past few months now, Augusta running off to this or that glittering little party while Kling took off his shoes, and sat wearily in front of the television set drinking beer till she got home, when generally they�d go out for a bite to eat. That was if he was working the Day Tour. If he was working the Night Watch, he�d get home bone weary at nine-thirty in the morning, and maybe, if he was lucky, catch breakfast with her before she ran off to her first assignment. A hundred dollars an hour was not pumpkin seeds, and � as Augusta had told him time and again � in her business it was important to make hay while the sun was shining; how many more years of successful modeling could she count on? So off she�d run to this or that photographer�s studio, rushing out of the apartment with a kerchief on her head and her shoulder bag flying, leaving Kling to put the dishes in the dishwasher before going directly to bed, where he�d sleep till six that night and then go out to dinner with her when she got home from her usual cocktail party. After dinner, maybe, and nowadays less and less frequently, they�d make love before he had to leave for the station house again at twelve-thirty in the morning. But that was only on the two days a month he caught the Night Watch.

In fact, he�d been looking forward to going out to Sands Spit, not because he particularly cared for the photographer they�d be visiting (or any of Augusta�s friends, for that matter) but only because he was exhausted and wanted nothing more than to collapse on a beach for two full days � his days off. Nor was he due back at work till Saturday afternoon at 1600 � and that�s where the trouble started. Or, at least, that�s where the argument started. He didn�t think of it as trouble until later that night, when he got into a conversation with a twerpy little blonde model who opened his eyes for him while their photographer-host was running up and down the beach touching off the fireworks he�d bought illegally in Chinatown.

The argument was about whether or not Augusta should stay at the beach for the entire long weekend, instead of going back to the city with Kling on Saturday. They�d been married for almost four years now; she should have realized by this time that the Police Department respected no holidays, and that a cop�s two successive days off sometimes fell in the middle of the week. He was lucky this year, in fact, to have caught the Glorious Fourth and the day preceding it, and he felt he was within his rights to ask his own wife, goddamn it, to accompany him back to the city when he left at ten tomorrow morning. Augusta maintained that the Fourth of July rarely was bracketed by an entire long weekend, as it was this year, and it was senseless for her to go back to what would be essentially a ghost town when he had to go to work anyway. What was she supposed to do while he was out chasing crooks? Sit in the empty apartment and twiddle her thumbs? He told her she was coming back with him, and that was that. She told him she was staying, and that was that.

They barely spoke to each other all through dinner, served on their host�s deck overlooking the crashing sea, and by the time the fireworks started at 9:00 p.m., Augusta had drifted over to a group of photographers with whom she�d immediately begun a spirited, and much too animated, conversation. The little blonde who sat down next to Kling while the first of the fireworks erupted was holding a martini glass in her hand, and it was evident from the first few words she spoke that she�d had at least four too many of them already. She was wearing very short white shorts and an orange blouse Kling had seen in Glamour (Augusta on the cover) the month before, slashed deep over her breasts and exposing at least one of them clear to the nipple. She said, �Hi,� and then tucked her bare feet up under her, her shoulder touching Kling�s as she performed the delicate maneuver, and then asked him in a gin-slurred voice where he�d been all afternoon, she hadn�t seen him around, and she thought sure she�d seen every good-looking man there. The fireworks kept exploding against the blackness of the sky.

The girl went on to say that she was a junior model with the Cutler Agency (the same agency that represented Augusta) and then asked whether he was a model himself, he was so good-looking, or just a mere photographer (she made photographers sound like child molesters), or did he work for one of the fashion magazines, or was he perhaps that lowest of the low, an agent? Kling told her he was a cop, and before she could ask to see his pistol (or anything else) promptly informed her that he was here with his wife. His wife, at the moment, was ooohing and aaahing over a spectacular swarm of golden fish that erupted overhead and swam erratically against the sky, dripping sparks as they fell toward the ocean. The girl, who seemed no older than eighteen or nineteen, and who had the largest blue eyes Kling had ever seen in his life, set in a pixie face with a somewhat lopsided chipmunk grin, asked Kling who his wife might be, and when he pointed her out and said, �Augusta Blair,� the name she still used when modeling, the girl raised her eyebrows and said, �Don�t shit me, man, Augusta�s not married.�

Well, Kling wasn�t used to being told he wasn�t married to Augusta, although at times he certainly felt that way. He explained, or started to explain, that he and Augusta had been married for � but the girl cut him off and said, �I see her all over town,� and shrugged and gulped at her martini. She was just drunk enough to have missed the fact that Kling was a cop, which breed (especially of the detective variety) are prone to ask all sorts of pertinent questions, and further too drunk to realize that she didn�t necessarily have to add, �with guys� after she�d swallowed the gin and vermouth, two words which � when coupled with her previous statement and forgiving the brief hiatus � came out altogether as �I see her all over town with guys.�

Kling knew, of course, that Augusta went to quite a few cocktail parties without him, and he also knew that undoubtedly she talked to people at those parties, and that some of those people were possibly men. But the blonde�s words seemed to imply something more than simple cocktail chatter, and he was about to ask her what she meant, exactly, when a waiter in black trousers and a white jacket came around with a refill, apparently having divined her need from across the wide expanse of the crowded deck. The blonde deftly lifted a fresh martini glass from the tray the waiter proffered, gulped down half its contents, and then � compounding the felony � said, �One guy especially.�

�What do you mean, exactly?� Kling managed to say this time.

�Come on, what do I mean?� the blonde said, and winked at him.

�Tell me about it,� Kling said. His heart was pounding in his chest.

�Go ask Augusta, you�re so interested in Augusta,� the blonde said.

�Are you saying she�s been seeing some guy?�

�Who cares? Listen, would you like to go inside with me? Don�t fireworks bore you to death? Let�s go inside and find someplace, okay?�

�No, tell me about Augusta.�

�Oh, fuck Augusta,� the blonde said, and untangled her legs from under her bottom and got unsteadily to her feet, and then said, �And you, too,� and tossed her hair and went staggering into the house through the French doors.

The last time he saw her that night, she was curled up, asleep in the master bedroom, her blouse open to the waist, both cherry-nippled breasts recklessly exposed. He was tempted to wake her and question her further about this �one guy especially,� but his host walked into the room at that moment, and cleared his throat, and Kling had the distinct impression he was being suspected of rape or at least sexual molestation. The blonde later disappeared into the night, as suddenly as she had materialized. But before leaving the next day (Augusta stayed behind, as she had promised, or perhaps threatened) Kling asked some discreet questions and learned that her name was Monica Thorpe. On Monday morning he called the Cutler Agency, identified himself as Augusta�s husband, said they wanted to invite Monica to a small dinner party, and got her unlisted number from them. When he called her at home, she said she didn�t know who he was, and didn�t remember saying anything about Augusta, who was anyway her dearest friend and one of the sweetest people on earth. She hung up before Kling could say another word. When he called back a moment later, she said, �Hey, knock it off, okay, man? I don�t know what you�re talking about,� and hung up again.

�So that�s it,� Kling said.

�That�s it, huh?� Carella said. �Are you telling me...?�

�I�m telling you what happened.�

�Nothing happened,� Carella said. �Except some dumb blonde got drunk and filled your head with��

�She said she saw Augusta all over town. With guys, Steve. With one guy especially, Steve.�

�Uh-huh. And you believe her, huh?�

�I don�t know what to believe.�

�Have you talked to Augusta about it?�

�No.�

�Why not?�

�What am I supposed to do? Ask her if there�s some guy she�s been seeing? Suppose she tells me there is? Then what? Shit, Steve...�

�If I were in a similar situation, I�d ask Teddy in a minute.�

�And what if she said it was true?�

�We�d work it out.�

�Sure.�

�We would.�

Kling was silent for several moments. His face was beaded with sweat, he appeared on the verge of tears. He took a handkerchief from his back pocket and dabbed at his forehead. He sucked in a deep breath, and said, �Steve... is it... is it still good between you and Teddy?�

�Yes.�

�I mean��

�I know what you mean.�

�In bed, I mean.�

�Yes, in bed. And everywhere else.�

�Because... I, I don�t think I�d have believed a word that blonde was saying if, if I, if I didn�t already think something was wrong. Steve, we... these past few months... ever since June it must be... we... you know, it used to be we couldn�t keep our hands off each other, I�d come home from work, she�d be all over me. But lately...� He shook his head, his voice trailed.

Carella said nothing. He stared through the windshield ahead, and then blew the horn at a pedestrian about to step off the curb against the light. Kling shook his head again. He took out his handkerchief again, and again dabbed at his brow with it.

�It�s just that lately... well, for a long time now... there hasn�t been anything between us. I mean, not like before. Not the way it used to be, when we, when we couldn�t stand being apart for a minute. Now it�s... when we make love, it�s just so... so cut and dried, Steve. As if she�s... tolerating me, you know what I mean? Just doing it to, to, to get it over with. Aw, shit, Steve,� he said, and ducked his face into the handkerchief, both hands spread over it, and began sobbing.

�Come on,� Carella said.

�I�m sorry.�

�That�s okay, come on.�

�What an asshole,� Kling said, sobbing into the handkerchief.

�You�ve got to talk to her about it,� Carella said.

�Yeah.� The handkerchief was still covering his face. He kept sobbing into it, his head turned away from Carella, his shoulders heaving.

�Will you do that?�

�Yeah.�

�Bert? Will you talk to her?�

�Yeah. Yeah, I will.�

�Come on now.�

�Yeah, okay,� Kling said, and sniffed, and took the handkerchief from his face, and dried his eyes, and sniffed again, and said, �Thanks,� and stared straight ahead through the windshield again.

The neighborhood had changed.

He hadn�t expected it to look the same, not after twelve years, but neither had he expected so overwhelming a transformation. He got off the elevated train at Cannon Road, and then came down the steps onto Dover Plains Avenue, called simply and familiarly �the Avenue� when he was still living here. The area then had been a peaceful mix of Italians, Jews, Irish, and blacks, but as he walked up toward Marien Street, he noticed with a fleeting pang that time had passed him by, all the familiar landmarks were gone.

What had once been an Italian latticini was now a Puerto Rican bodega. What had once been a kosher butcher shop was now a billiard parlor; through the open door of the place, he could see clusters of teenage Puerto Ricans holding pool cues. The pizzeria on the corner of Yardley was now a bar and grill, and Harry�s candy store � where he used to take the kids for ice-cream sundaes � was now a shoe store, a huge sign lettered Zapater�a across the front of it, a plate-glass window replacing the open counter over which Harry used to pass his egg creams. All gone, he thought. My two youngest kids living in Chicago with Josie�s mother now, and my eldest, my daughter � ah, my daughter.

He was back here today to find his daughter.

He had last seen this neighborhood when he was twenty-seven years old. A young man. Twenty-seven. He would be forty in November, twelve years of his life blown in prison. Moira had been six when they sent him away, she�d just turned eighteen this past June, he hadn�t seen her in all that time. He wondered if she would recognize him. He was a tall man � they didn�t shrink you up there at Castleview, though they did just about everything else to you � and still muscularly built, thanks to workouts in the prison gym, never missed a day of lifting those weights, except that time he was in solitary for a month, that was after the stabbing that cost him a sure parole and an additional two years of time.

He�d been away for twenty-to-life on a Murder One conviction, which meant he�d have been eligible for parole in ten if it hadn�t been for D�Annunzio starting in about his nose, greeting him every morning with �Hey, Schnoz, how�s it going?� or �How�s the Schnozzola today?� Trapped up there where you can�t avoid somebody who�s bugging you, man keeps calling attention to the fact you got a big nose, there�s only so much of that shit you can take. Grabbed a fork off the mess hall table one night after D�Annunzio made some crack about guys with big noses having tiny little cocks � which was wrong, anyway, it was supposed to be the other way around, a big nose meant a big cock � and went at his face with it, tore D�Annunzio�s face to ribbons with the fork, would�ve blinded the son of a bitch if three of the pigs hadn�t clubbed him to the floor. Spent a month in solitary and then heard the good news that his parole request was being denied. Later, the state added two years to the obligatory ten he had to serve. The pigs were fond of saying �If you can�t do the time, don�t do the crime.� He had done his time � twelve long years of it � and now he was out.

And now he wanted to see his daughter again.

This was Saturday, the neighborhood seemed drowsy and peaceful in the blistering midday sun. He walked up Marien to the house they used to live in, a two-family, clapboard-and-brick building with a low picket fence around it. The house and the fence used to be painted white; the new owner had painted them green. There were two mailboxes side by side at the curb, one with the name JOHNSON on it, the other with the name GARC�A. A black man was in the big front yard, hunkered over an azalea bush, pulling weeds from around it. Halloran stood staring at the house for a moment, remembering, and then turned and walked back toward the Avenue again.

He had never been a drinking man, even before the trouble, and drinking was one habit you couldn�t pick up in stir. But his lawyer had told him that his daughter had come back from Chicago and was living someplace in the old neighborhood, and Halloran hadn�t been able to find a listing for her in the Riverhead directory, so he figured maybe the best place to start was one of the bars, ask if anybody knew where Moira Halloran was living these days. Puerto Rican and black neighborhood like it was now, an Irish girl had to stand out, right? Irish girl with blonde hair and blue eyes like her mother�s � Ah Jesus, Josie, I never meant to do it.

He went into the bar that used to be a pizzeria. Made good pizza back in the days before he got sent away, used to take Josie and the three kids there all the time. Used to think a lot about Josie up there at Castleview. In bed alone at night, he thought about Josie. Even later on, when he found himself a punk who�d do whatever he was told to do or else, it was Josie he thought about during the sex act. Always Josie. Josie he thought about, Josie he imagined. Josie who he�d killed with a hatchet.

The jukebox was playing a Spanish song, whole damn world was going Hispanic, more of them up there in Castleview than you could flush out of a field of sugarcane. The spic behind the bar was humming along with the tune, polishing a glass, tossing his head in time to the Latin rhythms. The bar was empty otherwise. Halloran took a stool near the bartender and asked him for a beer. The bartender seemed annoyed that somebody was interrupting his little spic jam session. Scowling, he put down the glass he�d been polishing, and went to draw the beer.

�Thanks,� Halloran said.

�De nada,� the bartender said.

�You live in this neighborhood?�

�Why? You police?�

Halloran thought that was very funny. He smiled and shook his head. �No,� he said, �I�m not police.�

�You look like police,� the bartender said, and shrugged.

�My name�s Jack Halloran, I�m up here looking for my daughter.�

�Your daughter, huh?�

�That�s right.�

�Halloran, huh?� the bartender shook his head. �Nobody name Halloran come in here. Your daughter, huh?�

�My daughter. Blonde girl, eighteen years old. Moira Halloran.�

�I don� know nobody by that name. You want to pay for the beer, please?�

�I�m not a cop, and she�s not in any trouble,� Halloran said, reaching for his wallet. �I�m just trying to find her, is all.�

�I don� care if she�s in trouble or what she is,� the bartender said. �I don� know her. Tha�s seventy-fi� cents.�

Halloran paid for the beer without touching a drop of it, and then went out onto the Avenue again. The elevated tracks overhead cast a shadow on this side of the street, and he was grateful for the respite from the sun. Otherwise, there wasn�t a breeze, not a breath of fresh air in this damn suffocating heat. He went from bar to bar asking if anybody knew his daughter, Moira Halloran. He did not hit pay dirt until the fifth bar. The bartender there, like all the other bartenders, was a Puerto Rican with an accent you could slice with a machete.

�Moira Halloran?� he said. �No Moira Halloran. Only Moira Johnson.�

�Johnson?�

�Johnson, s�. Tall blon� girl, dee age you say, eighteen, nineteen, like that.�

�Johnson, huh?�

�Johnson. She�s marry to Henry Johnson, they live on Marien Stree, you know Marien?�

�I�m familiar with it, yes.�

�So tha�s where,� the bartender said.

He remembered the mailboxes in front of the old house, the names Johnson and Garc�a on them. Had his daughter come back to live again in that house? His lawyer had told him the place was up for sale, but Jesus, had his daughter and her husband bought it? Were they maybe living in the same apartment the family had lived in twelve years ago, the downstairs apartment, renting the smaller upstairs one to the spic Garcia, the one he�d seen weeding in the front yard, some of these spics were blacker than African niggers.

Halloran paid for the beer and walked out. It was hotter in the street now, and suddenly he was sweating. Now that he was closer to finding her, now that it was proving easier than he�d ever dreamed it could be, he found himself sweating, and a little short of breath, his heart pounding in his chest as he made the familiar turn onto Marien, and walked past half a dozen little Puerto Rican girls skipping rope, and then stopped in front of the clapboard-and-brick house he�d once lived in with Josie and the kids before he�d had to kill her, the same house � his, daughter Moira was living here in the same house he�d shared with Josie for seven years. The black African spic, Garc�a, was still out front, weeding.

�Hey!� Halloran called.

The man looked up.

�You speak English?� Halloran asked.

�You talking to me?� the man said. He looked to be in his early twenties, a thin guy wearing a tank-top undershirt and cutoff blue jeans. He was holding a claw-shaped gardening tool in his right hand.

�Yes, I�m talking to you,� Halloran said. �I�m looking for Moira Johnson, do you know her?�

�I know her,� the man said. �What do you want with her?�

�She�s my daughter,� Halloran said.

�Well, well,� the man said.

�What�s that mean, �Well, well�?�

�They decided to let you out, huh?�

�Who the hell are you?� Halloran asked.

�Henry Johnson,� the man said. �Moira�s husband. Why don�t you get lost? Moira don�t want nothin� to do with you, man.�

�Look, punk,� Halloran said, and opened the gate in the picket fence, and hesitated when he saw Johnson�s hand tighten on the claw tool.

Locked up in prison, you learned to sense when it was wise to shout a man down, and when it was best to leave him alone. You saw it in the eyes. D�Annunzio should�ve seen it in his eyes the night he started in about a big nose, he should�ve seen Halloran�s eyes narrowing and should�ve known right then that his face was going to be hamburger. There was something in this nigger�s eyes now (Moira married to a nigger, his daughter married to a nigger!) that told Halloran he could be dangerous. He hesitated just inside the gate, and then tried a tentative smile, and then said, �I�ve come a long way to see her, son.�

�Don�t give me no �son� bullshit,� Johnson said. �I�m no more your son than she�s your daughter anymore.�

�I�d like to see her,� Halloran said quietly.

�She ain�t home. Take off, before I call the cops.�

�She�s my daughter, and I want to see her,� Halloran said in a steady monotone. �I want to see what my daughter looks like now that she�s grown up, I�m not leaving here till I see her, I�ve waited twelve years to see her, and I�m going to see her, have you got that, I�m going to see her, son.�

There must have been in his eyes the same look D�Annunzio should have seen there an instant before the fork plunged into his face, the same look Halloran thought he�d detected in young Johnson�s eyes just a few minutes ago. He saw the grip on the gardening tool loosen, saw Johnson taking his measure, a veteran street fighter the way all the niggers up at Castleview were, a badass cat who could recognize trouble when it was coming down the pike, and who wanted no part of it when the man�s eyes were signaling mayhem.

�She still ain�t home,� Johnson said, but all the bluster had gone out of his voice.

�When will she be home?� Halloran asked.

�She�s out marketing,� Johnson said.

�That doesn�t answer my question.�

�What is it, Hank?� a woman�s voice behind him said.

He turned.

She was standing just outside the picket fence, a tall slender blonde wearing sandals, white slacks, and a tomato-red tube top, clutching a brown paper bag in each arm, holding them close to her breasts. Even from this distance, he could see the startlingly blue eyes, and for a moment he thought he was looking at Josie, thought he was looking at his dead wife, and told himself that this beautiful woman was his daughter, his�

�Moira?� he said.

She must have recognized him, she remembered him, Jesus, she remembered him! She kept staring at him over the low picket fence, and then she said, �What do you want here?�

�I came to see you.�

�Okay, you�ve seen me.�

�Moira��

�Hank, tell him to get out of here.�

�Moira, I just want to say hello, that�s all.�

�Then say it. And leave.�

�I never did anything to you,� he said plaintively, and spread his arms wide in supplication, the fingers on both hands widespread.

�You didn�t, huh? You killed my mother, you son of a bitch! Get out of here!� she said, screaming now. �Get out of here, leave me alone, get out, get out!�

He looked at her a moment longer, and then lowered his arms and walked silently through the open gate, and past her where she stood shaking with rage on the sidewalk. Their eyes met for only an instant before he turned away from the hatred in them and began walking swiftly toward the Avenue.

Susan Newman, the mother of the dead man, lived just off Condon Square, where the big statue of General Richard Joseph Condon reminded the city�s sometimes jaded populace that during the Civil War there had lived an Army officer of unsurpassed wit, style, and grace. Covered with pigeon shit now, the smile on the general�s face nonetheless beamed out in bronzed splendor, causing responding smiles from any passersby who chanced to look up. In this city, not many people looked up, preferring instead to study the sidewalks for souvenirs of its vast dog population. General Condon pressed on undaunted, his sword raised high above his head, his smile undiminished after all those years of standing out in the cold, the rain, the snow, and the heat.

They parked the car two blocks from the address Anne Newman had given them at the scene, and then walked past the statue, smiling up at it, and around the corner to number twelve Charlotte Terrace. A doorman asked them to identify themselves, and then phoned upstairs to inform Mrs. Newman that a Mr. Cappella and a Mr. Kling were downstairs in the lobby. He listened for a moment, and then told the detectives they could go right on up, it was apartment 3G.

Mrs. Newman was a woman in her late sixties, wearing a flowing caftan designed to obscure her plumpness. She was perhaps five feet three inches tall, Carella guessed, with an apple-dumpling face and neatly coiffed white hair, folds of flesh hanging on her jowls and on her arms, where they were exposed by the three-quarter-length sleeves of the caftan. She had told them on the telephone that her daughter-in-law would be back from the funeral home by four, but it was now four-fifteen and she apologized for Anne�s delay, saying she had phoned not a moment before to say she�d be a little late. The flesh around her eyes was puffy, and the eyes themselves were streaked with red; it was obvious she�d been crying before the detectives arrived.

�We�ll be burying him tomorrow morning, you know,� she said. �Anne is making all the funeral arrangements.� She took a handkerchief from the single pocket of the caftan, and dried the tears that were forming in her eyes again.

�Mrs. Newman,� Carella said, �I know this is a particularly difficult time for you, and I apologize for intruding on your grief this way.�

�That�s all right,� Mrs. Newman said, �I know you have a job to do.�

�Would it be all right, then, if we asked you some questions?�

�Yes, I told you on the phone it would be all right.�

�I appreciate your generosity,� Carella said. �Mrs. Newman, your daughter-in-law told us she left for California on the first of August, is that right?�

�Yes.�

�She also said she�d spoken to your son this past Tuesday night...�

�I wouldn�t know about that, I�m sorry.�

�What I was wondering... had you spoken to him anytime this past week?�

�No.�

�Was it his normal habit to call you every so often?�

�Yes, once or twice a month.�

�When did you speak to him last, Mrs. Newman?�

�I really couldn�t say. A few weeks ago, I would guess.�

�How did he sound at that time?�

�Well, he...�

�Yes?�

�My son was an alcoholic, you see.�

�Yes, we know that.�

�And when he called... well, usually he was drunk when he called.�

�Was he drunk when you spoke to him that last time?�

�Yes.�

�What did you talk about, Mrs. Newman?�

�The usual.�

�Which was what?�

�His father. Jerry would get drunk, and then he�d call me and talk about his father.� She paused. �My husband died two years ago,� she said.

�How did he die, Mrs. Newman?�

�He... killed himself. He committed suicide.�

�I�m sorry,� Carella said, and Mrs. Newman looked at him, and nodded, and then dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief again. �And this was what your son usually talked about when he��

�Yes. He was the one who... who found him, you see. Jerry. I was working at the time, I�m a registered nurse, I only stopped working last year. I was at the hospital the night... the night it happened. Jerry had been calling the apartment... he was very close to his father, you see... and when he kept getting no answer, he thought something might be wrong, and he went right over. My husband was a painter, you see. An abstract expressionist, quite well-known, Lawrence Newman. He normally worked at home, in the apartment we lived in on Jefferson, had his studio in a large room overlooking the avenue, the northern light, you see. So when Jerry got no answer, he... he automatically figured something was wrong. He got the doorman there to open the door with a passkey, and when he went in he... he found his father.�

�How did he kill himself, Mrs. Newman?�

�With a pistol. He put the barrel of the pistol in his mouth and... pulled the trigger. In the... the studio. Where he used to work.�

�I�m sorry,� Carella said again.

�I asked him constantly to get rid of that gun, but he said in this city a man had to keep a gun if he hoped to survive. I don�t believe that, Mr.... Carella, is it?�

�Carella, yes.�

�I don�t believe people need guns. Nobody keeps a gun unless he plans to use it, isn�t that so? On another human being.�

�That�s been our experience,� Carella said.

�I read someplace � this was before Larry killed himself, I used to use it as an argument whenever I was trying to convince him to get rid of the gun � I read that a very large percentage of people who keep guns will sooner or later use that gun on themselves. Is that true?�

�The handgun suicide rate is very high, yes.�

�I told him. But, of course, he wouldn�t listen. Said he needed to protect himself. Against what? I asked. Wild Indians? There are no wild Indians on this island anymore, gentlemen. There are only wild Indians in a person�s head.� She sighed, took a deep breath, and then said, �I shouldn�t have left him alone that night. He�d been working on a particularly difficult concept, and simply couldn�t find a solution. He�d done the painting a dozen times over and he still wasn�t happy with it. He was working on that same painting when I said good-bye to him for the last time. I told him it was a fine painting. I knew he didn�t believe me.� She sighed again, and looked away, toward the windows and the magnificent view of the River Dix and its bridges beyond. �And so he found a solution at last in that studio room streaming northern light, with a pistol in his mouth and his finger on the trigger.� She drew a deep, tortured breath and then expelled it on a sigh. �My son was devastated,� she said. �Jerry. That was when he began drinking so heavily. When his father took his own life.�

�This was two years ago, you say?�

�May the twelfth, two years ago. I�ll never forget that day as long as I live.�

�And when your son called you...�

�Yes, that was what he talked about. He was drunk, of course, there was hardly a time he wasn�t drunk, and he talked about his father, yes, and relived again that day in May when he�d walked in and found him with the... the back of... of his head...� She turned away again. Carella waited. Kling was looking down at his shoes. �Forgive me, it�s still very painful. I�m getting to be an old woman now, but I haven�t forgotten what it was like to love someone more than life itself. And now... now this. Now Jerry. Almost as though he�� She shook her head, and brought the handkerchief to her eyes again. �Forgive me,� she said.

�Mrs. Newman, did your son ever give any indication that he might be contemplating suicide?�

�Do they ever?� she asked. �Did my husband? People get depressed, you accept that as a normal human condition. If they keep their troubles bottled inside, how can anyone know what they�re contemplating? Do you realize what pain a human being must be feeling even to think of taking his own life? I can�t conceive of such monumental suffering. The will to live is so great, it seems unimaginable that anyone would�� She shook her head again. �Unimaginable,� she said.

�Do you think your son committed suicide, Mrs. Newman?�

�I don�t know what to think.�

�Did he have any enemies that you might know of?�

�He never mentioned any.�

�Would you know if he�d ever received any threatening letters or telephone calls?�

�You�d have to ask Anne about that.�

�How did he get along with her?�

�As well as could be expected. Considering.�

�Considering what?�

�The drinking. It was a problem, of course. But they were very much in love when they got married � it was Jerry�s second marriage, you know � and I think Anne was behaving admirably, considering the circumstances. In fact, she�s been an absolute saint these past two years. I�m very fond of that girl.�

�How about your son�s first wife? Jessica Herzog, is it?�

�Yes, that was her maiden name.�

�Have you seen her since the divorce?�

�No. She�s quite a nice person, actually, and I wouldn�t have minded continuing our relationship. But one tends to side with flesh and blood in any divorce situation and... well, unfortunately, we lost contact. It�s a pity, really.�

�Mrs. Newman, from what I understand, you have another son...�

�Yes, Jonathan.�

�Who lives in San Francisco, is that right?�

�Yes.�

�How did he and Jerry get along?�

�As well as could be expected, considering the distance involved.� She looked Carella directly in the eye, and said, �Forgive me, Mr. Carella, but you sound... do you suspect that someone might have killed my son?�

�In any traumatic death,� he said, �we�re compelled to consider all the possibilities.�

�I see.�

�Mother?� a voice said, and they turned toward the entrance foyer, where Anne Newman was extricating a key from the lock on the door. She was wearing a black-and-white striped blazer over a white cotton-knit sweater and black skirt. As she had yesterday, she looked exceedingly cool, and Carella envied a metabolism that seemed to render her immune to the heat. She put the key on the hall table and came into the living room, her hand extended.

�I�m sorry I�m late,� she said, shaking first Carella�s hand and then Kling�s. �There were so many things to attend to. Would you care for something to drink? Mother, have you offered them something? A soft drink perhaps? Some iced tea?�

�No, thank you,� Carella said.

�Thank you, ma�am,� Kling said, shaking his head.

�I�d love a gin and tonic, would anyone mind? Mother, could you fix me one while we talk, please?�

�Yes, darling,� Mrs. Newman said, and immediately left the room.

�What is it you�d like to know?� Anne asked. �This heat is brutal, isn�t it? Is it cool enough in here for you?�

�Yes, it�s fine, thank you,� Carella said. �Mrs. Newman, Detective Kling here was the one who spoke to the Medical Examiner just a little while ago, would you mind if he asked the questions?�

�Not at all,� she said, turning to Kling. �What did they find?�

�Conclusive evidence that he was killed by an overdose of Seconal,� Kling said.

�Ah,� she said.

�Mrs. Newman, we found a prescription bottle...�

�Yes, that must�ve been it,� Anne said.

�...on the bathroom floor,� Kling said. �One Seconal capsule in it.�

�One? Oh my God! There were thirty capsules in that bottle when I left for California.�

�Then you hadn�t taken any between the time you filled the prescription on July twenty-ninth��

�No, I still had some left from last month, half a dozen or so. I took those with me to California.�

�Does your doctor regularly prescribe Seconal for you? Dr. Brolin, is it?�

�Yes, James Brolin. I have difficulty sleeping, and the stuff you can buy over the counter wasn�t working for me. Dr. Brolin saw no danger in prescribing a barbiturate.�

�How long have you been taking Seconal?� Kling asked.

�Ever since... well, it�s been several years now.�

�Ever since what, Mrs. Newman?�

�Ever since Jerry began drinking so heavily. Living with an alcoholic isn�t an easy task, I�m afraid.�

�Did you take the drug every night?�

�No, not every night.�

�Was the prescription a refillable one?�

�No, that�s forbidden by law in this state. Too many refillable prescriptions were falling into the hands of addicts.�

Kling felt mildly reprimanded. He plunged ahead regardless. �Then Dr. Brolin wrote a prescription for you each and every month, is that right?�

�Sometimes less frequently. Depending on how low my supply was.�

�And it was low just before you left for California.�

�Yes. As I say, I had six or seven capsules left, something like that. I�m the sort of person who doesn�t like loose ends hanging. I try to tidy things up before going away anyplace. So I asked Dr. Brolin for a new prescription.�

�Do you go away frequently?�

�Only occasionally. When there�s a show I feel I must see. I never miss the one in Chicago, for example, and the one in Los Angeles this year promised to be particularly good.�

�Mrs. Newman, the Medical Examiner�s report indicates that your husband was intoxicated at the time of his death. When you��

�I�m not surprised,� Anne said.

�When you spoke to him last Tuesday, did he sound drunk?�

�It was sometimes difficult to tell. He�d very often be drinking steadily and still manage to sound quite lucid.�

�Did he sound lucid the night you spoke to him?�

�He sounded... normal. Depressed, but normal. Then again, depression had become almost a normal state with him in recent months.�

�Did he ever discuss suicide with you?�

�Well... I�m reluctant to admit this because it might sound callous.�

�In what way?�

�You may wonder why I left him to go to California when I knew how he was feeling.�

�How was he feeling, Mrs. Newman?�

�He told me... he said he�d had enough.�

�Of what?�

�Of living. Of life.�

�When was this?�

�The day before I left.�

�That would�ve been a Thursday...�

�Yes, Thursday night.�

�July thirty-first.�

�Yes.�

�He told you he�d had enough of living?�

�He was drunk, of course, I... he�d told me the same thing many times before.�

�That he was thinking of taking his own life?�

�Not in those exact words.�

�What were his exact words?�

�He said his father had the right idea.�

�Meaning...�

�He was referring to his father�s suicide. His father killed himself two years ago.�

Mrs. Newman came back into the room. She had cut a lime in the kitchen, and a slice now floated in the tall glass containing Anne�s gin and tonic. She overheard the last of her daughter-in-law�s words, and said, �I�ve already told the gentlemen about that, darling. Here you are.�

Anne accepted the drink, said, �Thank you,� and then said to the detectives, �Are you sure?�

�We�re on duty, ma�am,� Kling said.

�Ah, yes, of course. Cheers,� she said, and took a sip of the drink. �Oh, that�s good,� she said. �I find this heat insufferable, don�t you?�

�Regarding the heat,� Carella said, �I�d like to ask you some questions about the air conditioning in your apartment.�

�The air conditioning?� Anne said, looking surprised.

�Yes, ma�am. I�m sure you noticed how hot the apartment was...�

�Yes, of course.�

�Well, the windows were all closed, and the air conditioner was turned off, and I was wondering��

�We always had trouble with the air conditioning,� Anne said, and sipped at her drink again.

�What kind of trouble?�

�We were constantly calling the super to have it repaired.�

�Well, it was functioning properly, ma�am. I know because I personally turned it on after the techs were through with it. The point is, it was turned to the off position, and I�m wondering whether it was in that position when you left the apartment on Friday morning.�

�I really don�t know,� Anne said. �I mean, the apartment seemed cool enough, I simply didn�t check to see whether the air conditioner was on or not.�

�But the apartment did seem cool.�

�Yes, definitely.�

�When you spoke to your husband on Tuesday night, did he mention anything about the heat?�

�He said the temperature had hit ninety-eight that day.�

�But he didn�t say the apartment was unusually hot, did he? He didn�t say the air conditioner had been malfunctioning, anything like that?�

�No, he didn�t.�

�Or that anyone had been there to look at it.�

�No.�

�I�m trying to account for that switch being in the off position, you see. If someone had worked on the unit, then perhaps it was left off by accident.�

�No, Jerry didn�t mention anyone coming in to look at it.�

�Uh-huh,� Carella said. �Bert?�

�Just a few more questions,� Kling said, �and then we�ll let you go. I�m sorry we�re taking so much of your time.�

�Not at all,� Anne said.

�Can you tell me what you remember of your conversation the night before you left for California?�

�Not in exact detail, I didn�t think it was that important at the time.�

�As much as you can remember.�

�Well, Jerry had been drinking, and he told me again � this was a usual complaint � about what a poor artist he was in comparison to his father. Jerry was an illustrator, you have to realize, and his father was quite a well-known artist, and Jerry felt he could never live up to his father�s high achievement. He idolized him... Well, isn�t that true, Mother?�

�Yes, it is,� Mrs. Newman said.

�And... well... I sometimes felt he wanted to be like him in every way possible. I suppose I should have taken his constant threats of suicide more seriously, given the past circumstances. But I didn�t. When he began talking again about how it was all so meaningless, so pointless, I... I hate to admit this, but I cut him short. I had a long trip ahead of me, and this was close to midnight, and I had to get some sleep. I told him we�d talk about it when I got back. I didn�t know I�d be seeing him for the last time at breakfast the next morning.�

�How did he seem then? At breakfast, I mean.�

�Hung over.�

�Mrs. Newman, did your husband know you were taking Seconal?�

�Yes, he did.�

�Did he know where you kept the drug?�

�We kept all our drugs in the bathroom medicine cabinet.�

�And that was where you kept the Seconal?�

�Yes.�

�Is that where you put the new prescription you�d had filled?�

�Yes.�

�The bottle containing thirty capsules?�

�Yes.�

�When did you do that?�

�The day I had the prescription filled.�

�That would�ve been the twenty-ninth of July.�

�Yes.�

�And your husband knew this? He knew you�d put that bottle of Seconal in the medicine cabinet?�

�I assume he did.�

�Thank you. Steve? Anything?�

�No, that�s it,� Carella said. �Ladies... thank you for letting us talk to you. We�re sorry for the intrusion, you�ve been very gracious with your time.�

�Not at all,� Mrs. Newman said.

�Please keep us informed,� Anne said.

In the corridor outside, as they waited for the elevator, Kling asked, �What do you think?�

�I don�t know,� Carella said. �I want to check with the Beverly Wilshire out there, see how long she talked to him last Tuesday night. Might help us in establishing the time of death.�

�What�ll that get us?� Kling asked.

�Who the hell knows?� Carella said. �But the heat in that goddamn apartment still bothers me. Doesn�t it bother you?�

�Yes.�

It was almost five-thirty. They said good-bye on the sidewalk outside, Carella walking to where he�d parked his car, Kling walking toward the kiosk on the corner and the subway ride home to his wife, Augusta.

The note, tacked with a magnet to the refrigerator door, read:

She did not get home until almost eleven.

He was watching the news on television when she came into the apartment. She was wearing a pale green, silk chiffon jumpsuit, the flimsy top slashed low over her naked breasts, the color complementing the flaming autumn of her hair, swept to one side of her face to expose one ear dotted with an emerald earring that accentuated the jungle green of her eyes, a darker echo of her costume. As always, he caught his breath at the sheer beauty of her. He had been tongue-tied the first time he�d seen her in her burglarized apartment on Richardson Drive. She had just come back from a skiing trip to find the place ransacked; he had never been skiing in his life, he�d always thought of it as a sport for the very rich. He supposed they were very rich now. The only problem was that he never felt any of it was really his.

�Hi, sweetie,� she said from the front door, and took her key from the lock, and then came to where he was sitting in front of the television set, a can of warm beer in his hand. She kissed him fleetingly on top of his head, and then said, �I have to pee, don�t go away.�

On the television screen, the newscaster was detailing the latest trouble in the Middle East. There was always trouble in the Middle East. Sometimes Kling thought the Middle East had been invented by the government, the way the war in Orwell�s novel had been invented by Big Brother. Without the Middle East to occupy their thoughts the people would have to worry about unemployment and inflation and crime in the streets and racial conflict and corruption in high places and tsetse flies. He sipped at his beer. He had eaten a TV dinner consisting of veal parmigiana with apple slices, peas in seasoned sauce, and a lemon muffin. He had also consumed three cans of beer; this was his fourth. The thawed meal had been lousy. He was a big man, and he was hungry again. He heard her flushing the toilet, and then heard the closet door in their bedroom sliding open. He waited.

When she came back into the living room, she was wearing a wraparound black nylon robe belted at the waist. Her hair fell loose around her face. She was barefoot. The television newscaster droned on.

�Are you watching that?� she asked.

�Sort of,� he said.

�Why don�t you turn it off?� she said and, without waiting for his reply, went to the set and snapped the switch. The room went silent. �Another scorcher today, huh?� she said. �How�d it go for you?�

�So-so.�

�What time did you get home?�

�Little after six.�

�Did you forget the party at Bianca�s?�

�We�re working a complicated one.�

�When aren�t you working a complicated one?� Augusta asked, and smiled.

He watched as she sat on the carpet in front of the blank television screen, her legs extended, the flaps of the nylon robe thrown back, and began doing her sit-ups, part of her nightly exercise routine. Her hands clasped behind her head, she raised her trunk and lowered it, raised it and lowered it.

�We had to go see this lady,� Kling said.

�I told you this morning about the party.�

�I know, but Steve wanted to hit her this afternoon.�

�First twenty-four hours are the most important,� Augusta said by rote.

�Well, that�s true, in fact. How was the party?�

�Fine,� Augusta said.

�She still living with that photographer, what�s his name?�

�Andy Hastings. He�s only the most important fashion photographer in America.�

�I have trouble keeping them straight,� Kling said.

�Andy�s the one with the black hair and blue eyes.�

�Who�s the bald one?�

�Lamont.�

�Yeah. With the earring in his left ear. Was he there?�

�Everybody was there. Except my husband.�

�Well, I do have to earn a living.�

�You didn�t have to earn a living after four p.m. today.�

�Man dies of an overdose of Seconal, you can�t just let the case lay there for a week.�

�First twenty-four hours are the most important, right,� Augusta said again, and rolled her eyes.

�They are.�

�So I�ve been told.�

�You mind if I turn this on again?� he asked. �I want to see what the weather�ll be tomorrow.�

She did not answer. She rolled onto her side, and began lifting and lowering one leg, steadily, methodically. He put the beer can down, rose from where he was sitting in the leather easy chair, and snapped on the television set. As he turned to go back to his chair, the auburn hair covering her crotch winked for just an instant, and then her legs closed, and opened again, the flaming wink again, and closed again. He sat heavily in the leather chair and picked up the beer can. The female television forecaster was a brunette with the cutes. Smiling idiotically, bantering with the anchorman, she finally relayed the information that there was no relief in sight; the temperature tomorrow would hit a high of somewhere between ninety-eight and ninety-nine (�That�s normal body temperature, isn�t it?� the anchorman asked. �Ninety-eight point six?�) with the humidity hovering at sixty-four percent, and the pollution index unsatisfactory.

�So what else is new?� Augusta said to the television screen, her leg moving up and down, up and down.

�Marty Trovaro is next with the sports,� the anchorman said. �Stay tuned.�

�Now we get what all the baseball teams did today,� Augusta said. �Can�t you turn that off, Bert?�

�I like baseball,� he said. �Where�d you go after the party?�

�To a Chinese joint on Boone.�

�Any good?�

�So-so.�

�How many of you went?�

�About a dozen. Eleven, actually. Your chair was empty.�

�On Boone, did you say?�

�Yes.�

�In Chinatown?�

�Yes.�

�All the way down there, huh?�

�Bianca lives in the Quarter, you know that.�

�Oh, yeah, right.�

The television sportscasters in America all had the same barber. Kling had thought the distinctive haircut was indigenous only to this part of the country, but he�d once gone down to Miami to pick up a guy on an extradition warrant, and the television sportscaster there had his hair cut the same way, as if someone had put a bowl over his head and trimmed all around it. He sometimes wondered if every sportscaster in America was bald and wearing a rug. Meyer Meyer had begun talking lately about buying a hairpiece. He tried to visualize Meyer with hair. He felt that hair would cost Meyer his credibility. Augusta was doing push-ups now. She did twenty-five of them every night. As the sportscaster read off the baseball scores, he watched her pushing against the carpet, watched the firm outline of her ass under the nylon robe, and unconsciously counted along with her. She stopped when he had counted only twenty-three; he must have missed a few. He got up and turned off the television set.

�Ah, blessed silence,� Augusta said.

�What time did the party break up?� he asked.

Augusta got to her feet. �Would you like some coffee?� she asked.

�Keep me awake,� he said.

�What time are you going in tomorrow?�

�It�s my day off.�

�Hallelujah,� she said. �You sure you don�t want any?�

�I�m sure.�

�I think I�ll have some,� she said, and started for the kitchen.

�What time did you say?� he asked.

�What time what?� she said over her shoulder.

�The party.�

She turned to him. �At Bianca�s, do you mean?�

�Yeah.�

�We left about seven-thirty.�

�And went across to Chinatown, huh?�

�Yes,� she said.

�By cab, or what?�

�Some of us went by cab, yes. I got a lift over.�

�Who with?�

�The Santessons,� she said, �you don�t know them,� and turned and walked out into the kitchen.

He heard her puttering around out there, taking the tin of coffee from the cabinet over the counter, and then opening one of the drawers, and moving the percolator from the stove to set it down noisily on the counter. He knew he would have to discuss it with her, knew he had to stop playing detective here, asking dumb questions about where she�d been and what time she got there and who she�d been with, had to ask her flat out, discuss the damn thing with her, the way he�d promised Carella he would. He told himself he�d do that the moment she came back into the room, ask her whether she was seeing somebody else, some other man. And maybe lose her, he thought. She went back into the bathroom again. He heard her opening and closing the door on the medicine cabinet. She was in there a long time. When finally she came out, she went into the kitchen and he heard her pouring the coffee. She came back into the living room then, holding a mug in her hand, and sat cross-legged on the carpet, and began sipping at the coffee.

He told himself he would ask her now.

He looked at her.

�What time did you leave the restaurant?� he asked.

�What is this?� she said suddenly.

�What do you mean?� he said. His heart had begun to flutter.

�I mean... what is this? What time did I leave Bianca�s, what time did I leave the restaurant � what the hell is this?�

�I�m just curious.�

�Just curious, huh? Is that some kind of occupational hazard? Curiosity? Curiosity killed the cat, Bert.�

�Oh? Is that right? Did curiosity...?�

�If you�re so damn interested in what time I got someplace, then why don�t you come with me next time, instead of running around the city looking for pills?�

�Pills?�

�You said Seconal, you said��

�It was capsules.�

�I don�t give a damn what it was. I left Bianca�s at seven twenty-two and fourteen seconds, okay? I entered a black Buick Regal bearing the license plate...�

�Okay, Augusta.�

�...007, a license to kill, Bert, owned and operated by one Philip Santesson, who is the art director at...�

�I said okay.�

�...Winston, Loeb, and Fields, accompanied by his wife, June Santesson, whereupon the suspect vehicle proceeded to Chinatown to join the rest of the party at a place called Ah Wong�s. We ordered��

�Cut it out, Gussie!�

�No, goddamn it, you cut it out! I left that fucking restaurant at ten-thirty and I caught a cab on Aqueduct, and came straight home to my loving husband who�s been putting me through a third-degree from the minute I walked through that door!� she shouted, pointing wildly at the front door. �Now what the hell is it, Bert? If you�ve got something on your mind, let me know what it is! Otherwise, just shut up! I�m tired of playing cops and robbers.�

�So am I.�

�Then what is it?�

�Nothing,� he said.

�I told you about the party, I told you we were supposed to...�

�I know you��

�...be there at six, six-thirty.�

�All right, I know.�

�All right,� she said, and sighed, her anger suddenly dissipating.

�I�m sorry,� he said.

�I wanted to make love,� she said softly. �I came home wanting to make love.�

�I�m sorry, honey.�

�Instead...�

�I�m sorry.� He hesitated. Then, cautiously, he said, �We can still make love.�

�No,� she said, �we can�t.�

�Wh...?�

�I just got my period.�

He looked at her. And suddenly he knew she�d been lying about the party at Bianca�s and the ride crosstown with the Santessons and the dinner at Ah Wong�s and the cab she�d caught on Aqueduct, knew she�d been lying about all of it and putting up the same brave blustery front of a murderer caught with a smoking pistol in his fist.

�Okay,� he said, �some other time,� and went to the television set and snapped it on again.

If every cop on the force had the same days off, then there�d be nobody out there in the streets on those days, and the bad guys would run amok. That was only logical. That was why cops had different days off on a rotating schedule. That was why Kling�s two successive days off did not always coincide with Carella�s. A Police Department duty schedule looked like a scroll dredged from the Dead Sea. Night Watch only complicated matters; Night Watch was a footnote, in Sanskrit, to an already complicated chart. The amazing thing about the schedule was that any cop giving it even a casual glance could tell you in a minute exactly which days off he had in any given month. It was considered a stroke of extreme good fortune when a cop�s two days off fell on a Saturday and a Sunday, like any normal human being�s. This happened only once a month. This week, Kling had been off on Monday and Tuesday, and now it was Sunday, and he was off again. So was Augusta. That is to say, she was off visiting a model named Consuela Herrera, who had come down with hepatitis and who was at the moment languishing in the city�s posh Physicians� Pavilion. Kling didn�t mind; he planned to work today anyway.

The work he had in mind was detective work of a sort, but it had nothing to do with the 87th Squad. The moment Augusta left the apartment, Kling opened the Isola telephone directory and searched out an address for a restaurant called Ah Wong�s. Wearing blue jeans, loafers, and a blue T-shirt with the numeral thirteen across its back, a souvenir of the interdepartmental baseball game in which he�d represented the Eight-Seven as a second baseman last summer, he went downstairs, hailed a taxi, and told the driver to take him to 41 Boone Street, down in Chinatown. The moment the cabbie threw his flag, Kling looked at his watch. It was precisely eleven minutes past noon.

�Hot enough for you?� the cabbie asked.

Kling grimaced.

�I hear it�s gonna be the whole week,� the cabbie said.

�I hope not,� Kling said.

�The whole fuckin� week,� the cabbie said. �You know where my wife and kids are today? They�re at the beach today, that�s where they are. You know where I am today? I�m pushin� a fuckin� hack is where I am today.�

�Yeah,� Kling said.

The traffic on a Sunday � especially on a Sunday in August when those people who weren�t away on vacation were most certainly out at the beaches with the cabbie�s wife and kids � was so light as to be almost nonexistent. Augusta had told him that the cab ride to Ah Wong�s last night had taken a half hour; she�d left the restaurant at ten-thirty and did not walk into the apartment until eleven. That had been Saturday night, though, the busiest night of the week, and given the number of people out on the town howling, and the attendant vehicular congestion, Kling figured he�d have to add maybe ten, fifteen minutes to however long it took him to get downtown now.

The cabbie dropped him off in front of the restaurant at exactly twelve twenty-six by Kling�s watch. Fifteen minutes. So okay, it could have taken Augusta a half hour last night. On the other hand, with him or without him, she�d probably taken taxis to and from Chinatown at least a dozen times this year; she knew how long the trip took, she wouldn�t have come up with something absurd like ten minutes on a Saturday night. Kling paid and tipped the cabbie, and then walked toward the front door of the restaurant.

Ah Wong�s was sandwiched between a Chinese five-and-ten and the station house for the Chinatown Precinct, one of the oldest in the city, in fact about to celebrate its centennial this year. He was tempted to stop inside, say hello to Frank Riley, who�d gone through the Academy with him and who was now a detective/second working out of the squadroom on the second floor of the ancient building. Instead, he stood for a moment on the pavement outside the restaurant, and looked up the street, trying to visualize it as it had been last night, when Augusta said she was here.

Silken banners lettered in Chinese hung lifelessly on the leaden air, crossing the street at intervals overhead, fastened to the buildings on either side. The street was thronged with restaurants similar to Ah Wong�s, their neon signs dead in the brilliant sunshine; last night, the street would have been alive with oranges, blues, and greens. It was almost deserted now, the garbage cans overflowing into the sidewalks in front of the restaurants, green plastic bags squatting beside them like bulky sentinels. A meter maid�s motor scooter was chained to one of the metal posts flanking the steps to Ah Wong�s basement. Kling thought it ironic that even the cops had to chain up their bikes in this city, outside their own damn station house.

Even so, the Chinatown Precinct was not an �A� house, like the Eight-Seven or some of the other high-crime houses in the city. It encompassed The Straits of Napoli (as the Italian section of the precinct was called) as well as the city�s mile-long strip of sleazy hotels and shabby bars (known familiarly as The Vineyard, for its collection of vagrant winos), and its boundaries also enclosed several pockets of blacks and Hispanics, mostly in the Governor James L. Grady Housing Project bordering the River Dix and in that end of the precinct where The Stem joined Dallas Avenue. The biggest crime in the precinct these days was the extortion committed by the Chinese youth gangs, many of whom were suspected of having connections with the older Chinese who ran the basement gambling houses, where Mah-Jongg was the favored game. The gamblers, tired of getting ripped off by itinerant holdup artists, had only several years back begun hiring these kids to protect their premises. The minute the kids tipped to how much money was being wagered at the tables, they began demanding higher fees and threatening mayhem if the demands weren�t met. From the gambling dens, they had branched out to the restaurants and stores, and now held the honest merchants in terror of their organized power.

There were no whorehouses, as such, in the precinct and no massage parlors, either, an oddity in a city that for the past ten years had been sprouting them like venereal lesions. But there was a large contingent of streetwalkers (none of them Chinese) working the area between Aqueduct and Clancy, and occasionally a pimp would decide to exercise his authority by slashing a breast or a pretty face, and � even more often � a visiting fireman in search of a cheap thrill would get mugged and rolled and left in an alley that stank of stale urine and sour wine. The continuing feud between the Dominicans and the Puerto Ricans up around Dallas was a headache to the cops, and since the Criminal, Family, Municipal, and City Court buildings were clustered within the precinct, farther downtown on High Street, there was a steady parade of offenders moving through the precinct to and from the corridors of the law. But for the most part, the precinct was a quiet one.

Riley, who had once worked out of the Marine Tiger Precinct in Riverhead, named after the ship that presumably had carried the first Puerto Ricans here from San Juan, had described his new job as �a month in the country,� this despite the twenty or so homicides committed here annually, and a fair share besides of burglaries, robberies, and grand larcenies. But Riley had come from a precinct where the life of an unpartnered foot-patrol cop wasn�t worth a plugged nickel. The Chinatown Precinct wasn�t a cop-killing precinct like either the Marine Tiger or the city�s notorious Vale Street Precinct. Nor was its crime rate as high as the Eight-Seven�s, where, thank God, the populace had not yet taken to stoning policemen. Kling thought he might have liked working here; he loved Chinese food.

He realized how hungry he was the moment he stepped into the restaurant and a swarm of exotic aromas assailed his nostrils. He took a table near the wall, ordered a gin and tonic and an assortment of fried shrimp, egg rolls, barbecued spare ribs, dumplings, and then � still hungry � ordered the moo goo gai pan, with which he drank a bottle of Heineken beer. When the waiter came back to the table to ask him if there would be anything else, Kling debated flashing the tin before asking his questions, and decided against it.

�That was delicious,� he said. �My wife told me about this place � she was here last night with some friends.�

�Yes?� the waiter said, smiling.

�Big party. About a dozen people.�

�Ah, Miss Mercier party,� the waiter said, nodding.

Miss Mercier was Bianca Mercier, who only last month had adorned the cover of Harper�s Bazaar, a dark-haired beauty with a Nefertiti look that was currently driving the city�s fashion editors wild.

�Yes, that�s the one,� Kling said.

�But no dozen,� the waiter said. �Only ten.�

�Eleven, I guess,� Kling said.

�No, ten. Only one big table here,� he said, pointing to a round table across the room. �Seat ten people. Was only ten last night, Miss Mercier party.�

�My wife thought it was eleven,� Kling said.

�No, only ten. Which one you wife?�

�The redhead,� Kling said.

�No redhead,� the waiter said.

�Tall redhead,� Kling said. �Wearing a green jumpsuit.�

�No redhead,� the waiter said again, shaking his head. �Only three lady. Miss Mercier, black hair, another lady black hair, and one lady yellow hair. No redhead.�

�Did you serve the party?� Kling asked him.

�I am Ah Wong,� he said, drawing himself up proudly. �Miss Mercier very good customer, I wait on her myself last night.�

�This would�ve been around eight o�clock, maybe a little earlier,� Kling said.

�Reservation for eight o�clock,� Ah Wong said, nodding. �Ten people. But no redhead.�

�What time did it break up?�

�Late.�

�How late.�

�Finish eat, sit around drink. Leave here eleven o�clock.�

�Eleven o�clock,� Kling said. Eleven o�clock was when Augusta had walked into their apartment. �Well, listen, thanks,� he said, �that was really delicious.�

�Come back soon,� Ah Wong said.

Kling paid the check and left the restaurant. The meter maid�s scooter was gone; its chain was still wrapped around the iron post and locked with a huge padlock. He debated going crosstown and uptown to where Bianca Mercier lived in The Quarter, ask her whether Augusta had indeed been at that predinner cocktail party last night. He decided against it. Whether she�d been there or not was a matter of small concern. She�d left their apartment uptown at 6:00 p.m. (or so the note on the refrigerator door had said) and had presumably been at Bianca�s party till a little before seven-thirty. (�I left Bianca�s at seven twenty-two and fourteen seconds, okay?�) An hour and a half didn�t matter too much when there were a missing three hours to account for � the time between when she said she�d left Bianca�s and, later on, the restaurant. Three hours, Kling thought. He had known Augusta to climax in three minutes.

He took a deep breath and walked toward the subway kiosk on Aqueduct.

The first call Carella made on Monday morning was to the telephone company�s Business Office. He identified himself as a detective working out of the Eight-Seven, and was beginning to tell the woman on the other end what he was looking for when she said, �What number are you calling from, sir?�

�377-8024,� he said. �But��

�Is that a business or a residence?�

�Neither,� Carella said.

�Sir?�

�It�s a police station.�

�Well, that�s a business, I suppose,� she said.

He had never thought of criminal investigation as a business, but maybe the lady was right. �In any event,� he said, �I need��

�Is this a billing matter, sir?�

�No, it�s a police matter.�

�What is it you wish, sir?� the woman said.

�I need a record of calls made from a number here in Isola...�

�What number is that, sir?�

�Just a moment,� Carella said, and consulted his notebook, his finger traveling down the page. �That�s 765-3811, the phone is listed to Jeremiah R. Newman, at 74 Silvermine Oval.�

�Yes, sir, and what was it you wished, sir?�

�A record of calls made from that number, starting on the first of August and continuing through the eighth.�

�Then this is a billing matter, isn�t it?�

�No, it�s a police matter.�

�The only reason we keep a record of calls is for billing purposes. And those are only long-distance calls. The local calls...�

�Well, fine, whatever. Can you get me a...?�

�You�d want a duplicate bill, isn�t that it?�

�No, all I want is whatever record you�ve got of the calls made...�

�That would be on the bill, sir. Let me pull that file, can you hold a moment, please?�

He held.

�Hello?� the woman said.

�Yes, I�m here.�

�Sir, we don�t bill to that number until the seventeenth of the month.�

�I don�t want a bill,� Carella said. �All I want is a record of the calls made from��

�Yes, that would be on the bill, sir.�

�Are you looking at the bill now?�

�No, sir, the bill won�t be mailed till the seventeenth. It�ll be prepared on the fourteenth, and it�ll include all calls made up to and including that date.�

�Today�s the eleventh,� Carella said.

�That�s right, sir,�

�I can�t wait on this till the fourteenth,� Carella said. �I need��

�The seventeenth, sir. The bill won�t be mailed to Mr. Newman till the seventeenth.�

�Mr. Newman��

�Why don�t you simply check with him when he receives the bill?�

�He�s not going to receive the bill,� Carella said. �He�s dead.�

�In that case, sir, I don�t know how I can help you.�

�You can help me by putting on your supervisor,� Carella said.

�Yes, sir, just a moment, please.�

Carella waited.

�Good morning, Miss Schulz here,� a cheery voice said.

�Good morning, this is Detective Carella of the 87th Squad here in Isola. I�ve just had a less than satisfying conversation with��

�Oh, I�m sorry, sir.�

�I need a record of calls made from 765-3811 between the first of August and the eighth of August, and I�ve just been told��

�Yes, Miss Corning filled me in,� Miss Schulz said. �We bill to that number on the seventeenth.�

�I understand that. But this is a police matter, and time is of the essence, and I�d like a copy of that record as soon as possible.�

�Mm,� Miss Schulz said.

�So if you don�t mind, if someone can make a photocopy for me, I�ll have it picked up sometime later to��

�I�m not sure we�re authorized to release a record of calls to anyone but the subscriber, sir.�

�I�m a policeman,� Carella said.

�Yes, I realize that. But you see, sir, an individual�s privacy��

�The individual is dead,� Carella said. �Listen, what is this? I�m making a routine request, and I�m getting a runaround like I�ve never��

�I�m sorry you think it�s a runaround, sir.�

�Yes, that�s just what I think it is,� Carella said. �When can I pick up that record? Or do I have to get a goddamn court order for it?�

�Don�t curse, sir,� Miss Schulz said.

�When can I pick it up?�

�Just a moment, please,� Miss Schulz said.

Carella waited. One of these days, he thought, the people of the United States are going to declare war on the telephone company. Tanks will go rolling up the avenue to the business off�

�Mr. Carella?�

�Yes?� he said.

�I can mail that to you sometime tomorrow.�

�No, I don�t want it mailed,� Carella said. �I want to send a messenger for it.�

�I was told it would be mailed, sir.�

�Who told you it would be mailed?�

�My superior, sir.�

�Well, you tell your superior it will not be mailed, you tell your superior I�ll be sending a patrolman to the business office � What�s your address there, give me your address.�

�Sir��

�Give me your goddamn address!�

�Please don�t curse, sir.�

�What�s the address there?�

�384 Benedict.�

�384 Benedict, right,� Carella said. �A patrolman will be there at two p.m. sharp, Miss Schulz, and he�ll ask for you personally, and I suggest you let him have a record of those calls, for which he will properly sign a receipt, because if he doesn�t get it, the next step is to go before a magistrate to ask for a court order to��

�Just a moment, please,� Miss Schulz said.

Carella waited again.

He kept waiting.

�Hello?� Miss Schulz said.

�Yes, I�m still here,� Carella said.

�We�ll need a written request,� Miss Schulz said.

�Okay, forget it. I�ll go downtown myself, I�ll get a goddamn court order��

�Please sir, I wish you wouldn�t curse,� Miss Schulz said. �If you can send someone down with a written request, I can have a transcript of those calls ready for pickup tomorrow morning. I�m sorry I can�t do it sooner than that, but we�re computerized, sir, and this would mean��

�Tomorrow morning will be fine,� Carella said.

�But we�ll need your written request today.�

�A patrolman will hand-deliver it.�

�Thank you, sir,� Miss Schulz said. �Have a nice day.�

When the call from the Hack Bureau came not ten minutes later, Carella expected more trouble. Make a simple request in this damn city, you got involved with all kinds of bureaucratic bullshit that made your job impossible to do. But the woman he spoke to there told him they had run a routine check on their licensed taxi drivers� call sheets for the first of August, when Anne Newman said she�d left for Los Angeles, and the eighth of August, when she�d returned. Sure enough, the records showed an August 1, 8:45 a.m. pickup at 74 Silvermine Oval for a passenger going to the city�s international airport, and an August 8, 7:30 a.m. pickup at the airport for a passenger the driver dropped off at 74 Silvermine Oval.

There was no way of ascertaining that the passenger had indeed been Anne Newman, but given the corroborating evidence Genero had garnered (after calling three of the airlines flying to Los Angeles, and finally learning from a fourth airline that their manifests for those dates showed an Anne Newman traveling to and from that city), it seemed certain she�d been in California at the time of her husband�s death. Despite the nagging air-conditioner problem � and maybe Kling was right, maybe Newman had been dead-drunk when he swallowed those capsules � Carella was about to close out the case as a suicide.

The radio on Genero�s desk was silent, but that was only because Lieutenant Byrnes was back at work and in his office. The squadroom was thronged besides on that Monday morning with four other members of the squad who were at the moment planning a raid on a Culver Avenue shooting gallery. Ever since January, and on direct orders from the Commissioner himself, the cops of the Eight-Seven (and indeed every other precinct in the city) had been putting the heat on narcotics dealers; the gallery on Culver had been under surveillance since late February. It was now a known fact that junkies of every persuasion marched in and out of that doorway at 1124 Culver; the cops had parked a van purporting to be a bakery truck just across the street from the building, and they had home movies of virtually every known addict in the precinct. A bust would have been a simple thing. Trot up there to the third floor, round up all the junkies and the small-time pusher doling out the daily fixes, take them all to court, and get the meager sentences for what the cops were certain would be only small quantities of dope.

But at least once a month, the stream of junkies stopped entirely, the gallery upstairs apparently closed for business on those days. Or so the cops believed until their movies revealed certain foreign individuals of French extraction coming and going on the days the junkie traffic trickled off. It was their guess that on those days huge quantities of heroin or cocaine were exchanged for similarly huge quantities of dollars. In effect, the shooting gallery was a cover for a much bigger operation, the bad guys hoping the cops wouldn�t be interested in any penny-ante shit, and hoping further that the big-time dealing would go unnoticed in the rush of daily hand-to-mouth trade. Lieutenant Byrnes found it impossible to believe that a shooting gallery operating virtually in the open could be a cover for a multimillion-dollar narcotics operation. But Detective Meyer Meyer � who was in charge of the surveillance and the impending raid � figured the bad guys had only taken their cue from the CIA. Meyer maintained that no professional intelligence agency could be as blunderingly stupid as the CIA. The CIA had to be a cover for America�s real intelligence agency.

In much the same way, the guys buying narcotics from their Gallic cousins, must have figured that a small-time mom-and-pop dope store would be allowed to flourish unmolested when the cops had bigger fish to fry. The bigger fish, the cops now firmly believed, could be hooked on the third floor of 1124 Culver Avenue once a month, every month of the year. The raid was set for this Wednesday night, the thirteenth of August. The detectives were working out their strategy when the woman came up the iron-runged steps leading to the second floor of the station house, and paused just outside the slatted-rail divider that separated the squadroom from the corridor outside.

�Yes?� Carella said. �May I help you?�

She was a woman in her late thirties, he guessed, dressed entirely and suitably in summertime white � a white dress and white high-heeled pumps, a white shoulder-slung leather bag, a white carnation in her jet-black hair. She was tall and superbly tanned, her eyes the color of anthracite in a sharp-nosed Mediterranean face that could have belonged to a Spaniard or an Italian, a generous mouth with a beauty spot near the tapered corner of her lips.

�I am looking for the policeman investigating the death of Jeremiah Newman,� she said. She spoke with a distinctive foreign accent Carella couldn�t quite place. She appeared calm and unruffled, as though walking into a police station did not have the same disquieting effect on her that it had on most citizens, innocent or guilty.

�I�m Detective Carella,� he said. �I�m handling that case.�

�May I come in?� she asked.

�Yes, please,� he said, and rose from his desk, and came around the green filing cabinets to open the gate in the railing for her. Across the room, Genero looked up from where he was typing and scanned her head to toe, his eyes lingering on legs Carella now noticed were beautifully proportioned. She sat in the chair beside his desk, crossing her legs, and Genero could not resist a long low whistle. The woman seemed not to have heard it. At his own desk, surrounded by detectives listening to his game plan, Meyer looked up and glared at Genero, who shrugged and went back to his typing.

�I am Jessica Herzog,� the woman said. �I was once married to Jeremiah.�

�How do you do?� Carella said, and waited. Jessica looked around the squadroom, as though wanting to make certain of her surroundings before committing herself to anything further. Across the room, Genero looked up from his typing, studying her breasts this time, firm and full in the scoop-necked top of the white dress. A moment later, he picked up an eraser.

�I received a call from my brother on Saturday. He wanted to tell me about the funeral the next day,� Jessica said. �He thought I might want to attend. I could not, of course, attend. We have been divorced now for almost sixteen years it will be. I meant no disrespect, but clearly it would have been impossible.�

�Why do you say that, Miss Herzog?�

�Well, because of Anne, don�t you see?�

�I�m not sure I understand.�

�It was for Anne that he left me all those years ago. I think it would have been an uncomfortable situation, don�t you think? To be there at his funeral? With his present wife, I mean?�

�Yes, I can see where��

�So of course I said I could not go. I hope Martin understood.�

�Martin?� Carella said.

�Yes, my brother. He is the one who introduced me to Jeremiah when I first came here.�

�Excuse me, Miss Herzog, but where are you from originally?�

�Israel,� she said.

�Ah,� he said.

�I still have a terrible accent, I know.�

�No, no,� he said.

�Yes, I know, do not lie, please. I am here for nineteen years now and my English is still so bad. I came to sell bonds for my country, I was at the time a captain in the Israeli Army,� she said, and Carella remembered the way she had reconnoitered the squadroom just a few moments earlier, as though scouting for high ground. �Well, that was a long time ago, I was only twenty-two at the time. I have been living here since, but I go back every now and again to Tel Aviv. My mother still lives in Tel Aviv. All my friends are here now,� she said, �and of course my brother. It would be difficult to return there to live.�

�And you say you met Mr. Newman through your brother?�

�Yes, at a bond rally. And we fell in love and got married. Two years later, he met Anne, and he asked me for a divorce. Well, that is how it is sometimes, you know.�

�Yes,� Carella said, and wondered why she had come to the squadroom. He waited.

�My brother mentioned to me that Jeremiah had died of sleeping pills. He had taken too many sleeping pills.�

�Yes, that�s what the autopsy revealed.�

�Yes, but that is impossible, don�t you see?�

�Impossible? Why?�

�Well, I was only married to him for two years, you understand, but you come to know a person very well when you are living with him, and I can tell you Jeremiah would not have taken even one sleeping pill, never mind how many he is supposed to have taken.�

�Twenty-nine,� Carella said.

�Impossible,� she said. �Not Jeremiah.�

�I still don�t understand.�

�He had a terrible fear of drugs, do you see? He would not even take an aspirin if he had a headache. It was from when he was a teenager, and a doctor gave him penicillin tablets and he had a severe reaction and almost died. Believe me, Jeremiah would not have swallowed voluntarily any kind of pill. I know. I lived with him. Even an aspirin, believe me. He would rather have suffered through the night than take an aspirin. He told me it would make him throw up. So how can a man with such fear take so many pills to kill him?�

�It�s supposed to be a painless death, Miss Herzog. Barbiturate poisoning��

�Not to Jeremiah. Not taking any kind of pill. That would not have been painless to him. He would have died of fright first.�

�I see,� Carella said.

�I was talking about this to Jonathan only last week,� she said, �about his brother�s fear of drugs. We used to laugh about it when we were still married, you know, the way Jeremiah would go pale if you even mentioned any kind of medication. Well, his brother, Jonathan, remembered, of course. In fact, I�m surprised he hasn�t been here to see you. Has he been here to see you?�

�No, he hasn�t.�

�I�m surprised.�

�Well, he lives in San Francisco, you know...�

�Yes, of course, but he is here.�

�What do you mean?�

�Jonathan. He is here.�

�In the city, do you mean?�

�Yes, of course.�

�Did he fly in for the funeral, is that it?�

�From before the funeral. He has been here almost two weeks now.�

Carella looked at her.

�I thought you understood, when I said I had been talking to him��

�I thought you meant on the telephone.�

�No, he is here. He called me when he arrived, we had lunch together one day. He is a nice man, Jonathan.�

�I�m surprised his mother didn�t mention��

�Well, so many things on her mind. The funeral, you know.�

�Yes. Would you know where he�s staying?�

�At the Pierpont. Do you know this hotel?�

�Yes, I do.�

�Downtown, near Farley Square?�

�Yes, I know it.�

�You should go to see him,� Jessica said, �before he leaves. He will tell you how Jeremiah felt about drugs. He will tell you it would have been impossible for him to have taken those pills.� She nodded emphatically. �Impossible,� she said.

It was worse up here than it was anywhere else in the city. Even in the Marine Tiger section of Riverhead, there was sometimes a breeze coming in off the River Dix and rushing through the comparatively higher plateau of what had once been fertile farmland. But here in Diamondback, at the farthermost reaches of the city�s central island, the heat was insufferable � even at ten past midnight, when Halloran came up out of the subway.

The heat had been baking into the brick walls and the tarred roofs of the buildings all day long. The buildings themselves stretched row upon row, block after block, six and seven stories high, forming a grid that trapped the heat and held it motionless, a giant stifling canopy of heat. The windows in the apartments were open, but the air was still and the heat within was equally balanced with the heat outside, so that the people who lived here felt they were moving through a vast, viscid, impenetrable, virtually blinding force field. They sat on the fire escapes hung with clothing that refused to dry because of the humidity. They sat on the front stoops of buildings eroded by time and abuse. They lounged listlessly on the street corners. They played checkers in the light of the streetlamps. It was past midnight in Diamondback, but it could just as well have been high noon. The streets were thronged. There would be no sleeping tonight, not with this heat. Tomorrow morning, many of the residents here would travel downtown to work in air-conditioned offices, restaurants, shops, and stores. But tonight, there was only the heat, and the roaches, and the rats.

Halloran could hear the rats foraging in the empty lots as he walked along the avenue toward the address Jimmy Baker had given him. He could see their eyes gleaming in the dark. He could hear their teeth gnawing. The lots were piled with garbage. It was easier to throw your garbage out the windows in this neighborhood, into an empty lot, than to pack it neatly in plastic bags at the curb. The Sanitmen weren�t as particular about Diamondback as they were about some of the city�s better sections. The garbage would sit outside the buildings for days, waiting for collection. The rats would gnaw through the plastic. In packs, the rats would cover the sidewalks instead of the empty lots. It was safer to throw your garbage into the lots. You kept the rats off the sidewalks that way. You created little pockets of rat zoos, the rats waiting for feeding time, chewing up the scattered garbage instead of the faces of infants in cribs.

Halloran was only one of a very few white men abroad in Diamondback that night. It was an axiom of urban survival that if you were white you did not walk the streets of Diamondback after dark. The white men up there after dark were either junkies looking for a fix or out-of-towners looking for black pussy. Either was fair game to many of the people who lived here. The ones who went to work downtown each morning would sit on their fire escapes and look down into the streets where a man was getting rolled or mugged, and they would shake their heads in despair, and curse the accidental skin coloration that caused honest men and women to be equated with thieves, prostitutes, and pimps. They would sigh deeply, recognizing forlornly that this was a condition of life, however unfair, and in the morning they would dress in the clothing they had purchased in any one of the better stores downtown, and be ready at nine sharp to take dictation or to sell a negligee or to drive a passenger from the airport to his apartment in Stewart City on the River Dix, where a doorman in livery would open the door of the taxi and say, �Good morning, sir, sorry about this heat, sir.� That would be in the morning. This was the night.

Halloran was a big man who looked like he might have been a detective out of the Eight-Three up here, and this was in his favor. Moreover, there was a sense of menace about him, a certain emanation that this man was street-smart, and it would not be wise to tangle with him. There were easier marks, it wouldn�t pay to jump a honkie who might turn out to be either a cop or some cock-sucker wanted for murder in fourteen of the fifty states. Halloran walked the crowded midnight streets unmolested.

Jimmy Baker had been his cellmate up at Castleview, until last October anyway, when Jimmy was paroled after serving ten on an armed robbery rap. Together, he and Jimmy had shared some of the choicest young meat inside the prison. The way they worked it, they would pick out a baby-faced little doll riding up, and then Halloran would put the muscle on the kid, coming on like the big bad wolf about to eat him alive, and Jimmy � who was slender and slight � would stand up for the kid, facing Halloran down, telling him he�d cut off his balls if he didn�t leave the kid alone. The kid in gratitude would sidle up to Jimmy, who�d be fucking him before the week was out, threatening to throw him to the beast who was Halloran if he didn�t put out. A classic Mutt-and-Jeff situation. But by the end of the second week, both of them would be alternating with the kid, who by then had realized he�d been conned, but who figured two stir-wise operators like Halloran and Jimmy would keep all the other animals away. There were as many animals up at Castleview as there were rats foraging in the lots of Diamondback.

The pool hall Jimmy Baker owned and operated was in the middle of the block, set between a storefront Baptist church and a beauty parlor advertising hair straightening and skin lightening. There were two dozen young black guys shooting pool when Halloran walked through the front door at a quarter past midnight. Fuckin� niggers got nothing to do but shoot pool in the middle of the night, Halloran thought. My fuckin� daughter�s married to a nigger, he thought. Oddly, he did not think of Jimmy Baker as a nigger. Jimmy Baker was simply his cellmate, and a nicer guy you�d never want to meet in your life. The exception to the rule, Halloran thought. Enjoyed more damn two-on-ones with Jimmy up there at Castleview. Jimmy was okay. Black or white, he was okay. In his presence, Halloran never used the word �nigger.� Even if he was one.

The guys shooting pool all looked up when he came in. Their eyes caromed off each other�s like the balls on the tables. They were figuring him for a cop. Next few minutes, there�d be an �Up against the wall, motherfuckers.� A fat black guy reading the early edition of the city�s tabloid newspaper looked up from where he was sitting behind a high counter just inside the entrance door. A sign behind his head advised what the hourly rates were for a table. He was chewing on a cigar. He went back to his newspaper, deciding to ignore Halloran. If he was fuzz, he�d make his intentions known soon enough.

�I�m looking for Jimmy Baker,� Halloran said without preamble.

�Who wants him?� the black man asked.

�Jack Halloran.�

�What for?�

�We celled together at Castleview,� Halloran said.

�Just a sec,� the man said, and lifted the receiver of a phone on the counter. He dialed a single number and waited. �James,� he said, �they�s a man named Jack Halloran out here, wants to see you.� He listened, nodded, and then put up the phone. �Go right on back,� he said. �Red door there, far end of the room.�

�Thanks,� Halloran said.

The man went back to chewing his cigar and reading his newspaper. All around the room, billiard balls clicked. There was the low murmur of conversation, �Three ball in the side... Nice shot, man... Bank the four down here.�

Halloran walked to the red door and opened it.

Jimmy Baker was sitting behind a desk cluttered with papers. There were two phones on the desk. He had put on a little weight since Halloran had last seen him, but he was the same old Jimmy, big white teeth gleaming in his mouth as he grinned across the desk, and then came around it, both hands extended, his hair cut in an Afro now instead of the closer prison cut, still grinning, shaking his head in wonder. He was wearing tailored jeans, a black silk shirt unbuttoned to the waist, and a gold medallion hanging from a gold chain around his neck.

�Hey, man,� he said, and took both Halloran�s hands in his own. �Man, man, you a sight for sore eyes, I gotta tell you.�

�What�s this James shit?� Halloran asked, grinning, really happy to see him.

�I�m the big honcho here,� Jimmy said. �Anybody calls me anything but James � or sometimes Mr. James,� he said, rolling his eyes, �I kick his ass for him. When was you sprung, man?�

�A week ago today. What�s today?�

�By the feel of it, or the clock?� Jimmy asked. �By the clock, it�s Tuesday, the twelf� of August. By the feel, it�s still Monday night, man, till the sun comes up, at least. Sit down. You want somethin� to drink? Hey, man, you look terrific, I gotta tell you. A week ago today, huh? You want a beer? I got some cold beer. You want somethin� stronger? Name it, man. Jee-sus, it is good to see you!�

�It�s good to see you, too, Jimmy,� Halloran said. He was still grinning. �How�s it treatin� you out here?�

�Comme ci, comme �a,� Jimmy said. �I got the pool parlor, I got me a little numbers runnin�, I got me a little dope dealin�, it ain�t been too bad a�tall. I�m still lookin� aroun� for a big score someplace, just bidin� my time, somethin�ll come along sooner or later. How about you?�

�Well, I just got out, you know. Lots of business to take care of, you know.�

�Sure, gettin� adjusted. It�s a big motherfuckin� hassle out here, ain�t it? Times I wisht I was back inside, where evythin�s taken care of for you. You want some beer? Lissen, have a bottle of beer, okay?�

�Yeah, sure,� Halloran said.

Jimmy went to a small refrigerator set under a counter against the far wall. He pulled out two bottles of beer and uncapped them.

�Here�s to the fuckin� Castle,� he said.

�Cheers,� Halloran said, and took only a sip. He didn�t want to get piss-eared drunk the way he�d been yesterday when that whore picked him up.

�How you like this fuckin� heat?� Jimmy asked. �City arranged a nice big welcome for you, dinn it? Reg�lar home-comin� celebration. Fuckin� heat you could die in.�

�Yeah,� Halloran said.

�So you come up here to see old Jimmy, huh?� he said, grinning again. �Man, it is so good to see you, man.�

There was a long silence.

�I need a piece,� Halloran said.

�Uh-huh,� Jimmy said, and his eyes narrowed.

�I figured you might know where I could get one.�

�What�ve you got in mind? Anythin� might interest me?�

�I don�t think so.�

��Cause, like I said, I been lookin� for some kind of score.�

�No, this isn�t anything like that.�

�So why you need a piece, man? I mean, I�ll hep you get one, shit, we�ll get one for you in a minute. But whut you need it for?�

�Some guy I have to see.�

�Need a piece for it, huh?�

�Yeah.�

�What kinda weapon you have in mind?�

�Something he won�t walk away from,� Halloran said.

�Who�s the lucky dude?� Jimmy asked, and laughed.

�Well, maybe I shouldn�t tell you,� Halloran said. �Be safer for you that way.�

�Whut I doan know won�t hurt me, huh?�

�That�s what I mean.�

�Well, sure, man, we goan get you a piece put a big hole in the motherfucker. Put a monstrous hole in the man. Let me jus� make a few calls, all right? See whut the market looks like this fine summer night. Finish your beer, man, this won�t take but a minute.

The market that fine summer night looked bullish.

Before they left the pool hall, Jimmy made three phone calls, and by one that morning, they were sitting with a short black man who looked like an accountant, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up over his forearms, the collar of the shirt open, his face sweating behind thick, rimless eyeglasses. Jimmy introduced him simply as Sam. On the table before Sam was an arsenal of some forty automatics and revolvers.

They were in a third-floor apartment on Carlton Street. Years ago, during the Depression, the building had housed a speakeasy on the ground floor. Next door, there used to be a jazz joint frequented by whites who would drift uptown in their diamonds and furs. That was during the Depression. Now the building was a rat-infested tenement. Sam sat under a naked light bulb in the kitchen of his apartment, the oiled weapons gleaming on the enamel-topped table in front of him. In the next room, Halloran could hear someone snoring lightly. Sam�s wife, he guessed. Sweat glistened on Sam�s face and on his exposed forearms.

�What kind of job you hope to do with this piece?� he asked.

�Well, that don�t matter,� Jimmy said at once.

��Cause if it�s something where you need to keep the gun out of sight when you walk in, then I�d recommenn maybe the .38 here, with the snub nose.�

�He needs a piece�ll do the job,� Jimmy said.

�I was only tryin� to fine out��

�The whole job,� Jimmy added.

�Then you want somethin� with lots of power, is that it?�

�Yes,� Halloran said.

�An� it don�t matter whether the piece�ll show under your coat, or nothin� like that?�

�No.�

�You be doin� this job durin� the day or at night?�

�I don�t know yet.�

��Cause if it�s durin� the day, then you got to keep the piece hid, man, and some of these bigger mothas, like the Ruger Magnum there, they gonna stand out like a hard-on under your clothes.�

�Well, maybe I�ll do it at night then.�

�You can�t beat the Ruger for power,� Sam said.

�Which one is the Ruger?� Halloran asked.

�This one right here.�

�Looks like a fuckin� cannon,� Jimmy said.

�Shoots like one, too,� Sam said. �Some states, they won�t even �low the pigs to use a Magnum. Pig shoots at some guy runnin� out of a grocery store, bullet can go right thu the guy an� hit some preggint lady doin� her shoppin� besides. This gun is one mighty fuckin� pow�ful pistol, man. You say you want to do the whole job, this gun�ll do the whole job an� then some.�

�How much would something like that cost me, that gun,� Halloran asked.

�Give him a good price now, man,� Jimmy said.

Sam figured they�d been asshole buddies in jail. Man gets in with a cellmate, ain�t too long before they�re behaving like man and wife. That�s what Sam figured this relationship to be.

�I has to get a hun� fifty for that piece,� he said.

�That�s too high,� Jimmy said at once.

�Cost you two hunnerd in a store,� Sam said. �That piece is brand-new, ain�t been fired once. I has to get at least a hun� fifty.�

�Make it a hun� twenty-five,� Jimmy said. �An� thow in whutever ammo the man�s gonna need.�

�The ammo ain�t a problem,� Sam said, shaking his head. �But I has to get a hun� fifty. James, the thing cost me a hunnerd, I swear on my mother�s eyes. A fifty-dollar profit ain�t hardly no profit at all.�

�Whutchoo think, man?� Jimmy asked Halloran.

�I haven�t got that kind of bread,� Halloran said.

�How much you got, man?�

�About a hundred.�

�Well, now, that�s impossible,� Sam said, and rose from where he was sitting, and stretched, signaling that the negotiations were over.

�You want that piece?� Jimmy asked.

�It looks like it could do the job,� Halloran said.

�Blow a man�s head off, that fuckin� piece,� Sam said.

�So you want it or not?� Jimmy asked.

�I haven�t got a hun� fifty,� Halloran said. He picked up the gun and hefted it on the palm of his hand.

�Fires either .44 Magnum or .44 Special cartridges,� Sam said. �I got both in stock, you don�t need to worry none.�

�It�s a nice piece,� Halloran said.

�Seven-and-a-half-inch barrel on that motha,� Sam said. �Beats the .357 Magnum all to shit. You got twice the killing power with this pistol that you got with the .357 Magnum.�

�Yeah,� Halloran said.

�They calls that gun there the Super Blackhawk,� Sam said. �Same caliber as a carbine, that gun. Cost you two hunnerd dollars you try to buy it in any store. All I�m askin� is a hun� fifty.�

�I just haven�t got that kind of bread,� Halloran said.

�If you want the gun, you got it,� Jimmy said. He turned to Sam. �You�re thowin� in the ammo, am I right?�

�However many rouns the man wants.�

�Then you got yourself a deal, you fuckin� thief,� Jimmy said, laughing and reaching into his pocket. He pulled out a roll of bills fastened with a rubber band, slipped off the rubber band, pulling it onto his wrist, and then peeled off three fifties. Still laughing, he said, �You way too high, man. I shoulda taken him to Nicky Garters.�

�Nicky ain�t got no Rugers,� Sam said.

�Jus� wait the next time you come in my pool parlor,� Jimmy said, handing him the bills. �Coss you twenny dollars an hour nex� time you want to play.�

�Man, a hunnerd of this is whut I already laid out for that piece.�

Halloran hefted the gun again. His eyes met Jimmy�s. Very softly, he said, �Thank you, Jimmy.�

Asshole buddies, Sam thought. Just like he figured.

The air conditioner was humming in the second-floor bedroom of the brownstone. The room was cool, but Kling could not sleep. It was two in the morning, and he wasn�t due back at work till four this afternoon, but he�d hoped to get up early again in the morning, in time to leave the apartment when Augusta did. He wanted to see if she visited her pal on Hopper Street again. Wanted to see if visiting her pal was a regular lunch-hour thing with her, quick matinee every day of the week when she wasn�t out screwing around instead of eating in a Chinese restaurant. He was tempted to confront her with it now, tell her he�d followed her to Hopper Street, tell her he�d seen her go into the building at 641 Hopper Street, ask her what possible business she could have had in that building. Get it over with here and now. He remembered what Carella had advised him.

�Augusta?� he whispered.

�Mm.�

�Gussie?�

�Mm.�

�You awake?�

�No,� she said, and rolled over.

�Gussie, I want to talk to you.�

�Go t�sleep,� Augusta mumbled.

�Gussie?�

�Sleep,� she said.

�Honey, this is important,� he said.

�Shit.�

�Honey...�

�Shit, shit, shit,� she said, and sat up and snapped on the bedside lamp. �What is it?� she said, and looked at the clock on the table. �Bert, it�s two o�clock, I have a sitting at eight-thirty, can�t this wait?�

�I really feel I have to talk to you now,� he said.

�I have to get up at six-thirty!� she said.

�I�m sorry,� he said, �but, Gussie, this has really been bothering me.�

�All right, what is it?� she said, and sighed. She took a pack of cigarettes from beside the clock, shook one free, and lighted it.

�I�m worried,� he said.

�Worried? What do you mean?� she said

�About us,� he said.

�Us?�

�I think we�re drifting apart.�

�That�s ridiculous,� she said.

�I think we are.�

�What makes you think so?�

�Well, we... for one thing, we don�t make love as often as we used to.�

�I�ve got my period,� Augusta said. �You know that.�

�I know that, but... well, that didn�t used to matter in the past. When we were first married.�

�Well,� she said, and hesitated. �I thought we were doing fine.�

�I don�t think so,� he said, shaking his head.

�Is it the sex, is that it? I mean, that you think we don�t have enough sex?�

�That�s only part of it,� he said.

�Because if you, you know, if you�d like me to...�

�No, no.�

�I thought we were doing fine,� she said again, and shrugged, and stubbed out the cigarette.

�You know this girl who�s with the agency?� he said. Here it is, he thought. Here we go.

�What girl?�

�Little blonde girl. She models junior stuff.�

�Monica?�

�Yeah.�

�Monica Thorpe? What about her?�

�She was out there at the beach that night of the party. On the Fourth. Do you remember?�

�So?�

�We got to talking,� Kling said.

�Uh-huh,� Augusta said, and reached for the pack of cigarettes again. Lighting one, she said, �Must�ve been fascinating, talking to that nitwit.�

�You smoke an awful lot, do you know that?� Kling said.

�Is that another complaint?� Augusta asked. �No sex, too much smoking, are we going to go through a whole catalogue at two in the morning?�

�Well, I�m only thinking of your health,� Kling said.

�So what about Monica? What�d you talk about?�

�You.�

�Me? Now there�s a switch, all right. I thought Monica never talked about anything but her own cute little adorable self. What�d she have to say? Does she think I smoke too much?�

�She said she�s seen you around town with a lot of guys,� Kling said in a rush, and then caught his breath.

�What?�

�She said��

�Oh, that rotten little bitch!� Augusta said, and angrily stubbed out the cigarette she�d just lighted. �Seen me around, seen me��

�One guy in particular,� Kling said.

�Oh, one guy in particular, uh-huh.�

�That�s what she said.�

�Which guy?�

�I don�t know. You tell me, Gussie.�

�This is ridiculous,� Augusta said.

�I�m only repeating what she said.�

�And you believed her.�

�I... listened to her. Let�s put it that way.�

�But she couldn�t tell you which guy, in particular, I�m supposed to have been seen around town with, is that it, Bert?�

�No. I asked her, but��

�Oh, you asked her. So you did believe her, right?�

�I was listening, Gussie.�

�To a juvenile delinquent who�s only been laid by every photographer in the entire city, and who has the gall��

�Calm down,� he said.

��to suggest that I�m��

�Come on, Gussie.�

�I�ll kill that little bitch. I swear to God, I�ll kill her!�

�Then it isn�t true, right?�

�Right, it isn�t true. Did you think it was?�

�I guess so.�

�Thanks a lot,� Augusta said.

They were silent for several moments. He was thinking he would have to ask her about 641 Hopper Street, about why she�d gone this afternoon to 641 Hopper Street. He was thinking he�d done what Carella had suggested he should do, but he still wasn�t satisfied, he still didn�t have the answers that would set his mind at ease. He had only opened the can of peas, and now he had to spill them all over the bed.

�Gussie...� he said.

�I love you, Bert,� she said, �you know that.�

�I thought you did.�

�I do.�

�But you keep going places without me...�

�That was your idea, Bert, you know it was. You hate those parties.�

�Yeah, but still...�

�I won�t go anywhere else without you, okay?�

�Well...�

What about during the day? he wondered. What about when I�m out chasing some cheap thief, what about then? What about when I have the Night Watch? What will you be doing then? he wondered. The parties don�t mean a damn, he thought, except when you tell me you had dinner at a Chinese restaurant with a whole bunch of people, and Mr. Ah Wong himself tells me there was no redhead in Miss Mercier�s party. You should have been a brunette, Gussie, they don�t stand out as much in a crowd.

�I promise,� she said. �No place else without you. Now lie down.�

�There are still some things...�

�Lie down,� she said. �On your back.�

She pulled the sheet off of him.

�Just lie still,� she said.

�Gussie...�

�Quiet.�

�Honey...�

�Shh,� she said. �Shh, baby. I�m gonna take care of you. Poor little neglected darling, Mama�s gonna take good care of you,� she said, and her mouth descended hungrily.

When you�re working a homicide, or what may turn out to be a homicide, the schedule doesn�t mean a damn. You go to the office, and you nag the thing to death, around the clock sometimes, because the killer has an edge you do not have, and time only hones that edge to razor-thin sharpness.

Carella wasn�t due back at the office till four that Tuesday afternoon, but he came in at ten in the morning, and nobody working the Day Tour was surprised. Carella had caught a suicide last Friday, and almost every cop on the squad was experienced enough to know that a suicide without a suicide note was like a pastrami sandwich without a pickle. Carella had briefed Lieutenant Byrnes on the persistent problem of the heat in that damn apartment, and Byrnes had filled in the other men on the squad, just in case any of them might come up with a brilliant idea about why an air conditioner had been turned off during the middle of the hottest week that summer. None of them had any brilliant ideas.

They did, however, have a great deal of sympathy for Carella, who was here at the office at 10:00 a.m. on a day when he wasn�t supposed to arrive till four. They had all been in his boots before. They had all worked cases that drove them bananas, catching a few hours� sleep at night on one of the Swing Room cots, working the damn case like a terrier with a half-dead rat, shaking it and shaking it and shaking it till it lay still and lifeless and ready to be buried as closed. They talked softly to Carella, and offered to bring him coffee from the Clerical Office. They knew he was extremely troubled. They thought he was only troubled about the absence of a suicide note and the further absence of air conditioning in an apartment as hot as the Sahara. They did not know, because Carella had not yet told Byrnes, and Byrnes had not in turn briefed the others on it, that Carella was also troubled about an apparent suicide victim who was supposed to have swallowed twenty-nine Seconal capsules when the man wouldn�t have been caught dead within a hundred yards of an aspirin.

The first call Carella made that morning was to the Police Lab downtown on High Street. The man he spoke to there was the technician who�d been in charge of the team that had gone through the Newman apartment. He was a detective 3rd/grade and his name was John Owenby. He started Carella�s day with a bang by telling him they weren�t ready with their reports yet.

�What do you mean?� Carella said. �This is Tuesday, you were there Friday morning, what�s the delay?�

�The heat is the delay,� Owenby said.

�What�s the heat got to do with...?�

�What have you got here, Carella?� Owenby said. �What does it look like you�ve got here.�

�A suicide,� Carella said.

�Right, a suicide.�

�Although there are circumstances��

�Don�t give me with circumstances,� Owenby said, �this ain�t a court of law. You�ve got what looks like a suicide, you�ve got an empty bottle of Seconal��

�Almost empty,� Carella said.

�On my block,� Owenby said, �if there�s only a single capsule left in a bottle, and a guy swallowed the rest of them, then the bottle is empty.�

�So what�s taking you so long up there? The M.E.�s already given us a cause of death, he had to carve up a whole damn corpse to��

�Priorities,� Owenby said. �Maybe the M.E.�s got different priorities than we got up here. Let me tell you something about priorities, Carella. When we get��

�Instead, why don�t you tell me whether you found any wild prints in that apartment?�

�We found a great many latents, and they are now with the Fingerprint Section. I spoke to them just this morning, and they haven�t had a chance to compare them yet against the dead man�s and the ones you sent down for his wife. It�s priorities, Carella. A homicide takes precedence over a suicide, an armed robbery takes precedence over a burglary, an assault takes precedence over spitting on the sidewalk. You know how many damn homicides we�ve got with this heat? This heat is bringing them out of the woodwork. And there�s supposed to be a full moon this Friday night. You know what that�ll do, don�t you? It�ll bring out every bedbug in the city. We�ll be jammed up here with more shootings, knifings, axings, stranglings, and suffocations than you can shake a stick at. You know what you can do with your measly suicide, don�t you? I�ll call you when the report is ready.�

�Where�s Captain Grossman?� Carella said. �I want to talk to him.�

�Going over my head isn�t going to��

�Where is he?�

�In court. He�ll be in court the rest of the week, Carella. Testifying on a homicide. Which takes precedence over a suicide. Priorities, Carella.�

�When do you think I can have your report?�

�In a day or so.�

�Make it tomorrow morning.�

�I said in a day or so. We�re working on what we vacuumed up, we�re running our tests on that capsule��

�The M.E.�s already identified the drug��

�We have to do it here, too. As soon as we get the package together��

�Shoot for tomorrow, okay?�

�I�ll do the best I can,� Owenby said, and hung up.

The manila envelope from the telephone company was hand-delivered not ten minutes later. The patrolman who brought it up to the squadroom waited while Carella signed for receipt, and then tossed it onto the desk, where it landed on a pile of junk that included a mimeographed sheet announcing the PBA�s annual Labor Day picnic and dance, a flyer from the Three-One asking for information regarding any shooting involving a Smith & Wesson .38-caliber revolver, a bolo from the cops in Sarasota, Florida, and a stack of eight-by-ten glossies the Photo Unit had enlarged from the ones they�d taken in the Newman apartment last Friday.

Carella opened the envelope.

There were four photocopied pages in it, listing all the calls made from the Newman apartment since the last billing in July. In this city, as in most American cities, a telephone-company bill was broken down into columns that recorded the date of any long-distance call, the city to which that call had been made, the number called in that city, the time the call was made, the duration of the call in minutes, and finally the charge for the call.

Carella started with the last page first.

Anne Newman had left the Silvermine Oval apartment at a quarter to nine on the morning of August first, and had not returned home till the eighth. Presumably, then, any calls made from the 765-3811 number during that time span had been made by Jerry Newman himself, while he was still alive.

The last listing read:

On the seventh of August, then, Jerry Newman had placed a call to Beverly Hills at 6:21 p.m., local time, which would have made it 3:21 p.m. on the Coast. He had spoken for three minutes and the call had cost him eighty-five cents. Carella didn�t know what the �B� following the �3� in the minute column meant, but the number Newman had called seemed familiar to him. He dialed California Information, and asked for the number of the Beverly Wilshire Hotel. The operator read it off to him: 213-275-4282. He thanked her, and then dialed the Business Office, hoping he would not get either Miss Corning or Miss Shulz. He spoke to a nameless operator, instead, who told him that the �B� following the �3� simply meant the call had been placed either in the evening or on the weekend, when the rates were lower. He thanked her and hung up.

Jerry Newman had presumably been alive at 6:21 p.m. on the night before his body was discovered. He had called the Beverly Wilshire Hotel and had presumably spoken to his wife at 3:21 p.m. Pacific Daylight Saving Time. Carella took out his notebook. At 5:00 p.m. Pacific Daylight Saving Time, that same day, Anne Newman had called her mother-in-law to tell her she was contemplating divorce. She had then presumably packed and had later gone to the airport to catch a ten-thirty plane scheduled to arrive here the next morning at six-thirty. But if she�d spoken to her husband on Thursday, why had she told Carella she�d spoken to him for the last time on Tuesday, when she�d called to give him her travel plans?

He lifted the receiver again, and dialed Susan Newman�s number. He let the phone ring a dozen times, and was about to hang up when a breathless voice he recognized as Anne�s said, �Hello?�

�Mrs. Newman?�

�Yes, just a moment, please.�

He waited.

When she came back onto the line, she said, �I�m sorry, I was in the shower. Who�s this, please?�

�Detective Carella.�

�Oh, hello, how are you?�

�If this is an inconvenient time for you...�

�No, that�s all right,� she said. �What is it?�

�Mrs. Newman, I have a phone bill here that indicates your husband placed a call to the Beverly Wilshire Hotel on August seventh � that would have been Thursday evening at six-twenty-one our time, three-twenty-one on the Coast.�

�Yes?� she said.

�When I talked to you last Friday, you told me the last time you�d spoken to your husband was on Tuesday, August fifth, isn�t that correct?�

�Yes, that�s exactly when I did speak to him.�

�But apparently he called the Beverly Wilshire on Thursday, the seventh.�

�At what time, did you say?�

�Three-twenty-one in California.�

�I was out,� she said.

�You were out.�

�Yes, I was out walking.�

�I see. What time did you get back to the room?�

�It must have been a little before five.�

�Just before you called your mother-in-law, is that right?�

�Yes. I�d been doing a lot of thinking that afternoon, I wanted to talk to her about what I�d decided.�

�I see. Was there a message that your husband had called?�

�If there was, I didn�t get it.�

�Then you didn�t know he�d tried to reach you.�

�Not until just now. Are you sure he...?�

�Well, I have the telephone bill right here,� Carella said.

�Then he was still alive on Thursday,� Anne said.

�It would seem so, yes.�

�God,� she said.

�Well,� he said, �thank you, I just wanted to check this, I�m sorry to have bothered you.�

�Not at all,� she said, and hung up.

Carella debated whether or not the city would start screaming about the number of long-distance calls he was making, decided the hell with the city, and dialed the Beverly Wilshire Hotel in Los Angeles. The desk clerk he spoke to informed him that one copy of any telephone message was placed in a guest�s box within minutes of its receipt, and another copy was slipped under the guest�s door shortly thereafter. He could see no reason why a guest coming back to the hotel at a little before five would not have seen at least one copy of a message received at three twenty-one.

Carella thanked him and hung up.

The call from Probate came a half hour later. The clerk with Probate Division was a woman named Hester Attinger, who at Carella�s request yesterday had checked to see whether any attorney had filed a will following Jeremiah Newman�s death. In this state, the law required that a will be filed within ten days after knowledge of a death. Most attorneys kept a daily watch on the newspaper obituary columns to see if any of their clients had kicked the bucket overnight. And whereas most laymen did not know about the law�s requirements, chances were that if they were in possession of a will, or even if they had been witnesses to the signing of a will, they would call their own attorney to ask what they were supposed to do. Most wills � except for those hidden at the bottom of a well or under the floorboards of a house � found their way to Probate. Jeremiah Newman�s will had been filed there yesterday.

�The will is now a matter of public record,� Miss Attinger said, �so you can come down here anytime you want to look at it.�

�Do you think you could read it to me on the phone?� Carella asked.

�Well...� she said.

�This is a homicide I�m working,� he said, forgiving himself the lie. In his own mind, he had already begun classifying it as a homicide. �You�d save me a lot of time.�

�I�ve only scanned it,� Miss Attinger said. �Without going into detail, I think I can tell you the will leaves everything to a man named Louis Kern.�

�As sole beneficiary?�

�Yes.�

�Any alternate beneficiaries.�

�Kern�s wife and two children.�

�Who filed the will, would you know?�

�Someone named Charles Weber, I�m assuming he�s an attorney. The will�s in a blue legal binder, and the name of the firm on the binder is Weber, Herzog, and Llewellyn. That�s a double L in��

�Herzog, did you say?�

�What?�

�Is one of the partners named Herzog?�

�Yes, Herzog.�

�Can you spell that for me, please?�

�H-E-R, Z-O-G,� Miss Attinger said.

�Is there an address?�

�There is an address. 847 Hall Avenue, here in Isola.�

�Thank you kindly,� Carella said.

�No trouble at all,� Miss Attinger said, and hung up.

The law offices of Weber, Herzog, and Llewellyn were on the twenty-eighth floor of a building in the heart of midtown Isola. The building was delightfully cool inside, its windows sealed shut, the entire forty-two-floor structure air-conditioned from top to bottom. This was very convenient when there were no power failures. It became inconvenient only when the electric company experienced an overload at any of the upstate plants servicing the city, a common occurrence during the dog days of summer. Whenever that happened, it was impossible to open any of the windows, and the building became a forty-two-story steam bath. It was also somewhat difficult to commit suicide by defenestration in the edifice at 847 Hall.

Carella had called Charles Weber at a little past ten, and was told the busy lawyer could spare only a half hour before lunch that day. When Carella arrived, Weber was with a client. He did not buzz his secretary and ask her to show Carella in until almost a quarter to eleven. He was a portly man, in his early fifties, Carella guessed, with graying brown hair and penetrating blue eyes. He was wearing a pale-blue tropical that matched the color of his eyes, a darker-blue silk tie fronting his white shirt. The monogrammed initials C.P.W., in navy against the white, peeked from under the left-hand lapel of his suit jacket. He sat behind a large, uncluttered desk in a vast two-window office overlooking both the avenue and the western end of Grover Park, smiled pleasantly, glanced at his watch to remind Carella that this would have to be brief, and then said, �What can I do for you, Mr. Carella?�

�Mr. Weber, I�m investigating the apparent suicide of Jeremiah Newman, and I understand��

�Apparent?� Weber said.

�Yes, sir, apparent.�

�It was my understanding that he�d died of an overdose of barbiturates.�

�Yes, that�s true, sir. But the case hasn�t yet been officially closed out as a suicide.�

�I see.�

�Mr. Weber, I understand you filed his will with Probate yesterday.�

�I did.

�Were you the attorney who prepared the will?�

�I was.�

�If I�m correct, the will leaves everything to a man named Louis Kern?�

�It does.�

�Who is Mr. Kern, sir?�

�The owner of the Kern Gallery.�

�An art gallery?�

�A very important and influential one.�

�Where?�

�Here in the city. Right up the street, in fact.�

�Can you tell me how much Mr. Kern stands to inherit?�

�I don�t believe I�m obliged to do that, Mr. Carella.�

�I already know Mr. Newman inherited several million dollars� worth of paintings when his father died. That was only two years ago. Can I safely assume...?�

�I don�t want to be difficult,� Weber said, and smiled. �I think you can assume, if you wish, that the estate is worth at least two million dollars, yes.�

�And Mr. Newman left all that to Louis Kern.�

�Yes.�

�Why?�

�Why? I don�t understand your question, Mr. Carella. A man is certainly entitled to decide upon his own beneficiary.�

�To the exclusion of his wife? Or his mother? Or his brother?�

�His wife is adequately taken care of in an insurance policy.�

�What�s the face amount of the policy?�

�A hundred thousand dollars.�

�So he left a hundred thousand to his wife and in excess of two million to a stranger.�

�Mr. Kern isn�t what you would call a stranger. When Lawrence Newman was alive, he exhibited all his work at the Kern Gallery. It was Mr. Kern, in fact, who appraised the paintings after he died, and later handled the sale of them for Jerry.�

�So Jerry was grateful, naturally.�

�Yes.�

�To the tune of two million dollars.�

�We only prepared the will,� Weber said. �We had nothing to do with any of its directives. Mr. Newman chose his own beneficiaries. We executed the will as per his wishes. I wasn�t pleased with what he asked us to do, but��

�Why not?�

�Well, I don�t know if you�re familiar with the statutes regarding inheritance in this state...�

�No, I�m not.�

�I�ll explain them to you as simply as I did to Mr. Newman. In this state, if a man changes his will to exclude his wife, she�s still entitled to a share of his estate not less than it would have been if he�d died intestate. Intestate means��

�Yes, without leaving a will.�

�Exactly. In other words, even if he changed his will to exclude her, she�d still be entitled to half his estate if she chose to assert her right of election.�

�And you explained all this to Mr. Newman?�

�Yes.�

�What was his reaction?�

�He seemed intent on a punitive course of action.�

�Punitive?�

�Yes. He insisted on eliminating her as beneficiary of his will. Considering his vehemence on the subject, I suggested an alternate possibility.�

�And what was that?�

�A circumventive maneuver, if you will. A minimum amount could have been settled on his wife to satisfy her elective right. If her share of the estate would have come to more than twenty-five hundred dollars � as of course it would have, in this case � then it would have been within the law for him to have left her twenty-five hundred in cash, with half the remainder of the estate put in trust for her and providing an income for life.�

�But he chose not to accept this alternative.�

�He said he didn�t want to leave her a penny. He told me he�d have to take his chances on her not asserting election. He insisted that his entire estate go to Louis Kern.�

�And that�s the way you drew the will.�

�That�s the way I drew it. A lawyer�s responsibility is to advise. A client, of course, isn�t obligated to accept the advice. I believe he made a mistake. Under my suggested alternative, she�d have got only the same half she�ll now get if she asserts her elective right. Besides, it would have been more in keeping with the punitive action he had in mind.�

�In what way?�

�Well, the money would have been doled out over the years, you see. The income from the trust. She would never have seen it in a lump sum of cash. Of course, asserting her right now will entail legal fees and delays and whatnot, and perhaps that was what he had in mind. Causing her as much trouble as he possibly could.�

�Why would he have wanted to cause her trouble, Mr. Weber?�

�I have no idea.�

�You didn�t ask him?�

�I�m not a marriage counselor.�

�Was the marriage in trouble?�

�Mr. Newman was a drunk.�

�I know that. But from what I understand, Anne Newman was a devoted and loving wife who��

�I did not ask Mr. Newman why he wanted to change his will. I simply advised him on the law, and then followed his wishes.�

�When did he make this new will, Mr. Weber?�

�Last month sometime.�

�In July?�

�Yes.�

�Can you let me have the exact date?�

�Certainly,� Weber said, and pressed a toggle on his intercom. �Miss Whelan,� he said, �can you get me the execution date of Jeremiah Newman�s will, please?� He clicked off without waiting for a response.

�Does Louis Kern know he�s about to inherit such a large sum of money?� Carella asked.

�I�m sure he�s been informed.�

�Who informed him?�

�The Trust Department of First Liberal, I would guess. The bank that was named executor of the will.�

�When would that have been?�

�Yesterday. I called them yesterday to inform them of Mr. Newman�s death and to remind them they�d been named as executor.�

�And you believe they, in turn, would have called Louis Kern.�

�That�s my belief. You�re thinking of the movies, Mr. Carella, where everyone sits in a lawyer�s office while a will is being read. In actual practice, that rarely ever happens. The beneficiary is usually informed by letter, or sometimes by telephone. Even in a case such as this, where Mr. Newman instructed that the will be kept confidential until after his death��

�Was it kept confidential?�

�Of course.�

�Mr. Weber, is someone named Herzog a member of your firm?�

�Yes, he�s one of our senior partners.�

�What�s his first name?�

�Martin.�

�Martin Herzog.�

�Yes.�

�Any relation to Jessica Herzog?�

�She�s his sister.�

�I see.�

�It was Martin who introduced her to Jerry, in fact. Oh, this was many years ago.� Weber suddenly smiled. �Is that a conflict-of-interest look I see on your face, Mr. Carella? There was none, believe me. A man who was a client asked that we prepare a will for him. The fact that he was once married to the sister of one of our firm�s partners had no bearing on either the will�s directives or our determination to see that our client�s needs were served.�

�Uh-huh,� Carella said.

�We have a standing rule here, in fact, that neither the firm itself nor any individual working for the firm may be named as executor of any will we prepare. The rule was designed precisely to avoid even a suggestion of conflict.�

�It�s your belief, then, that Miss Herzog knew nothing at all about this will.�

�That�s my firm belief.�

�You don�t think Mr. Herzog might have mentioned it to his sister.�

�Of course not.�

The buzzer on the intercom sounded. Weber flipped the toggle.

�Yes?� he said.

�I have that execution date, sir,� a woman�s voice said.

�Yes, Miss Whelan?�

�It was the eighteenth of July, sir.�

�Thank you,� Weber said, and clicked off. �The eighteenth of July,� he said to Carella.

�Exactly three weeks before he was found dead in his apartment,� Carella said.

�Yes, it would seem so,� Weber said.

�Well, thank you very much,� Carella said. �I appreciate your time.�

�Not at all,� Weber said, and looked at his watch.

When Jessica Herzog opened the door for them at three that afternoon, she did not much resemble a captain in the Israeli Army. Carella thought she looked like a dancer in a thirties backstage movie. Kling thought she looked like an underdressed tennis player. She was wearing very short white shorts that hugged her thighs and called stark attention to her long, magnificently tanned legs. She was also wearing, or almost wearing, a shirred white tube top that emphasized her exuberant breasts; Carella immediately thought of Genero�s lost opportunity. White high-heeled, ankle-strapped sandals added at least two inches to her already substantial height. There was a thin sheen of perspiration on her face and naked shoulders. She apologized, insincerely it seemed to both of them, for her appearance � she had been out on the terrace taking some sun � and then asked them to come in, please.

�Would you care for some iced tea?� she asked. �I have just made a pitcher.�

�Yes, thank you,� Carella said.

�Thanks,� Kling said, and nodded to her as she went out to the kitchen.

The walls of the apartment were hung with paintings Carella automatically assumed were valuable. He knew very little about art, but he had read an article in which the wheelings and dealings of the art world made the price-fixing of the big-business cartels seem like the trading kids did for bubble-gum cards. He had come away with the understanding that even minor artists could be maneuvered into positions of status and wealth by powerful dealers and critics, and he wondered now whether Lawrence Newman, who had left his son two million dollars� worth of paintings when he�d died, had been the grateful recipient of such manipulation. The room was similarly adorned with pieces of sculpture standing on pedestals or resting on tabletops, some of them representational nude studies in bronze, most of them abstract; Carella guessed the unfathomable ones were the ones worth real money. A large metal mobile hung from the ceiling just inside the sliding glass doors that led to the terrace � Right where someone can bang his head on it, Carella thought.

�Shall we go outside?� Jessica said.

She was carrying a tray upon which were three glasses of iced tea with lemon wedges in them. The deeper brown color of the tea, the floating paler hint of yellow, the white shorts, top, and shoes all seemed designed to complement Jessica�s superb tan, the way the white walls of the apartment itself had been designed to enhance the paintings that hung on them, the pieces of sculpture that floated in the space they enclosed. Floating in the space that enclosed her, Jessica moved fluidly to the sliding glass doors, waited while Kling opened one of them for her, and then led the detectives out onto the terrace, where she put the tray down on a small round table flanked by two lounge chairs.

From up here, the city that spread below them looked almost benign.

�So,� she said, �please, help yourselves. I did not put sugar, did you wish sugar?�

�No, thank you,� Carella said.

�No, thanks,� Kling said.

�It is so hot, truly,� she said, dabbing with a crumpled Kleenex at the cleft above the shirred tube top. �Will you sit down, please? I�ll get another chair.�

She slid open the door, went into the living room again, and returned not a moment later with a straight-backed chair that she placed against the low terrace wall. Neither of the detectives had yet seated themselves.

�Please,� she said, and indicated the lounge chairs.

They both sat.

�So,� she said, �what is it you wish to talk about? You said on the phone that some information had come to light.�

�Yes, Miss Herzog,� Carella said. �I learned this morning from your former husband�s attorney that he left his entire estate to a man named Louis Kern. Something in excess of two million dollars.�

�Well, I am not surprised,� Jessica said. �His father�s paintings, you know, were worth quite a bit of money.�

�Miss Herzog, the law firm that made the will for Mr. Newman is a firm named Weber, Herzog, and Llewellyn.�

�Yes?�

�Your brother works for that firm.�

�Yes?�

�Mr. Newman changed his will on the eighteenth of July, three weeks before he was found dead in the apartment on Silvermine Oval.�

�But what has this to do with me or my brother?�

�Did you know Mr. Newman had changed his will?�

�No, of course not.�

�Your brother never mentioned it to you?�

�Certainly not. In any event, what would that have to do with me? Am I inheriting something?�

�Not that I know of. Are you?�

�Of course not.�

�Do you know Louis Kern?�

�No. Who is he?�

�He owns the Kern Gallery here in Isola.�

�I do not know him.�

�But you were familiar with the art world...�

�Yes?�

�...when you were still married to Jerry?�

�Yes, I was.�

�Didn�t you know that your father-in-law exhibited his paintings at the Kern Gallery?�

�I may have known it.�

�Yes or no?�

�Why do I have to answer these questions?� Jessica asked. �Is this Nazi Germany?�

�No, ma�am, it isn�t,� Carella said. �But what�s so difficult about answering a simple question about an art gallery?�

�You are saying that I knew about Jerry�s will. You are saying the will may have had something to do with his death.�

�I�m simply asking whether you knew your father-in-law exhibited his paintings at the Kern Gallery.�

�No, you are asking whether my brother told me anything about Jerry�s will. And I have already told you no. Why then do you persist in...?�

�Miss Herzog,� Carella said slowly, �this isn�t Agatha Christie.�

�What?� she said.

�I�m a civil-service employee with a job to do. I don�t like schlepping all over the city in this heat, I don�t like checking out a brother-sister relationship that may or may not have led to a breach of confidentiality, I really don�t. I would much prefer sitting here on a nice terrace, sipping iced tea, and getting myself a suntan. But your former husband ended up dead three weeks after he changed his will. If anyone had prior knowledge of that will��

�I had no prior knowledge of it.�

�I�m not suggesting you had anything to do with��

�I certainly did not.�

�But if you did know of the will, and if you mentioned it to anyone who might have benefited from the terms of the��

�I do not know this Louis Kern. I had no knowledge of the will. Are you forgetting that I am the one who suggested to you that Jeremiah could not have voluntarily taken those pills?�

�No, Miss Herzog, I haven�t forgotten.�

�But now you suspect that I, or my brother, may have had something to do with his death. Because of his will. When it was I who came to you in the first place, Detective Carella, to tell you he could not possibly have committed suicide by��

�Yes, Miss Herzog, I know that.�

�I do not have to answer your questions.�

�Miss Herzog��

�This is not Nazi Germany,� she said, and suddenly she was weeping.

The tears startled them both.

�I should not have come to you in the first place,� she said. �I thought I would be doing my duty as a citizen, but instead�� She groped blindly for the crumpled tissue in the shirred tube top, dabbed at her eyes with it. �Now there will be trouble for all of us. I should have stayed away from you entirely, I should have minded my own business.�

�All of us?� Carella said.

�Yes, yes,� she said, weeping, drying her eyes �Me, Louis, all of us.�

The detectives looked at each other.

�Louis Kern, do you mean?�

�Yes, Louis,� she said. �Oh God, I should not have come to see you. Now there will be only trouble.�

�What kind of trouble, Miss Herzog?�

�He is married, he has two children.�

They waited.

�We have been lovers,� she said.

Still, they waited.

�For many years now. And when my brother told me he was to inherit such a large sum of money, I naturally... we are lovers. I told him.�

�Then you did know about the will.�

�Yes.�

�When did your brother give you this information?�

�Only last week.�

�And you told Mr. Kern?�

�Yes.�

�When?�

�Last Thursday. When I was with him last Thursday.�

Carella nodded.

�Now there will be trouble,� Jessica said. �I know it.�

The drug bust was scheduled to go down at ten forty-five that Wednesday night. At a meeting in the lieutenant�s office at a little before noon, Byrnes offered the opinion that perhaps Meyer Meyer wasn�t yet physically fit enough to lead the team in. Meyer had been shot in the leg on Christmas Day, and although this was already August, he was still limping a little. �It�s the humidity,� he kept telling everyone in the squadroom. He told that to Byrnes now.

�I was thinking a position behind the others,� Byrnes said.

The lieutenant was a man with the compact head of a bullet, his iron-gray hair clipped short and parted on the left, his blue eyes moving first to Meyer�s left thigh and then to the area just below Meyer�s kneecap, drilling the leg in question as surely as the .38-caliber slugs had done last Christmas.

The �others� to whom he�d referred were draped around the lieutenant�s office in various postures of inattentiveness, Hal Willis half-sitting on the window ledge, Cotton Hawes sitting in a chair near the lieutenant�s bookcase with the bound law books he rarely consulted anymore, Arthur Brown leaning against the closed door, his arms folded across his chest. The four-man team, because they�d been conducting the six-month long stakeout, was supposed to enter the suspect apartment first, six patrolmen from the Eight-Seven behind their flying wedge, and two brave Narc cops bringing up the rear.

�How you gonna kick in the door?� Byrnes asked.

�With my right leg,� Meyer said. �I always use my right leg.�

�How�s your left leg gonna support you?�

�It�ll support me,� Meyer said. �It�s just the humidity, Loot.�

The lieutenant looked dubious.

�You miss that lock on the first kick, there�s gonna be a hail of bullets coming through the wood,� he said.

�How can I possibly miss the lock?� Meyer asked. �I�m not blind, Pete, it�s only my leg got shot.�

�I mean kick it open,� Byrnes said. �You don�t bring enough force against it, those guys inside�ll start shooting.�

�Have we got our warrant?� Willis asked.

He was the shortest man on the squad, measuring five-feet eight inches in his stockinged feet, and having barely cleared the Department�s height requirement at a time when inches used to count. That was before a five-foot-six former bartender brought suit against the city � for refusing even to look at his application for a job with the Police Department � on grounds that he was being discriminated against because of his size. After the man won his case, the joke running through all the precincts was that pretty soon there�d be jobs on the force for three-foot tall midgets, who could close any illegally opened fire hydrant without having to stoop over. Willis hadn�t found the joke comical.

�We�ve got the warrant?� Meyer said.

�With a No-Knock?�

�With a No-Knock.�

�Are we wearing vests?� Hawes asked.

He was six feet two inches tall, and his long legs were sprawled out halfway across the lieutenant�s small office. Sunlight streaming through the window touched his red hair, setting it aglow; the white streak of hair over his left temple resembled a puff of sifted ashes against a bed of embers. He was very hungry. As he waited for the lieutenant�s answer, his stomach grumbled, and he glanced at Brown as though accusing him of the indiscretion.

�Damn vests are more trouble then they�re worth,� Meyer said. �What do you think?�

�If there�s gonna be shooting...�

�There might be.�

�Then let�s use the vests,� Hawes said simply, and shrugged. His stomach growled again.

�I�m asking for a volunteer,� Byrnes said flatly.

�Pete, it�s my team,� Meyer said. �If anybody�s gonna kick in that door...�

�I�ll walk point,� Brown said.

He was the only black man on the squad, a detective 2nd/grade who was taller and broader than Hawes, measuring six feet four inches and weighing in at two hundred and twenty pounds. When Arthur Brown kicked in a door, it really got kicked in. When Arthur Brown kicked in a door over in Calm�s Point, it sailed over the bridge and landed in the river, near Bethtown.

�We put you on point, Caroline may become a widow,� Hawes said. �Let me take it, Pete.�

�Listen, what the hell is this?� Meyer said. �I�m all of a sudden a cripple? Maybe I should put in for a disability pension.�

�I don�t want to risk that door,� Byrnes said.

�You want me to demonstrate for you?� Meyer said heatedly. �Lock your fuckin� door, Loot, I�ll kick it open for you.�

�This has nothing to do with��

�What has it got to do with, okay?� Meyer said. �Tell me what��

�It has to do with risking the team, okay?� Byrnes said.

�Then why don�t I stay home in bed? I mean, what the hell is this?� Meyer said.

�He wants to be a hero,� Willis said.

�Let the man be a hero,� Brown said.

�I�m a hero already,� Meyer said. �I�ve been shot already, I deserve a medal.�

�Give the man a medal,� Hawes said.

�Let the man kick in the door,� Willis said.

�In a minute, I�ll kick in the man�s ass,� Byrnes said.

�Maybe I ought to transfer to the Sanitation Department,� Meyer said angrily. �You think I can lift a garbage can, Loot?�

�Meyer...�

�Don�t �Meyer� me. It�s my team, I lead it in.�

�Let�s get one of the Narcs to lead it in,� Willis said.

�Yeah, fat chance,� Brown said.

Byrnes sighed. �With a vest,� he said.

�With a vest, all right,� Meyer said.

�What time�s it going down?�

�Ten-forty-five.�

�Why so early?�

�They�ve been assembling right after dinner, nine, nine-thirty. We hit them a little before eleven, they�ll all be there, we should find the dope and the money all laid out for us.�

�Will the Frenchman be there?�

�Both of them, we hope.�

�You�ve seen them at the building?�

�Not since last month. But Artie�s been sitting a wire...�

�They called?�

�Two days ago,� Brown said. �They�ll be there tonight, Loot, no question.�

�Did they talk money?�

�The one with the deep voice said he was prepared.�

�In English?�

�In English.�

�Was that the exact word he used?�

�Prepared,� Brown said, and nodded. �That�s the word he used last month, too. Prepared.�

�Meaning to make the sale,� Meyer said.

�We hope,� Byrnes said.

�What else could he have meant? Prepared to dance the tango?�

�Who knows with thieves?� Byrnes said philosophically. �Have you picked your patrolmen?�

�The captain�s giving us six of his best men.�

�Six of the city�s finest,� Hawes said dryly.

�Who�s the Narc Squad sending?�

�Miller and Gerardi,� Meyer said. �I don�t know them.�

�I don�t, either,� Byrnes said, and shrugged. �What time will they be here?�

�I told them an hour before the bust.�

�Good,� Byrnes said, and nodded. �Okay, anything else?�

�Nothing I can think of.�

�I still wish��

�And I wish I was a millionaire,� Meyer said.

�I thought you were already,� Willis said.

�All that graft,� Brown said, and winked.

�Maybe you can rip off some of that shit tonight,� Hawes said. �You�re so eager to go in first, maybe you can grab a kilo and stick it in your pocket.�

�Stick it up your ass,� Meyer said cheerfully.

The meeting was over.

Manfred Leider was a police psychologist who had once helped Carella while he was investigating the murders of several blind victims. He was a man in his fifties, sporting a gray beard that he thought made him look like a psychiatrist. In this state a psychiatrist had to go through four years of college, four years of medical school, one year of internship, three years of residency, and another two years of clinical practice before taking the written and oral examinations he had to pass for a license to practice. That was why psychiatrists charged a minimum of fifty dollars an hour for their services. Leider was only a psychologist. That was why he was working for the Police Department at an annual salary of $36,400.

When Carella called him early Thursday morning, he was in with a patient, a patrolman who�d suddenly developed conversion hysteria symptoms about drawing and firing his pistol should the need arise. You did not have to be a psychiatrist or even a psychologist to know what a pistol symbolized. Leider�s secretary told Carella that the doctor (he was a doctor, if only a lowly PhD) would call him back when he was free. He returned the call at a quarter past eleven.

�Dr. Leider here,� he said.

�Hello,� Carella said, �how are you? I don�t know if you remember me, this is Detective Carella at the 87th Precinct. We had a talk not too long ago about��

�Yes, involving a screen memory, wasn�t it?�

�Yes, the nightmares and the��

�Yes, I remember. How�d that one work out?�

�Well, we got the guy.�

�Good,� Leider said, �glad to have been of help.�

�I�ve got a very simple question this time,� Carella asked.

�Mm,� Leider said. He was used to very simple questions that required marathon explorations.

�I�ve got an apparent suicide victim, overdose of Seconal. The man�s former wife and his brother tell me he was averse to taking medication of any kind.�

�Phobic about it?�

�Had a reaction to penicillin when he was a teenager, wouldn�t go near even an aspirin since.�

�I would say that might be termed phobic.�

�The question: Would such a person have voluntarily swallowed twenty-nine Seconal capsules?�

�Mm,� Leider said.

Carella waited.

�The problem with asking a psychologist such a question,� Leider said at last, �is that I can think of circumstances in which he might have, yes.�

�What circumstances?�

�Well, there are two ways of dealing with a phobia,� Leider said. �The first way is to avoid whatever it is that�s causing the fear. If you�re phobic about open spaces, for example, you stay in your apartment, you simply refuse to go outside, where the phobia will cause extreme anxiety.�

�And the second way?�

�You confront the fear, you rush at it headlong. Many war heroes, for example, were terrified of battle. They conquered their fear, well, that�s too strong a word, �conquered.� They dealt with it by volunteering for dangerous missions, which for them proved more effective in dealing with the phobia than simply sitting still and shaking with terror every time a grenade exploded. Do you understand what I�m saying?�

�I think so.�

�There�s what we call phobic avoidance, and then there�s the reverse mechanism, counterphobic confrontation. Rushing into the fear itself. When I was in private practice, oh, this was many years ago, I treated an airline pilot who�d become a flier because he was afraid of heights. That was his way of overcoming the phobia.�

�That�s very reassuring,� Carella said.

�Yes, well,� Leider said.

�I mean, for airline passengers,� Carella said.

�Yes,� Leider said, and Carella realized he was dealing with a totally humorless human being. �So,� Leider said, getting immediately back to the point, �your man could have attempted to overcome his phobia to medication by deliberately ingesting more of the barbiturate than was needed as a soporific. When we consider what he was about to do��

�About to do?�

�You did say this was an apparent suicide?�

�Yes.�

�Well then, the man was about to kill himself��

�Yes.�

��which may have been his way of finally submitting to the phobia, rushing into its embrace, so to speak, surrendering to the phobia and to death at the same time. His final solution, so to speak.�

�I see,� Carella said.

�I�m sorry if I�ve disappointed you,� Leider said.

�No, no, I�ve got to consider all the��

�I understand,� Leider said.

But Carella was disappointed.

He had hoped for a conclusive professional opinion unlike the one he�d received from James Brolin only yesterday: I have no way of answering that without knowing the case history of the person in question. Perhaps psychologists were wont to venture where psychiatrists feared to tread, but couldn�t Leider just as easily have said �No, no way. This man definitely would not have taken pills of any kind to commit suicide�? It would have been so easy then. Oh, so very easy. All Carella would have had to do then was find a murderer. There did not seem to be many murderers lurking in the bushes these days.

He knew you couldn�t run a case by intuition alone. He�d known too damn many cops who � obsessively following a wrong lead because they�d felt something about a case � were left holding an empty bag. Maybe it was only intuition that caused him to discount the fragile gallery owner and the former Israeli captain as suspects in a murder that may or may not have been committed, maybe he should have put a team of men on them, have them followed day and night now that the barn door was open and the horse was loose, maybe he was giving up on them too soon. But whereas in this line of work you didn�t always know who was lying, you always knew who was telling the truth. The truth had a ring like an ax hitting an oak. He felt intuitively � yes, felt, yes, intuitively � that both Louis Kern and Jessica Herzog had told him the complete and unblemished truth, and he thought it would be a waste of precious time to hassle them any further. Nonetheless, and because he wanted to make certain he�d touched all the bases, he made the obligatory call to Rollie Chabrier in the DA�s office.

Chabrier was used to all sorts of odd calls from the detectives of the Eight-Seven. Today, with the temperature outside stubbornly refusing to budge from the ninety-nine-degree mark, the air conditioning in the Criminal Courts Building had decided to quit, and Chabrier was sitting behind his desk in his shirtsleeves when the telephone rang. The moment Carella identified himself, he expected the worst. Bad things always came in threes: the heat, the busted air conditioning, and now a call from one of the dicks up there on Grover Park.

�What can I do for you, Steve?� he asked warily.

�I�m investigating a suspicious death,� Carella said, �and I�d like some information.�

�This is a homicide?� Chabrier asked.

�An apparent suicide.�

�Uh-huh.�

�But there�s a two-million-dollar will involved, and I want to know something about the laws of inheritance in this state.�

�Like what?�

�Like if I kill a guy because I�m going to inherit two million bucks from him, do I get the money anyway?�

�There are no statutes regarding such instances,� Chabrier said.

�What does that mean?�

�It means the law relies solely on judicial decision. Historically, anyone who slays a decedent has been barred from taking under the will or intestacy of the person slain.�

�Decedent means��

�Dead man.�

�And taking under the will?�

�Inheriting. You know what intestacy means, don�t you?�

�Yes. Dying without a will.�

�Right. So to answer your question, if you decided to kill me because you know I�m leaving you a whole barrel of money, and if later it�s proved that you did indeed kill me, you wouldn�t stand a chance of inheriting.�

�Okay,� Carella said.

�Do you need chapter and verse on this? Try Riggs versus Palmer, Citation 115��

�No, that�s okay,� Carella said. �Thanks a lot.�

He put the phone back on the cradle. It rang while his hand was still on the receiver, startling him. He picked it up again.

�Carella,� he said.

�This is Dorfsman, at Ballistics,� the voice said. �Is Kling there?�

�He�s out just now,� Carella said.

�Well, you can save me another call if you�ll take this down and pass it on to him,� Dorfsman said. �I promised I�d get back to him by noon.�

�What�s it on?� Carella asked.

�A bullet he brought down here this morning.�

�Fast turnaround.�

�Priorities,� Dorfsman said. �This is an attempted murder. You got a pencil?�

�Go,� Carella said.

�Nice easy one this time. Tell him it�s a Remington .44-caliber Magnum, soft point. I won�t bore you � that�s a pun, Carella � with all the sordid details regarding lands, twist, groove diameter, and so on, but it�s my learned opinion that the slug was fired from a Ruger .44-caliber Magnum Blackhawk. If you want to dress it up a little, you can tell Kling the average velocity of such a bullet is something like seventeen hundred feet, with a resulting paper energy of almost fourteen hundred foot-pounds. That�s enough to stop a grizzly dead in his tracks.�

�I�ll tell him. Listen, can you transfer me to Grossman�s office?�

�He�s still in court,� Dorfsman said.

�Then how about Owenby?�

�Just a second.�

There was a clicking on the line. As Carella waited for the call to be transferred, he tried to recall any recent attempted murder Kling was working. As far as he knew�

�Owenby.�

�Hello,� Carella said, �how�s my report coming along?�

�Should be on the captain�s desk by the end of the day.�

�So when will he get to it?�

�He�s in court, I don�t know when he�ll be back. He�s supposed to be finished over there today.�

�Will he see the report today?�

�If he gets to it.�

�Why don�t you send me a copy at the same time?�

�Against regs,� Owenby said.

�Then tell me what�s in it, will you?�

�I can�t do that. We�ve had too many foul-ups on verbal��

�Okay, I�ll come down there to look at it.�

�It isn�t typed yet. I told you it�d be on his desk the end of the day. Why don�t you call him around four, four-thirty?�

�Thanks a lot,� Carella said, and hung up.

He wanted to make sure he�d given her enough time to get here.

She had called him at the squadroom at nine o�clock, to say she was going to the movies after all, if he wouldn�t mind, and would be catching the 9:27 show, just around the corner, he didn�t have to worry about her getting home safe, the avenue was well-lighted. She had then gone on to reel off the name of the movie she�d be seeing, the novel upon which it was based, the stars who were in it, and had even quoted from a review she�d read on it. She had done her homework well.

It was now a little past ten.

The windows on the first floor of the Hopper Street building were lighted; Michael Lucas, the painter, was home. On the second floor, only the lights to the apartment shared by Martha and Michelle were on; Franny next door was apparently uptown with her Zooey. The lights on the third and fourth floors were out, as usual. Only one light burned on the fifth floor, at the northernmost end of Bradford Douglas�s apartment � the bedroom light, Kling thought.

He waited.

In a little while, the light went out.

He crossed the street and rang the service bell. Henry Watkins, the superintendent he�d talked to this past Tuesday, opened the door when he identified himself.

�What�s it now?� Watkins asked.

�Same old runaway,� Kling said. �Have to ask a few more questions.�

�Help yourself,� Watkins said, and shrugged. �Let yourself out when you�re finished, just pull the door shut hard behind you.�

�Thanks,� Kling said.

He waited until Watkins went back into his own ground-floor apartment, and then he started up the iron-runged steps. On the first floor, a stereo was blaring rock and roll music behind Lucas�s closed door. On the second floor, he heard nothing as he passed the door to the apartment shared by the two women. He walked past the studio belonging to Peter Lang, the photographer on the third floor, and then took the steps up to the fourth floor. The light was still out in the hallway there. He picked his way through the dark again, and went up the stairs to the fifth floor.

His heart was pounding.

The formal Q and A took place in the lieutenant�s office at the 87th Precinct at seven minutes past midnight on the morning of August 15, a week after the discovery of the body of Jeremiah Newman in his apartment on Silvermine Oval. Present were Detective/Lieutenant Peter Byrnes, Detective/Second Grade Stephen Louis Carella, and an assistant district attorney named Anthony Costanza. A police stenographer took down every word that was said. Costanza asked all the questions. The answers were supplied first by Anne Newman and subsequently by Susan Newman.

Q: Mrs. Newman, you�ve told the arresting officers that you were responsible for the death�

A: Partially responsible.

Q: For the death of your husband, Jeremiah Newman.

A: Yes.

Q: By partially responsible...

A: I was the one who first suggested it.

Q: Suggested what, Mrs. Newman?

A: That we kill him.

Q: To whom did you suggest this?

A: To my mother-in-law.

Q: When did you make this suggestion?

A: On the Fourth of July.

Q: That is the exact date?

A: The exact date.

Q: How do you remember the date so well?

A: There was a party, and Jerry got drunk again.

Q: Was your mother-in-law at this party?

A: The party took place in her apartment.

Q: And you say your husband got drunk?

A: Yes. As usual. We had to take him home shortly after dinner.

Q: By we...

A: Susan and I. My mother-in-law and I. We put him in a taxi and took him home. It was after we�d got him to bed that I first explored the idea of killing him.

Q: Why did you want to kill him?

A: I wanted to get out of a relationship that was suffocating me.

Q: Why didn�t you simply ask for a divorce?

A: What makes you think I didn�t?

Q: You asked your husband for a divorce?

A: On too many occasions.

Q: And what was his response?

A: He refused to give me one.

Q: So you decided to kill him?

A: Of course not, don�t be absurd! I had grounds enough to divorce him six times over, the man was a hopeless drunk! All I had to do was walk out, or throw him out.

Q: Then what made you...?

A: Do you think I�d have been rid of him? Really? Even if he�d given me the divorce I wanted? Really rid of him? Who do you think he�d have called whenever he was vomiting all over himself? First me, to tell me what a worthless artist he was, and then Susan to ask her to come take care of him. What good would a divorce have done?

Q: Was your mother-in-law in sympathy with your desire for a divorce?

A: Entirely. But she realized as well as I did that a divorce wouldn�t solve anything. He�d plague us for the rest of our lives.

Q: How did she react to your suggestion that you kill him?

A: She was in complete sympathy with it. She�d had her share of him over the years, believe me. Every time he got sick, he�d call Susan, ask her to come over to take care of him. Wouldn�t trust me to do it, oh no, needed his nurse. She said we�d be well rid of him.

Q: Was it decided that night... the Fourth of July... that you would attempt to murder him?

A: I�d say it was explored.

Q: But no decision was made.

A: No.

Q: When did you and she decide...

A: Three weeks ago.

Q: You decided to kill him.

A: Yes.

Q: What prompted this decision?

A: He told me he was going to change his will. He told me he was going to cut me out of his will completely.

Q: Why was he doing that?

A: Because I didn�t love him anymore.

Q: Were those his exact words?

A: Yes, he said he knew I didn�t love him anymore. Because I�d asked him repeatedly for a divorce. He told me he would never give me a divorce because he didn�t want to pay alimony, but neither would he see all his money go to me when he died. He told me I was stuck. He said it was a bad situation I just happened to be stuck with. And then he laughed.

Q: So you decided to kill him.

A: Yes. Before he changed the will.

Q: But, as you now know, he had already changed his will before�

A: Yes, but I didn�t know that at the time. I thought it was something he planned to get around to. After all, what was the rush? I was stuck, as he put it, so what was the rush? We didn�t know... I didn�t know... that it was already a fait accompli. He�d changed the will the day before he told me he was going to do it.

A: Did you report this to your mother-in-law?

A: Yes. I told her Jerry was going to change his will. I told her he wasn�t going to leave me a penny. The same as his father had done to her.

A: What was her response?

Q: She said we would have to kill him before he did that. I was sole beneficiary of the old will, you understand. I agreed to share everything with Susan if she�d help me do this thing, help me kill him. That was only fair. Her husband should have left those paintings to her in the first place. Half of her son�s estate seemed small recompense for the service she�d rendered both of them over the years.

Q: Did she agree to help you?

A: Yes. In fact, the way we would do it was her idea.

Q: Mrs. Newman, are you aware that in this state a husband cannot disinherit his wife?

A: What?

Q: I said�

A: No, I didn�t know that.

Q: Are you further aware that a person who slays a decedent is barred from taking under the will of the person slain?

A: I don�t know what that means.

Q: It means that even if you had killed your husband in time to have prevented the changing of his will, you would have been barred from inheriting whatever he�d left you.

A: I didn�t know that.

A: I�d like to ask your mother-in-law some questions now, if you don�t mind.

A: Yes, certainly.

Q: Mrs. Newman, you�ve heard everything your daughter-in-law just said to us...

A: I heard every word.

Q: Is it true that you and she conspired together to kill your son?

A: It�s true.

Q: Your daughter-in-law said that the method of murder, the way you planned to kill him...

A: Yes, was my idea.

Q: It was your idea to administer a fatal dose of barbiturates?

A: Yes. It was also my idea to do it while Anne was in California. We decided that would be the best time. While she was away. So that no suspicion would fall on her.

Q: Mrs. Newman, did you in fact administer a fatal dose of barbiturates to your son?

A: I did.

Q: When would that have been?

A: Last Thursday night.

Q: That would have been the seventh of August.

A: Yes, whatever last Thursday night was.

Q: Can you tell us what happened that night?

A: I simply called him and told him I wanted to see him about an important matter.

Q: What was the important matter?

A: It was nonsense. Just an excuse to go over to the apartment. I told him his brother, Jonathan, was in town and wanted to borrow money from me. I pretended to be seeking advice on whether or not I should lend him the money.

Q: Did he believe your story?

A: Who knows what he believed? He was drunk. As usual. Getting him to take the Seconal was truly child�s play.

Q: How did you get him to ingest a fatal dose of�

A: I told you. He was drunk. He�d been drinking before I got there, and he kept drinking steadily while I told him all about the imaginary loan his brother wanted. I didn�t want him to pass out on me. I�m a registered nurse, an unconscious patient is incapable of swallowing. Nor did I want to force-feed him. There was the danger there of his choking to death. I wanted it to look like suicide, you see.

Q: So what did you do?

A: I mixed the next two drinks for him. He drank them within minutes of each other. He always guzzled his whiskey and water as though afraid the supply would run out momentarily.

Q: Did you mix those drinks in his presence?

A: No, I went to the bathroom, to use the water tap there. It wouldn�t have mattered, he was blind-drunk anyway.

Q: Mrs. Newman, was there anything in those drinks besides whiskey and water?

A: Well, of course. There was the Seconal. I dissolved the contents of fifteen capsules in the first drink, and fourteen in the second. Seconal doesn�t dissolve too easily in water, but it�s easily soluble in alcohol. He never noticed anything at all, the drunken fool. It�s odorless, you know, but there�s a slightly bitter taste to it. He never noticed.

A: Why did you leave one capsule in the bottle?

A: To make it look like a suicide. I knew the fatal dose, I�m a nurse. I knew I�d given him enough to kill him. He went into coma shortly after he finished the second drink. And he died shortly after that.

A: Mrs. Newman, was the air conditioner functioning while you were in the apartment?

A: Yes. That was an idea I had before I left.

Q: What idea?

A: To turn off the air conditioner. So that your people would have trouble determining the postmortem interval. We were cutting it very close, you see, I should have done it earlier in the week, actually. But somehow... well, I just couldn�t muster the courage. And then, knowing Anne would be back early Friday morning, I went up there on Thursday night, determined to�

Q: What time would that have been, Mrs. Newman?

A: I went over to the apartment at four-thirty. Cocktail time, don�t you know? He was already drunk when I got there. I mixed the two drinks for him, one after the other, and he was dead by six-twenty.

Q: How do you happen to recall the exact time?

A: Because I called Anne in California at exactly six twenty-one to tell her it was finished. She told me she�d call later to find out if I�d got home all right, if I�d managed to sneak out of the building without the doorman seeing me.

Q: What time did you leave the apartment?

A: It must�ve been about a quarter to seven. After I�d wiped everything clean of fingerprints, anything I�d touched, the glasses, the thermostat, of course, the telephone, the doorknob, everything. And then, on the way home, I remembered what I�d forgotten to wipe. The doorknob outside the apartment. I had pulled the door shut behind me, and then locked the door with the key Anne had given me � it�s a deadlock, you see. And then, in the taxi on the way home, I remembered that I hadn�t wiped off that outside knob, my fingerprints would be on the outside knob. So when Anne called at eight that night, I told her to make sure she wiped off that knob when she got home in the morning, before she touched it. It would be all right for her fingerprints to be on it, you see, she lived there. But mine? No, that would have been a mistake.

Q: Mrs. Newman... did you also wipe your fingerprints off the Seconal bottle?

A: Yes.

Q: Why did you do that?

A: Well, because they were on the bottle, I was the one who�d handled the bottle.

Q: But surely you realized�

A: Only later. But by then there was nothing we could do about it, the police had already been in the apartment. All I could do then was hope and pray... well...

Q: Hope and pray what, Mrs. Newman?

A: That I wouldn�t be suspected.

Q: What do you mean?

A: Well, why would anyone suspect a mother of killing her own son?