by Ed McBain
“We’re investigating a series of murders—”
“So what’s that got to do with me?”
“I’d appreciate it if—
“Listen, I’m going to hang up,” McIntyre said.
“No, I wish you wouldn’t,” Carella said.
“Give me a good reason why I shouldn’t.”
Carella took a deep breath.
“Because a copy of Sports USA in the most recent victim’s possession had your name circled in it.”
“My name?”
“Yes, sir. On the page with the masthead. Page four. Your name, sir. Corey McIntyre. Under Writer-Reporters.”
“Who’s this? Is this you, Frank?”
“Is it Frank again?” his wife said in the background.
“This is Detective Stephen Louis Carella of the 87th—”
“Frank, if this is another one of your harebrained—”
“Mr. McIntyre, I assure you—”
“What’s your number there?” McIntyre said.
“377-8034,” Carella said.
“In Isola, did you say?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll call you back,” McIntyre said. “Collect,” he added, and hung up.
He called back ten minutes later. The collect person-to-person call went through the switchboard downstairs, and was transferred to the squadroom, where Carella accepted charges.
“Okay,” McIntyre said, “you’re a genuine cop. Now what’s this about my name circled in the magazine?”
“In the dead girl’s room,” Carella said.
“So what’s that supposed to mean?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out.”
“Was she killed last Thursday, is that it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Okay. You want to know where I was last Thursday? Here’s where I—”
“Tell him where we were,” his wife said in the background, loudly and angrily.
“My wife and I were at a dinner party in Brentwood,” McIntyre said. “The party took place at the home of Dr. and Mrs. Joseph Foderman. We got there at a little before eight—”
“Give him the address,” his wife said.
“—and we left at a little after twelve. There were—”
“And the telephone number,” she said.
“There were eight of us there in addition to the host and hostess,” McIntyre said. “I can give you the names of the other guests, if you’d like them.”
“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Carella said.
“Do you want the Fodermans’ address?”
“Just the telephone number, please.”
“You plan to call them?”
“Yes, sir.”
“To tell them I’m a suspect in a murder?”
“No, sir. Just to ascertain that you were in fact there last Thursday night.”
“Do me a favor, will you? Tell them some guy Back East is using my name, will you, please?”
“I’ll do that, sir.”
“And I’d sure like to know who he is,” McIntyre said.
“So would we,” Carella said. “May I have that number, please?”
McIntyre gave him the number, and then said, “I’m sorry I yelled at you.”
“Don’t apologize,” his wife said in the background.
There was a sharp click on the line.
Carella sighed and dialed the number McIntyre had just given him. He spoke to a woman named Phyllis Foderman who told him that her husband was at the hospital just then, but asked if she could be of any assistance. Carella told her who he was and from where he was calling, and then he said they had reason to believe someone here in the city was using Corey McIntyre’s name, and they were trying to ascertain the whereabouts of the real Mr. McIntyre for last Thursday night, October 13. Mrs. Foderman told him at once that Corey McIntyre and his wife Diane had been with them at a small dinner party here in Brentwood, and that six other people besides her and her husband could vouch for that fact. Carella thanked her and hung up.
In this city, any licensed taxicab was required to turn in to the Hack Bureau a record of all calls made that day, listing origin and time of pickup, destination, and time deposited at destination. This because very few taxi passengers ever looked at the name or number of the driver on the card prominently displayed on the dashboard, and often would have to call the bureau to inquire about a parcel or a personal belonging carelessly left behind in a cab. By cross-checking, the bureau could come up with the name and number of the driver, and follow up on the loss. This was almost always an academic exercise; nearly everything left in a taxicab vanished from sight in ten seconds flat. But a side-effect of such scrupulously kept and computerized records was that the police department had access to a minute-by-minute record of pickup locations and destinations.
Carella’s call to the Hack Bureau, on a special twenty-four-hour hotline, was routinely made and routinely answered. He identified himself and told the woman on the other end of the line that he wanted the final destination of a pickup at 207 Laurel Street in Calm’s Point at approximately 7:00 on the night of October 13.
“The computer’s down,” the woman told him.
“When will it be up again?” Carella asked.
“Who knows with computers?” the woman said.
“Can you check the records manually?”
“Everything goes into the computer,” she said.
“I’m investigating a homicide,” Carella said.
“Who isn’t?” the woman said.
“Can you call me at home later tonight? When the computer’s working again?”
“Be happy to,” she said.
Darcy Welles had taken a taxi to Marino’s restaurant on Ulster and South Haley, and had asked the driver for a receipt that she handed across the table the moment she sat down opposite the man she thought was Corey McIntyre of Sports USA. He was, she supposed, somewhere in his late thirties, not bad-looking for someone that old, and really in pretty good condition no matter what age he was. Somehow, he looked familiar. She’d been thinking about that ever since she first met him this afternoon, but she still couldn’t place where she’d seen him before.
“I checked the magazine, you know,” she said, as he signaled the waiter to their table.
“I’m sorry?” he said, tilting his head as if he hadn’t quite heard her. “To see if you were legit,” Darcy said, and smiled. “I looked for your name in the front, where they list all the editors and everything.”
“Oh, I see,” he said, and returned the smile. “And am I legit?”
“Yeah,” she said, and shook her head, embarrassed. “I’m sorry, but…well…it isn’t every day of the week Sports USA comes knocking on my door.”
“Yes, sir, can I help you?” the waiter said. “Something to drink before dinner?”
“Darcy?”
“I’m in training,” she said.
“A glass of wine?”
“Well…I’m really not supposed to.”
“Some white wine for the lady,” he said. “And I’ll have a Dewar’s on the rocks.”
“Yes, sir, a white wine and a Dewar’s on the rocks. Would you like to see menus now? Or would you like to wait a bit?”
“We’ll wait.”
“No hurry, sir,” the waiter said. “Thank you.”
“This is really nice,” Darcy said, looking around the restaurant.
“I hope you like Italian food,” he said.
“Who doesn’t?” she said. “I just have to watch the calories, that’s all.”
“We ran an article once that said an athlete needs something like twice the number of calories a nonathlete requires.”
“Well, I sure like to eat, I’ll tell you that,” Darcy said.
“A daily caloric intake of four thousand calories isn’t unusual for a runner,” he said.
“But who’s counting?” she said, and laughed.
“So,” he said. “Tell me about yourself.”
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“You know, it’s funny, but—”
“Would you mind if I used a tape recorder?”
“What? Oh. Gee, I don’t know. I mean, I’ve never…”
He had already placed the pocket-sized recorder on the table between them. “If it makes you uncomfortable,” he said, “I can simply take notes.”
“No, I guess it’ll be all right,” she said, and looked at the recorder. She watched as he pressed several buttons.
“The red light means it’s on, the green light means it’s taping,” he said. “So. You were about to say.”
“Only that is was funny how your questions this afternoon started me thinking. I mean, who can remember how I first got interested in running? You know what my mother said?”
“Your mother?”
“Yeah, when I called her. She said I—”
“You called her in Ohio?”
“Oh, sure. I mean, how often does little Darcy Welles get interviewed by Sports USA?”
“Was she pleased?”
“Oh, my God, she almost wet her pants. Oops, that thing’s going, isn’t it?” she said, and looked at the recorder. “Anyway, she said I probably first started running because my brother chased me a lot.”
“That’s a wonderful anecdote.”
“But I think…I started really thinking about it, you know…and I think the reason I went into running is because of how good it makes me feel, do you know what I mean?”
“Yes,” he said.
“White wine for the lady,” the waiter said, and placed her glass on the table. “And a Dewar’s on the rocks for you, sir.”
“Thank you,” he said.
“Shall I bring the menus now, sir?”
“In a bit,” he said.
“Thank you, sir,” the waiter said, and padded off.
“I don’t mean only physically good…There’s that, you know, your body feels so well-tuned…”
“Yes.”
“But how it makes me feel mentally, too. When I’m running that’s all I can think of, just running, you know?”
“Yes.”
“Nothing else is in there cluttering up my head, do you know what I mean?”
“Yes.”
“I feel…I feel as if everything’s clean and white in my head. I can hear my own breathing, and that’s the only sound in the world…”
“Yes.”
“And all the little problems, all the junky stuff just disappears, you know? It’s as if…as if it’s snowing inside my head, and the snow is covering up all the garbage and all the petty little junk, and it’s leaving everything clean and white and pure. That’s how I feel when I’m running. As if it’s Christmas all year round. With everything white and soft and beautiful.”
“Yes,” he said, “I know.”
Carella called the Hack Bureau again from home that night.
It was 9:30. The twins were asleep, and Teddy was sitting across from him in the living room, looking through the Want Ad sections of both the morning and the afternoon papers, circling ads that seemed of interest. A man answered the phone this time. Carella asked for the woman he’d spoken to earlier.
“She’s gone,” the man said. “She went home at eight. I relieved her at eight.”
“How’s the computer doing?”
“What do you mean, how’s it doing? It’s doing fine. How should it be doing?”
“It was down when I called at seven-thirty.”
“Well, it’s up now.”
“Didn’t she leave a message that I was to be called?” Carella asked. “This is Detective Carella, I’m working a homicide.”
“I don’t see nothing here on the message board,” the man said.
“Okay, I’m trying to trace a call originating at 207 Laurel Street in Calm’s Point…”
“When?” the man asked. Carella visualized him sitting before a computer keyboard, typing.
“October thirteenth,” he said.
“Time?”
“Seven p.m., more or less.”
“207 Laurel Street,” the man repeated. “Calm’s Point.”
“Right.”
“Yeah, here it is.”
“Where’d he take her?” Carella asked.
“1118 South Haley.”
“In Isola?”
“Isola.”
“What time did he drop her off?”
“Quarter to eight.”
“Any indication what that might be? Apartment house? Office building?”
“Just the address.”
“Thank you,” Carella said.
“Anytime,” the man said, and hung up.
Carella thought for a moment, and then looked through his notebook to see if he had a number for the Fire Investigation Bureau. There was no listing on his page of frequently called numbers. He dialed the 87th Precinct. Dave Murchison was the desk sergeant on duty. He told Carella they were having a reasonably quiet night, and then asked to what he owed the pleasure of the call. Carella told him he needed the night number for the Fire Investigation Bureau.
It was twenty minutes to 10:00 when he placed the call.
“FIB,” the man on the other end said.
“This is Detective Carella, 87th Squad,” he said. “I’m investigating a homicide.”
“Yep,” the man said.
“I’ve got an address on South Haley, I want to know whether it’s business or residence.”
“South Haley,” the man said. “That’s the Four-One Engine, I think. I’ll give you the number there, they’ll be able to tell you. Just a second.”
Carella waited.
“That’s 914-3700,” the man said. “If Captain Healey’s there, give him my regards.”
“I will, thanks,” Carella said.
It was a quarter to 10:00 when he placed the call to Engine Company Forty-One. The fireman who answered the phone said, “Forty-first Engine, Lehman.”
“This is Detective Carella, 87th Squad,” Carella said.
“How do you do, Carella?” Lehman said.
“I’m working a homicide…”
“Phew,” Lehman said.
“…and I’m trying to zero in on 1118 South Haley. What do you have for it? Is it an apartment building? An office building?”
“I can hardly hear you,” Lehman said. “Will you guys pipe down?” he shouted. Into the phone again, he said, “They’re playing poker. What was that address again?”
“1118 South Haley.”
“Let me check the map. Hold on, okay?”
Carella waited. In the background, someone shouted “Holy shit!” and he wondered who had just turned over his hole card to reveal a royal flush.
“You still with me?” Lehman said.
“Still here.”
“Okay. 1118 South Haley is a six-story building, offices on the upper floors, restaurant at ground level.”
“What’s the name of the restaurant?”
“Marino’s,” Lehman said. “I never ate there, but it’s supposed to be pretty good.”
“Okay, thanks a lot.”
“Guy just had four aces,” Lehman said, and hung up.
Carella looked through the Isola directory for a listing for Marino’s. He dialed the number, identified himself to the man who answered the phone, and then said, “I was wondering if you could check back through your reservations book for the night of October thirteenth, that would have been Thursday last week.”
“Sure, what time?” the man said.
“Eight o’clock, around then.”
“What’s the name.”
“McIntyre. Corey McIntyre.”
He could hear pages being turned on the other end of the line.
“Yes, here it is,” the man said. “McIntyre at eight o’clock.”
“For how many?” Carella asked.
“Two.”
“Would you remember who he was with?”
“No, I’m sorry, we get a lot of customers, I couldn’t possibly…wait a minute. McIntyre,
you said?”
“McIntyre, yes.”
“Just a second.”
He could hear the pages turning again.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” the man said.
“What’s that?”
“He’s here tonight.”
“What?”
“Yeah, came in at eight o’clock, reservation for two. Table number four. Just a second, okay?”
Carella waited.
The man came back onto the phone.
“Sorry,” he said. “He left about five minutes ago.”
“Who was he with?”
“The waiter says a young girl.”
“Jesus!” Carella said. “How late are you open?”
“Eleven-thirty, twelve, it depends. Why?”
“Keep the waiter there,” Carella said, and hung up.
The parking garage was two blocks from the restaurant. A sign on the wall advised any interested motorist of the exorbitant fees charged for parking a car here in the heart of the city, and promised that if the car was not delivered within five minutes from the time the claim check was stamped, there would be no charge at all. His claim check had been stamped seven minutes ago. He could hear the shriek of rubber as an attendant better suited for competition in the Grand Prix drove an automobile down around the hairpin turns of the garage ramp, hoping to beat the time limit, and possibly to save his job. He wondered if they’d really let him get away without paying. He was not about to argue over two or three minutes. He did not want anything to delay him tonight.
“You really don’t have to drive me back to the dorm, you know,” Darcy said. “I could take a cab, really.”
“My pleasure,” he said.
“Or the subway,” she said.
“The subways are dangerous,” he said.
“I ride them all the time.”
“You shouldn’t.”
His car came into sight around the last curve in the ramp. The driver, a Puerto Rican in his fifties, got out of the car and said, “Ri’ on d’button. Fi’minutes.”
He did not contradict the driver. He gave him a fifty-cent tip, held the door open for Darcy, closed it behind her, and then went around to the driver’s side. The car was a fifteen-year-old Mercedes-Benz 280 SL. He had bought it when the money was still pouring in. The media ads, the television commercials. That was then. This was now.