by Ed McBain
'Can you give us her address?'
'Well, sure. But ... I mean, if this has to do with something that happened here . . .'
'Yes, it . . .'
'. . . in this city, I don't see how my giving you Joyce's address is going to help you.'
'What do you mean, Miss Quist?'
'Well, she's in Seattle. So . . .'
The detectives looked at each other.
'I mean, she went back there shortly after the baby was born. Well, actually, as soon as the baby was placed.'
'Uh-huh. That would've been in August sometime.'
'Around the fifteenth, I think it was. Well, the baby was born in July . . .'
'Yes.'
'And I think arrangements were made right away for . . .'
'Yes.'
'So as soon as she was clear . . .'
'Clear?'
'Well, she didn't want to be saddled with a baby, you know. I mean, she's only nineteen. We talked about it a lot. She's Catholic, so abortion was out of the question, but she certainly didn't want to keep the baby. I mean, Joyce is enormously talented. She's got a tremendous future ahead of her, she never even once considered keeping the baby.'
'Did she consider marriage?' Meyer asked.
'Well, I don't think this was that kind of relationship.'
'What do you mean?'
'I mean, she picked him up in a bar. A merchant seaman. He was on his way to the Persian Gulf. He doesn't even know he's a father.'
'What's his name?'
'I don't know.'
'Does Joyce know?'
'I guess so. I mean, this was an extremely casual encounter, believe me.'
'Uh-huh,' Meyer said.
'I think she was stoned, in fact. I mean, I was here asleep when she came in with him. Usually we, well, we made arrangements if we planned to be with someone, you know.'
'Uh-huh.'
'Asked the other person to spend the night someplace else, you know.'
'Uh-huh.'
'So there'd be some privacy.'
'Uh-huh. But she just came home with this sailor . . .'
'Yeah. Well.' Angela shrugged. 'She's a little impetuous sometimes, Joyce. But she's very talented so, you know.' She shrugged again.
'She can be forgiven her little oddities,' Meyer said.
Angela looked at him as if suspecting sarcasm.
'What'd he look like?' Carella asked.
'I have no idea. I told you. I was asleep when they got here, and still asleep when he left the next morning.'
'And you say she was enrolled in this man's course . . .'
'Yes. Parker Harrison.'
'Then why'd she go back to Seattle?'
'Her father's sick.'
'Uh-huh.'
'Dying, in fact. He owns a big lumber company out there. Chapman Lumber.'
'Uh-huh.'
'Cancer of the liver. I've been meaning to call her, see how he's coming along.'
'When's the last time you spoke to her?' Meyer asked.
'She called from Seattle on New Year's Eve.'
The detectives looked at each other.
'She was in Seattle at that time?' Carella asked.
'Yes. That's where she called from. Seattle. To wish me a happy new year.'
'Could we have the number there, please?' Meyer asked.
'Sure, let me get it,' Angela said. 'But what's this homicide got to do with Joyce?'
'Her baby got killed,' Carella said.
* * * *
The two men were in a diner on Longacre and Dale.
This was now one-thirty in the afternoon, but they were just having breakfast. One of the men was eating buttered French toast over which he'd poured syrup. The other man was eating eggs over easy with sausage and home fries. Both men were drinking coffee.
This was a little early for either one of them to be up and around. One-thirty? Very early when you had a night job. Usually, their separate days didn'tstart till two, three in the afternoon. Roll out of bed, have a cup of coffee in the apartment, make a few calls, see who wanted to meet you for a bite, take your time showering and getting silked up, have your first meat of the day maybe around four, four-thirty.
'You sure got enough syrup on that,' the one eating the eggs said.
'I like it wet.'
'Tell me about it.'
The man eating the French toast looked at the other man's plate. 'What you're eating there is enough cholesterol to give you six heart attacks,' he said. 'The eggs. There's more cholesterol in a single egg than there is in a whole steak.'
'Who told you that?'
'It's true.'
'So who cares?'
'So it could kill you, cholesterol.'
'So what do you think they make French toast with?'
'What do you mean?'
'French toast, French toast, what you're eating there all covered with syrup. French toast. What do you think they make it with?'
'They make it with bread.'
'And what else?'
'They fry the bread.'
'Before they fry the bread.'
'What do you mean?'
'I mean what do they dip it in?'
'I don't know. What do they dip it in?'
'Eggs.'
'No, they don't.'
'Yes, they do.'
'Are you trying to tell me there's eggs in this?'
'What do you think that stuff is?'
'What stuff?'
'All over the toast. Both sides of the toast.'
'I thought it was what they fried it in.'
'No, that's the eggs, is what it is. I'm surprised you don't know that.'
'How'm I supposed to know that? I never cooked French toast in my life.'
'So now you're gonna have a heart attack. All that cholesterol.'
'No, I'm not.'
'Sure you are. There's more cholesterol in a single egg . . .'
'Yeah, yeah . . .'
'. . . than there is in a whole steak, isn't that what you said?'
'Let me eat in peace, okay?'
They ate in silence for several moments.
'What'd you do last night?' the one eating the eggs asked. He had lowered his voice. They were sitting in a booth at the far end of the diner, with only one other person in the place, a man in a booth near the, door, but he had lowered his voice nonetheless. The man sitting across from him soaked up some syrup with a piece of the toast and brought it dripping to his mouth. He chewed for a while, licked his lips, and said, 'A supermarket.' He had lowered his voice, too.
'Where?'
'In Riverhead. A lay-in job. I worked it with Sammy Pedicini, you remember him?'
'Sure, how is he?'
'He's fine. It was his job, he called me up on it.'
'What'd you get?'
'There was only two grand in the safe. I figure this was like to put in the cash registers in the morning, get them started, you know. I'll tell you the truth, I wouldn'ta took the job if I knew Sammy was talkin' a grand apiece. I wasted the whole fuckin' night in there. First I had to knock out the alarm so I could let him in, and then we spent I don't know how long on the safe, it was one of those old boxes with a lead spindle shaft, a real pain in the ass. With the locknuts away from the shaft, you know the kind? For two lousy grand! We got through it had to be four in the morning. I told Sammy he ever calls me again with a dog like that one, I'll piss on his leg. How about you?'
'I done a private house in Calm's Point. I was watching it the past week, I figured the family was away on a trip.'
'You go in alone or what?'
'How long you know me to ask a question like that? Of course I went in alone.'
'What'd you come away with?'
'A couple of nice coats.'
'The one you're wearing?'
'No, no, I got this one New Year's Eve. This is a Ralph Lauren coat, it's worth eleven hundred bucks.'
'Itdon't look like eleven bills, Doc, I gotta tell you the truth.'
'Th
at's what it costs, go check it out. It's camel hair.'
'I believeyou. I'm just saying it don't look the money.'
'There's a Ralph Lauren on Jefferson, go in and price the coat.'
'I told you I believe you, Doc. It's just that a cloth coat . . .'
'These two I got last night are furs.'
'What kind?'
'A raccoon . . .'
'Which ain't worth shit. I don't waste time with raccoons no more. What was the other one?'
'A red fox.'
'That's a nice fur, red fox.'
'Yeah.'
'You said Calm's Point, huh? Where you got the coats?'
'Yeah, the furs. Not the one I'm wearing.'
'You oughta be careful, Calm's Point.'
'What do you mean?'
'According to Sammy, anyway.'
'Why? What's the matter with Calm's Point?'
'There were cops came around your old building.'
His voice lower now.
'What are you talkin' about?'
His voice lowering, too.
'According to Sammy. Park Street, am I right?'
'Yeah?'
'His girlfriend lives on Park. She told him some cops came around lookin' for you.'
'What the fuck are you saying?'
'This is according to Sammy.'
'He said some cops were looking for me?'
Both men virtually whispering now.
'Yeah, is what his girlfriend told him. She lives in an apartment with two other hookers, she said some detectives . . .'
'When was this?'
'Last night. While Sammy was workin' the spindle, it took forever with that fuckin' . . .'
'I mean when did they come around looking for me?'
'Coupla days ago? You gotta ask Sammy. I think he said Friday. Give him a call, he'll tell you.'
'Did his girlfriend say why they were looking for me?'
'This is all secondhand, Doc. The cops weren't questioning her, they were talking to people in your old building.'
'On Park?'
'Yeah.'
'1146 Park?'
'Whatever. But when the cops were gone, she wandered over, you know . . .'
'Yeah?'
'And asked what the fuck was happening. So this guy in the building says they were lookin' for you.'
'For me.'
'Yeah.'
'Why?'
'To ask you some questions.'
'About what?'
'I don't know, Doc,' he said, and smiled. 'You done something bad lately?'
* * * *
6
Carella placed the call at two o'clock his time.
The receptionist who answered the phone at Chapman Lumber in Seattle was surprised to be receiving a call from a detective in the east. Carella told her that he was trying to locate Joyce Chapman, and the receptionist asked him to hold, please. Another woman came onto the line.
'Yes, may I help you?' she asked.
Carella explained all over again who he was and why he was calling. He had tried the number he'd been given for Miss Chapman . . .
'What did you wish to talk to Miss Chapman about?' the woman asked.
'Who am I talking to, please?' Carella said.
'Mr Chapman's secretary. He's been in the hospital . . .'
'Yes, I know.'
'So if you can tell me what . . .'
'I don't want to talk to Mr Chapman,' Carella said. 'I have some business with his daughter. But the number I have for her doesn't seem to be aworking number . . .'
'Yes, what sort of business?'
'What did you say your name was, ma'am?'
'Miss. Ogilvy. Miss Pearl Ogilvy.'
Figures, Carella thought.
'Miss Ogilvy,' he said, 'I'm investigating a double homicide here, and I'd like very much to talk to Joyce Chapman. If you have any knowledge of her whereabouts, you'd save me the trouble of calling the Seattle police, who, I'm sure . . .'
'Miss Chapman has been staying at the Pines.'
'Is that a hotel there in Seattle?'
'No, it's Mr Chapman's home. The Pines.'
'I see. Do I have the correct number there?' he asked, and read off the number Angela Quist had given him.
'No, the Last digit is a nine,' Miss Ogilvy said, 'not a five.'
'Thank you very much,' Carella said.
'Not at all,' Miss Ogilvy said, and hung up.
Carella pressed the receiver rest on his phone, got a fresh dial tone, dialed the 206 area code again, and then the number, with a nine this time. The phone on the other end kept ringing.
And ringing.
He was about to give up when-
'Hello?'
A muffled, sleep-raveled voice.
'Miss Chapman?'
'Mmmm.'
'Hello?'
'Mmmm.'
'This is Detective Carella of the 87th Precinct, I'm calling from . . .'
'Who?'
'I'm sorry if I'm waking you up,' he said, 'is this Joyce Chapman?'
'Yes, what time is it?'
'A little after eleven your time.'
'Who did you say this was?'
'Detective Carella, I'm calling from Isola, Miss Chapman, we're investigating a double homicide here, I wonder if ...'
'A what?'
'A double homicide.'
'Jesus.'
'We spoke earlier today to a woman named Angela Quist . . .'
'Angie? Is she involved in a murder?'
'No, Miss Chapman. We talked to her because she was the person we found at the last address we had for you.'
'For me?'
'Yes.'
'The last address you had for me?'
'Yes.'
'What've I got to do with a homicide? And where'd you get my last address?'
'From the Cooper-Anderson Agency,' Carella said.
There was a long silence on the line.
'Who got killed?' Joyce finally said. 'Mike?'
'Who do you mean?' Carella asked.
'Mike. The baby's father. Did somebody kill him?'
'Mike who?' Carella said.
There was another silence. Then:
'Is he dead or isn't he?'
'He may be, for all I know,' Carella said. 'But he's not one of the victims in the case we're investigating.'
'Then what is he? A suspect?'
'Not if he was on a ship in the Persian Gulf on New Year's Eve. May I have his last name, please?'
'How'd you know he was a sailor?'
'A merchant seaman,' Carella said.
'Same thing.'
'Not quite. Miss Quist mentioned it.'
'Is she the one who told you I'd put the baby up for adoption?'
'No.'
'Then how'd you know about Cooper-Anderson?'
'The baby's adoptive parents told us.'
'And Cooper-Anderson gave you my name? That's a fucking violation of. . .'
'Miss Chapman, it was your baby who got killed.'
He thought he heard a small sharp gasp on the other end of the line. He waited.
'She is not my baby,' Joyce said at last.
'Not legally perhaps…'
'Not emotionally, either. I gave birth to her, Mr Carella, is that your name?'
'Yes, Carella.'
'That was the extent of my involvement with her.'
'I see. But she is nonetheless dead.'
'I'm sorry to hear that. Why are you calling me, Mr Carella?'
'Miss Chapman, we know you were in Seattle on New Year's Eve . . .'
'Is that when she was killed?'
'Yes.'
'Who else was killed? You said a double . . .'
'Her baby-sitter. A young girl named Annie Flynn. Does the name mean anything to you?'
'No'
Miss Chapman, can you tell me the father's full name?'
'Why do you want to know? If you think he's the one who . . .'
'We don't think anything yet. We're merely trying to . .
.'
'He didn't even know I was pregnant. I was with him on a Saturday night, and he sailed the next day.'
'Where'd you meet him, Miss Chapman?'
'At a disco called Lang's. Down in the Quarter.'
'Yes, I know the place. And you took him back to the Orange Street
'Yes.'
'And spent the night with him?'
'Yes.'
'Did you see him again after that?'
'No. I told you. He sailed the next day.'
'For the Persian Gulf.'
'To pick up Kuwaiti oil. At least, that's what he told me. It may have been bullshit. Some guys try to impress girls by saying they do dangerous work.'
'Do you know if he's still in the Persian Gulf?'
'The last time I saw him was at eight o'clock on the morning of October eighteenth, fifteen months ago.'
'You keep track of time nicely,' Carella said.
'So would you if you gave birth nine months after you kissed somebody goodbye.'
'Then Susan was conceived that . . .'
'Is that what they named her?'
'Susan, yes.'
'Susan,' she repeated.
'Yes.'
'Susan,' she said again.
He waited.
Nothing more came.
'That weekend,' Carella concluded.
'Yes,' she said.
'What's his last name?' Carella asked. 'The father.'
'I don't know,' Joyce said.
Carella raised his eyebrows.
'You don't know his last name,' he repeated.
'I do not know his last name.'
'He didn't tell you his . . .'
'Sue me,' she said.
Carella nodded to the squadroom wall.
'What'd he look like?' he asked.
'Tall, dark hair, blue eyes, who knows?'
'Uh-huh,' he said.
'I'm not promiscuous,' she said.
'Okay,' he said.
'I was stoned.'
'Okay.'
'We were having a good time, I asked him to come home with me.'
'Okay. Was he white, black, Hispanic . . . ?'
'White.'
'And he never mentioned his last name?'
'Never.'
'And you never asked.'
'Who cared?'
'Okay. Did he tell you what ship he was on?'
Silence.
'Miss Chapman?'
'Yes, I'm thinking.'
He waited.
'A tanker.'
'Yes?'
'Do they name them after generals?'
'I guess they can.'
'The General Something?'
'Maybe.'
'Putnam? Or Putney? The General Putney? Could that be a tanker?'