by Ed McBain
'Was it James's notion to merely harm the man?' Hamilton asked.
'I think to box him,' Andrew said.
'Not just to break a few bones, eh?'
'He told us you wanted the man boxed, Lewis.'
'Then why baseball bats?' Hamilton asked reasonably, and spread his hands before him, and lifted his shoulders and his eyebrows questioningly. 'If we are looking to put this man in a box in a hole in the ground, why take the long way home, Andrew, why take the dusty road by the sea, do you understand what I'm asking? Why not short and sweet, adios, amigo, you fuck with us, you kiss your sister goodbye? Am I making my point?'
'Yes, Lewis.'
'Did James have an explanation? Did he say I want to use bats for this or that reason?'
'He didn't offer no reason, Lewis.'
'Oh my my my,' Hamilton said, and sighed, and shook his head, and looked to Isaac for possible guidance.
'Shall I go to the hospital and ask him?' Isaac said.
'No, no. The man's been denied bail, there's a policeman outside his door. No, no. Time enough to talk to him later, Isaac'
Hamilton smiled.
The smile was chilling.
Andrew suddenly did not want to be James. It seemed to Andrew that the best thing that could happen to James was to be sent away for a long, long time. Where Hamilton could not get to him. Although Andrew couldn't think of a single prison in the United States that Hamilton could not reach into. Andrew didn't know why Hamilton had wanted the little spic killed, nobody had told him that. But he knew James had fucked up badly and the spic was still out there walking around.
'Andrew?'
'Yes, Lewis.'
'I'm very troubled by this.'
'Yes, Lewis.'
'I send three men to do one little spic . . .'
'Yes, Lewis.'
'. . . a man who could have been blown away with a fucking twenty-two ...'
Those eyes.
Blazing.
'But instead the three of you decide to use . . .'
'It was James who . . .'
'I don't give a fuck who! The job wasn't done!'
Silence.
Andrew lowered his eyes.
'Do I have to go do this myself?' Hamilton asked.
'No, Lewis. You still want the job done, I can do it.'
'I want the job done.'
'Fine then.'
'No mistakes this time.'
'No mistakes.'
'We are not trying to win the World Series, Andrew.' A smile.
'I know, Lewis.'
'Go sing the man his lullaby,' Hamilton said.
* * * *
The social worker who had handled the adoption for the Hoddings was a woman named Martha Henley. She had been working for the Cooper-Anderson Agency, a private adoption agency, for the past fourteen years now. In her late sixties, a trifle stout, wearing a dark brown suit, low-heeled walking shoes, and gold-rimmed eyeglasses that demanded to be called spectacles, she warmly greeted the detectives at ten o'clock that Monday morning, and offered them seats on easy chairs facing her desk. A bleak wintry sky edged with skyscrapers filled the corner windows of her office. She told them at once that she loved children. She told them that nothing brought her greater happiness than to find the right home for a child needing adoption. They believed her. They had told her on the telephone why they wanted to see her. Now she wanted to know why they felt information about the adoption of Susan Hodding was important to their case.
'Only in that it's another possible avenue,' Meyer said.
'In what way?'
'We're investigating two possibilities at the moment,' Carella said. 'The first is that the murders may have been felony murders - murders that occurred during the commission of another crime. In this case, a burglary. Or a rape. Or both.'
'And the second possibility?'
She was making notes on a lined yellow pad, using an old-fashioned fountain pen with a gold nib. She was left-handed, Meyer noticed. Wrote with her hand twisted around peculiarly. Meyer figured she'd been growing up when schoolteachers were still trying to change all lefthanders into right-handers. He imagined this had something to do with Good vs. Evil, the right hand of God vs. the sinister left hand of the Devil. All bullshit, he thought. Those exercises at changing a person's handedness had in many cases led to stuttering and a whole carload of learning disabilities. Carella was still talking. Mrs Henley was still writing.
'. . . who wanted the sitter dead, the Flynn girl. In which case, the murder of the infant was a side-effect, if you will, an offshoot of the other murder. That's the second possibility.'
'Yes,' she said.
'But there's a third possibility as well,' Carella said.
'Which is?'
'That the murderer wanted the baby dead.'
'A six-month-old child? That's difficult to . . .'
'Admittedly, but . . .'
'Yes, I know. In this city . . .'
She let the sentence trail.
'So,' Carella said, 'the reason we're here . . .'
'You're here because if the baby was the primary target . . .'
'Yes . . .'
'. . . you'll need to know as much about the adoption as possible.'
'Yes.'
'Where shall I begin?' she asked.
The Hoddings had first come to her a bit more than a year ago, on the recommendation of their lawyer. They'd been trying to conceive ever since Mrs Hodding . . .
'She used to be a model, you know,' Mrs Henley said.
'Yes.'
. . . quit modeling some three or four years back. But although they'd assiduously followed their physician's directions, their efforts merely proved fruitless and bitterly disappointing, and they had ultimately decided to seek legal assistance in finding a reputable adoption agency.
Those were Mrs Henley's exact words. She had a rather flowery way of speaking, Carella noticed, as old-fashioned as her gold-nibbed fountain pen and her gold-rimmed spectacles.
'Their lawyer recommended us,' she said, and nodded as if in agreement with the lawyer's good taste. 'Mortimer Kaplan,' she said, 'of Greenfield, Gelfman, Kaplan, Schuster and Holt. A very good firm. We did all the home studies, obtained all the necessary references, prepared the Hoddings in advance for the sort of baby that might realistically turn up . . .'
'What do you mean?' Carella asked.
'Well, many of them want what we call a Gerber Baby, do you know? Blue eyes and blonde hair, cute little smile, chubby little hands. But not all babies look like that. We get all sorts of babies put up for adoption. We place all of them.'
'All of them?' Meyer said.
'All of them. We've placed babies born with handicaps. We've even placed babies born with AIDS. There are a great many decent, caring people out there, I'm happy to say.'
Carella nodded.
'Anyway,' she said, 'to cut a long story short, in July of last year I telephoned the Hoddings to say we had a newborn infant for them to look at. Well, not quite newborn. The baby at that time was two weeks old. That's the initial grace period we give the birth parents. Two weeks. Agency policy is to place the infant in a foster home, give the birth parents an opportunity to change their minds about adoption, if that's what they wish. At the end of the two weeks, they can either reclaim the baby or else sign a legal surrender that transfers custody to the agency. In this case, I had little doubt that the mother - this was the only birth parent involved - would allow the adoption to proceed. In any event, I called the Hoddings and asked them to come see the baby. A little girl. They were - as I'd expected - thoroughly enchanted with her. A beautiful baby, truly. A storybook child, a little princess. Well, a Gerber Baby. I gave them all the facts about her . . .'
'What facts would those be, Mrs Henley?'
'Background information about the birth mother and birth father - in this case, not much was known about him - medical, religious, educational, all that. Hospital record on the infant. Hospital record on the birth mothe
r. And so on. Everything they needed to know. The foster mother and I spent about twenty minutes with the Hoddings and little Susan . . . that was the name we'd given her here at the agency, Susan; the mother hadn't cared to name her. The Hoddings, as I'm sure they told you, still don't know the birth mother's name. It's here on record at the agency, of course, but the court records of the adoption are sealed and so is the original birth certificate. At any rate, as I say, the Hoddings loved the child on sight and agreed to take her home for the ninety-day trial period.'
'This was when, Mrs Henley?'
'Early in August. That's when they took Susan home with them. Little Susan.'
Mrs Henley shook her head.
'And now this,' she said.
Now this, Carella thought.
'When did the actual adoption take place?' he asked.
'Early in December.'
'Who was the child's natural mother?' he asked.
'I'll have the records sent in,' Mrs Henley said, and pressed a button on her telephone console. 'Debbie,' she said, 'would you bring in the Hodding file, please? Mr and Mrs Peter Hodding. Thank you,' she said, and released the button. 'This won't take a moment,' she said, looking up at the detectives again.
A knock sounded on the door five minutes later.
'Yes, come in,' Mrs Henley said.
A dark-haired girl wearing a long skirt and a ruffled white blouse came in carrying a manila folder. She put the folder on Mrs Henley's desk . . .
'Ah, thank you, Debbie.'
. . .turned, smiled at Carella, and then walked out again. Mrs Henley was already riffling through the papers in the folder.
'Yes, here we are,' she said. 'But you know, gentlemen, I really can't release this information without . . .'
'Of course,' Carella said. 'You've been very kind, Mrs Henley, and we don't want to place you or the agency in jeopardy. We'll be back in a little while with a court order.'
* * * *
The birth mother's name was Joyce Chapman.
Last June, when she'd first gone to the agency, she'd given her address as 748 North Orange, apartment 41.
'The Three-Two,' Meyer said. 'Down near Hopscotch.'
Carella nodded.
On the Cooper-Anderson background information form, she had listed her age as nineteen, her height as five feet ten inches, her weight as one hundred and fifty-two pounds . . .
color of hair: Blonde.
color of eyes: Green.
complexion: Fair.
best feature: Pretty eyes.
personality: Cheerful.
nationality: American.
ethnic origin: Scotch-Irish.
religion: Catholic.
education: High-school degree. One year college.
work experience & occupation: None.
talents or hobbies: Tennis, scuba diving.
health history illnesses: Measles, whooping cough, etc.
allergies: None.
operations: None.
No, she had never been confined to any mental institution . . . No, she was not addicted to any controlled substance . . .
No, she was not an alcoholic . . .
And No, she had never been arrested for a felony or sentenced to imprisonment in a state penal institution.
Among the papers released by the court order was an agreement Joyce had signed shortly after the baby was born. It read:
AGREEMENT WITH
THE COOPER-ANDERSON AGENCY
I, Joyce Chapman, do hereby consent to the release of my child, Female Baby C, to a representative of the Cooper-Anderson Agency and do hereby direct the proper officers of the St Agnes Hospital to permit the removal of said child by a representative of the Cooper-Anderson Agency.
I hereby authorize the Cooper-Anderson Agency to consent on my behalf to any medical, surgical or dental services which in the opinion of the doctor or doctors selected by the Cooper-Anderson Agency are deemed necessary for the well-being of said child. I further agree to the testing of said child for exposure to the human immunodeficiency virus (HIV) which can cause AIDS, and any other necessary and related tests. The Cooper-Anderson Agency will inform me of the test results.
I hereby agree to plan for my child with the Cooper-Anderson Agency and to keep the Agency informed at all times of my address and whereabouts until such time as final plans have been completed with the Agency for adoption, or until (or unless) I should decide to take said child back into my care and custody.
Dated this . . .
And so on.
Joyce had also sworn and subscribed to - before a notary public - a document that read:
AFFIDAVIT OF NATURAL MOTHER
CONCERNING
INTEREST OF ALLEGED NATURAL FATHER
Before me, the undersigned authority, personally appeared Joyce Chapman, who, being first duly sworn, deposes and says:
1. That she is the natural mother of: Female Baby C.
2. That the natural father of said child is: unknown. Residence: unknown
3. That the natural father has never contributed to or provided said child with support in a repetitive and customary manner, nor has he shown any other tangible sign of interest in said child.
4. Due to the aforesaid statements, it is affiant's belief that the natural father has no interest in said child and would not have any objection to the adoption of said child.
Signature: Joyce Chapman
Affiant
And yet another document that read:
The Cooper-Anderson Agency wishes to advise each parent who releases a child for adoption that at some time in the future your child may wish to know your name and whereabouts. The Agency will not release this information without your consent, unless required by law to do so.
To help your child in the future, the Agency asks you to keep us advised of any health problems which may develop with you or your family which could later affect your child.
I would __ I would not _X_ want to be notified if my child wishes to contact me at a later date.
I do not __ wish at this time to make a decision on this matter.
I understand that my decision may be changed at any time in the future by writing to the Agency.
Signed: Joyce Chapman
'Let's go see her,' Carella said.
* * * *
748 North Orange was in the area of the city that sounded like a Chamber of Commerce promo for a small Florida town. Narrow, twisting little streets with names like Lime, Hibiscus, Pelican, Manatee and Heron lay cheek by jowl with similarly narrow streets like Goed-koop, Keulen, Sprenkels and Visser, which had been named by the Dutch when you and I were young, Maggie.
The center of the Three-Two was in Scotch Meadows Park, which opened at its westernmost end onto Hopper Street, hence the ellipsis 'Hopscotch' for the now-voguish area where many of the city's artists and photographers had taken up residence. Orange Street itself was hardly voguish. Too far uptown to be Lower Platform, too far downtown to be Hopscotch, it meandered almost to the Straits of Napoli and Chinatown on its eastern end and then veered sharply north to run into the warehouses hugging the River Harb. 748 North was in a building that used to be a shoe factory, was later a warehouse for the storage of heavy machinery, and was now divided into lofts occupied not by artists - as were those in the Quarter and in Hopscotch - but by people who called themselves actors, playwrights, musicians and dancers. Most of these people were students. The real actors, playwrights, musicians and dancers lived farther uptown in a recently renovated neighborhood near the theater district, but don't get confused, Harold.
The young woman who answered the door to apartment 41 was named Angela Quist.
The detectives told her they were investigating a homicide and asked if they could talk to Joyce Chapman.
She told them Joyce didn't live there anymore, and then said that she herself was on the way out. She was wearing a loden coat, blue jeans, boots, and a red wool cap pulled down over her ears. She told them she was really in a hurry, c
lass started at one, and she didn't want to be late. But she took off her coat and hat and said she could give them a few minutes if they really made it fast. They sat in a small living room hung with framed Picasso prints.
Angela Quist was an actress.
Who lived in a loft.
But Angela Quist was in reality a waitress who took an acting course once a week on her day off, and her loft was a twelve-by-twenty space sectioned off with plasterboard partitions from a dozen similar small spaces on the floor.
It did, however, have a high ceiling.
And Angela did, in fact, have a beautifully sculpted face with high cheekbones, an aristocratic nose, a generous mouth and eyes like star sapphires. And her hair was the color of honey and her voice sounded silken and soft, and who said Cinderella couldn't go to the ball and live in a palace?
She had known Joyce Chapman in Seattle, Washington, where they'd both grown up.
Went to high school with her.
They'd both come to this city after graduation, Angela to seek a career in the theater, Joyce to study writing at Ramsey U.
'With Parker Harrison,' Angela said.
Carella said nothing.
'The poet,' Angela said. 'And novelist.'
Carella felt he was supposed to say, 'Oh, yes, of course! Parker Harrison!'
Instead, he cleared his throat.
'He's quite famous,' Angela said.
Meyer cleared his throat, too.
'It's very difficult to get accepted for his course,' Angela said.
'But apparently he accepted Joyce,' Carella said.
'Oh, yes. Well, she's marvelously talented, you know.'
'And is she still studying with him?' Meyer asked.
'Joyce? Well, no.'
'What's she doing now?' Carella asked.
'I really don't know,' Angela said.
'Do you know where she's living?'
'Yes.'