Sadie When She Died
Page 14
The trial will be . . . when did you say?
Fletcher:
March. I’m guessing. I think March.
Miss Orton:
How soon after the trial . . .
Fletcher:
I don’t know.
Miss Orton:
She’s dead, Gerry, I don’t see . . .
Fletcher:
Yes, but . . .
Miss Orton:
I don’t see any reason to wait, do you?
Fletcher:
No.
Miss Orton:
Then why don’t we decide?
Fletcher:
After the trial.
Miss Orton:
Decide after the . . . ?
Fletcher:
No, get married after the trial.
Miss Orton:
Yes. But shouldn’t we in the meantime . . .
Fletcher:
Have you read this?
Miss Orton:
What is it?
Fletcher:
This.
Miss Orton:
No. I don’t like his stuff.
Fletcher:
Then why’d you buy it?
Miss Orton:
I didn’t. Maria gave it to me for my birthday. What I was saying, Gerry, is that we ought to set a date now. A provisional date. Depending on when the trial is.
Fletcher:
Mmmm.
Miss Orton:
Allowing ourselves enough time, you know. It’ll probably be a long trial, don’t you think? Gerry?
Fletcher:
Mmmm?
Miss Orton:
Do you think it’ll be a long trial?
Fletcher:
What?
Miss Orton:
Gerry?
Fletcher:
Yes?
Miss Orton:
Where are you?
Fletcher:
I was just looking over some of these books.
Miss Orton:
Do you think you can tear yourself away? So we can discuss . . .
Fletcher:
Forgive me, darling.
Miss Orton:
. . . a matter of some small importance. Like our wedding.
Fletcher:
I’m sorry.
Miss Orton:
If the trial starts in March . . .
Fletcher:
It may or it may not. I told you I was only guessing.
Miss Orton:
Well, say it does start in March.
Fletcher:
If it starts in March . . .
Miss Orton:
How long could it run? At the outside?
Fletcher:
Not very long. A week?
Miss Orton:
I thought murder cases . . .
Fletcher:
Well, they have a confession, the boy’s admitted killing her. And there won’t be a parade of witnesses, they’ll probably call just me and the boy. If it runs longer than a week, I’ll be very much surprised.
Miss Orton:
Then if we planned on April . . .
Fletcher:
Unless they come up with something unexpected, of course.
Miss Orton:
Like what?
Fletcher:
Oh, I don’t know. They’ve got some pretty sharp people on this case.
Miss Orton:
In the district attorney’s office?
Fletcher:
Investigating it, I mean.
Miss Orton:
What’s there to investigate?
Fletcher:
There is always the possibility he didn’t do it.
Miss Orton:
Who?
Fletcher:
Corwin. The boy.
Miss Orton:
[Inaudible] a signed confession?
Fletcher:
I thought you didn’t want another one?
Miss Orton:
I’ve changed my mind. [Inaudible] the end of April?
Fletcher:
I guess that would be safe.
Miss Orton:
[Inaudible]
Fletcher:
No, this is fine, thanks.
Miss Orton:
[Inaudible] forget about getting away in February. That’s when they have hurricanes down there, anyway, isn’t it?
Fletcher:
September, I thought. Or October. Isn’t that the hurricane season?
Miss Orton:
Go after the trial instead. For our honeymoon.
Fletcher:
They may give me a rough time during the trial.
Miss Orton:
Why should they?
Fletcher:
One of the cops thinks I killed her.
Miss Orton:
You’re not serious.
Fletcher:
I am.
Miss Orton:
Who?
Fletcher:
A detective named Carella.
Miss Orton:
Why would he think that?
Fletcher:
Well, he probably knows about us by now . . .
Miss Orton:
How could he?
Fletcher:
He’s a very thorough cop. I have a great deal of admiration for him. I wonder if he realizes that.
Miss Orton:
Admiration!
Fletcher:
Yes.
Miss Orton:
Admiration for a man who suspects . . .
Fletcher:
He’d have a hell of a time proving anything, though.
Miss Orton:
Where’d he even get such an idea?
Fletcher:
Well, he knows I hated her.
Miss Orton:
How does he know?
Fletcher:
I told him.
Miss Orton:
What? Gerry, why the hell did you do that?
Fletcher:
Why not?
Miss Orton:
Oh, Gerry.
Fletcher:
He’d have found out anyway. I told you, he’s a very thorough cop. He probably knows by now that Sarah was sleeping around with half the men in this city. And he probably knows I knew it, too.
Miss Orton:
That doesn’t mean . . .
Fletcher:
If he’s also found out about us . . .
Miss Orton:
Who cares what he’s found out? Corwin’s already confessed. I don’t understand you, Gerry.
Fletcher:
I’m only trying to follow his reasoning. Carella’s.
Miss Orton:
Is he Italian?
Fletcher:
I would guess so. Why?
Miss Orton:
Italians are the most suspicious people in the world.
Fletcher:
I can understand his reasoning. I’m just not sure he can understand mine.
Miss Orton:
Some reasoning, all right. Why the hell would you kill her? If you were going to kill her, you’d have done it ages ago.
Fletcher:
Of course.
Miss Orton:
When she refused to sign the separation papers.
Fletcher:
Sure.
Miss Orton:
So let him investigate, who cares? You want to know something, Gerry?
Fletcher:
Mmm?
Miss Orton:
Wishing your wife is dead isn’t the same thing as killing her. Tell that to Detective Coppola.
Fletcher:
Carella.
Miss Orton:
Carella. Tell him that.
Fletcher:
[Laughs]
Miss Orton:
What’s so funny?
Fletcher:
I’ll tell him, darling.
Miss Orton:
Good. Meanwhile, the hell with him.
Fletcher:
[La
ughs] Do you have to change?
Miss Orton:
I thought I’d go this way. Is it a very dressy place?
Fletcher:
I’ve never been there.
Miss Orton:
Call them and ask if pants are okay, will you darling?
According to the technician who had wired the Orton apartment, the living-room bug was in the bookcase on the wall opposite the bar. Carella leafed back through the typewritten pages and came upon the section he wanted:
Fletcher:
Have you read this?
Miss Orton:
What is it?
Fletcher:
This.
Miss Orton:
No. I don’t like his stuff.
Fletcher:
Then why’d you buy it?
Miss Orton:
I didn’t. Maria gave it to me for my birthday. What I was saying, Gerry, is that we ought to set a date now. A provisional date. Depending on when the trial is.
Fletcher:
Mmmm.
Miss Orton:
Allowing ourselves enough time, you know. It’ll probably be a long trial, don’t you think? Gerry?
Fletcher:
Mmmm?
Miss Orton:
Do you think it’ll be a long trial?
Fletcher:
What?
Miss Orton:
Gerry?
Fletcher:
Yes?
Miss Orton:
Where are you?
Fletcher:
I was just looking over some of these books.
It was Carella’s guess that Fletcher had discovered the bookcase bug some nine speeches back, the first time he uttered a thoughtful “Mmmm.” That was when his attention began to wander, so that he was unable to give any concentration at all to two matters of enormous importance to him and Arlene: the impending trial and their marriage plans. What interested Carella more, however, was what Fletcher had said after he knew the place was wired. Certain of an audience now, knowing that whichever cop was actually monitoring the equipment, the tape or transcript would eventually get back to the investigating officer, Fletcher had:
1. Suggested the possibility that Corwin was not guilty of the murder.
2. Flatly stated that a cop named Carella suspected him of having killed his own wife.
3. Expressed the admiration he felt for Carella while wondering if Carella was aware of it.
4. Speculated that Carella, as a thorough cop, had already doped out the purpose of the bar-crawling last Sunday night, was cognizant of Sarah’s promiscuity and knew that Fletcher was aware of it as well.
5. Made a little joke about “telling” Carella, when in fact he had already told him through the surveillance equipment in the apartment.
Carella felt as eerie as he had when lunching with Fletcher and later when drinking with him. Fletcher seemed to be playing a dangerous game, in which he taunted Carella with bits and pieces of knowledge, and dared him to fit them together into a meaningful whole that would prove he had slain Sarah. On the tape, Fletcher had said in an oddly gentle voice, “I can understand his reasoning. I’m just not sure he can understand mine.” He had spoken these words after be knew the place was wired, and it could be assumed he was speaking them directly to Carella. But what was he trying to say? And why?
Carella wanted very much to hear what Fletcher would say when he didn’t know he was being overheard. He asked Lieutenant Byrnes for permission to request a court order putting a bug in Fletcher’s automobile. Byrnes granted permission, and the court issued the order. Carella called the Police Laboratory again, and was told that a technician would be assigned to him as soon as he found out where Fletcher parked his automobile.
Reading another man’s love letters is like eating Chinese food alone.
In the comparative stillness of the squadroom, Kling joylessly picked over each of Richmond’s separate tasty dishes, unable to share them, unable to comment on their flavor or texture. That they were interesting at all was a tribute to Richmond’s cleverness; his letters were being censored before they left the prison, to make sure they did not contain requests for a file inside a birthday cake, and censorship can somewhat inhibit a man’s ardor. As a result, Richmond could write only indirectly about his intense need for Nora, and his longing to rejoin her once he had served his sentence, which he fully expected to be reduced once he went before the parole board.
One letter, however, contained a short paragraph that read somewhat like an open threat:
I hope you are being true to me. Pete tells me he is sure this is so. He is there if you need him for anything, so don’t hesitate to call. In any case, he will be watching over you.
Kling read the sentence yet another time, and was reaching for the telephone when it rang. He lifted the receiver.
“Eighty-seventh Squad, Kling.”
“Bert, this is Cindy.”
“Hi,” he said.
“Are you busy?” she asked.
“I was just about to call the I.S.”
“Oh.”
“But go ahead. It can wait.”
Cindy hesitated. Then, her voice very low, she said, “Bert, can I see you tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow?” he said.
“Yes.” She hesitated again. “Tomorrow’s Christmas Eve.”
“I know.”
“I bought something for you.”
“Why’d you do that, Cindy?”
“Habit,” she said, and he suspected she was smiling.
“I’d love to see you, Cindy,” he said.
“I’ll be working till five.”
“No Christmas party?”
“At a hospital? Bert, my dear, we deal here daily with life and death.”
“Don’t we all,” Kling said, and smiled. “Shall I meet you at the hospital?”
“All right. The side entrance. That’s near the emergency . . .”
“Yes, I know where it is. At five o’clock?”
“Well, five-fifteen.”
“Okay, five-fifteen.”
“You’ll like what I got you,” she said, and then hung up. He was still smiling when he put his call through to the Identification Section. A man named Reilly listened to his request, and promised to call back with the information in ten minutes. He called back in eight.
“Kling?” he said.
“Yes?”
“Reilly at the I.S. I’ve got that packet on Frank Richmond. You want me to duplicate it or what?”
“Can you just read me his yellow sheet?”
“Well,” Reilly said, “it’s a pretty long one. The guy’s been in trouble with the law since he was sixteen.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“Minor crap mostly. Except for the latest one.”
“When?”
“Two months ago.”
“What was the charge?”
“Armed robbery.”
Kling whistled, and then said, “Have you got the details there, Reilly?”
“Not on his B-sheet. Let me see if there’s a copy of the arrest report.”
Kling waited. On the other end, he could hear papers being shuffled. At last, Reilly said, “Yeah, here it is. Him and another guy went into a supermarket along about closing time, ripped off the day’s receipts. Got caught on the way out by an off-duty detective who lived in the neighborhood.”
“Who was the other guy?”
“Man named Jack Yancy. He’s doing time too. You want me to pull his folder?”
“No, that’s not necessary.”
“Third guy got off scot-free.”
“I thought you said there were only two of them.”
“No, there was an alleged wheel-man on the job, waiting in the parking lot near the delivery entrance. Caught him in the car with the engine running, but he claimed he didn’t know anything about what was going on inside. Richmond and Yancy backed him, said they’d never seen him before in their lives.”
“Honor among t
hieves?” Kling said. “I don’t believe it.”
“Stranger things happen,” Reilly said.
“What’s his name?”
“The wheel-man? Peter Brice.”
“Got an address for him?”
“Not on the report. You want me to hit the file again?”
“Would you?”
“I’ll get back,” Reilly said, and hung up.
When the phone rang ten minutes later, Kling thought it would be Reilly again. Instead, it was Arthur Brown.
“Bert,” he said, “the Orton woman just called Fletcher. Can you get in touch with Steve?”
“I’ll try. What’s up?”
“They made a date for tomorrow night. They’re going across the river to a place named The Chandeliers. Fletcher’s picking her up at seven-thirty.”
“Right,” Kling said.
“Bert?”
“Yeah?”
“Does Steve want me on this phone tap while they’re out eating? Tomorrow’s Christmas Eve, you know.”
“I’ll ask him.”
“Also, Hal wants to know if he’s supposed to sit in the truck all the while they’re out.”