by Ed McBain
"We turn gray is what happens."
"Uh-huh."
"Which is why we use a lot of oils and greases on our skin. Not only women, I'm talking about men, too."
"Uh-huh."
"To lubricate the skin, get rid of the scale. What was that address again?"
"314 South Dreyden."
"Cocoa butter, cold cream, Vaseline, all this crap. We have to use it to keep from turning gray like a ghost."
"You don't look gray to me," Carella said.
'"Cause I use all this crap on my skin. But I got a tendency to acne, you know?"
"Uh-huh."
"From when I was a teenager. So if I use all this crap to keep my skin from turning gray, I bust out in pimples instead. It's another vicious circle. I'm thinking of growing a beard, I swear to God."
Carella didn't know what that meant, either.
"Up ahead," he said.
"I see it."
Brown turned the car into the curb, maneuvered it into a parking space in front of 322 South Dreyden, and then got out of the car, locked it, and walked around it to join Carella on the sidewalk.
"Ingrown hairs," he said.
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"Uh-huh," Carella said. "You see a boutique? It's supposed to be a boutique."
The shop "was named Vanessa's, which Lois Stein explained had nothing to do with her own name, but which sounded very British and slightly snobbish and which, in fact, attracted the upscale sort of women to whom her shop catered. She herself looked upscale and elegantly groomed, the sort of honey blonde one usually saw in perfume commercials, staring moodily out to sea, tresses blowing in the wind, diaphanous skirts flattened against outrageously long legs. Margaret Schumacher had told them her stepdaughter was thirty-seven years old, but they never would have guessed it. She looked to be in her late twenties, her complexion flawless, her grayish-blue eyes adding a look of mysterious serenity to her face.
In a voice as soft as her appearance - soft, gentle, these were the words Carella would have used to describe her - she explained at once how close she had been to her father, a relationship that had survived a bitter divorce and her father's remarriage. She could not now imagine how something like this could have happened to him. Her father the victim of a shooting? Even in this city, where law and order -
"Forgive me," she said, "I didn't mean to imply . . ."
A delicate, slender hand came up to her mouth, touched her lips as if to scold them. She wore no lipstick, Carella noticed. The faintest blue eye shadow tinted the lids above her blue-gray eyes. Her hair looked like spun gold. Here among the expensive baubles and threads she sold, she looked like an Alice who had inadvertently stumbled into the queen's closet.
"That's what we'd like to talk to you about," Carella said, "how something like this could've happened." He was lying only slightly in that on his block, at this particular time in space, anyone and everyone was still a suspect in this damn thing. But at the same time ...
"When did you see him last?" he asked.
This because a victim - especially if something or someone had been troubling him - sometimes revealed to friends or
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relatives information that may have seemed unimportant at the time but that, in the light of traumatic death, could be relevant . . . good work, Carella, go to the head of the class. He waited. She seemed to be trying to remember when she'd last seen her own father. Who'd been killed last Friday night. Mysterious blue-gray eyes pensive. Thinking, thinking, when did I last see dear Daddy with whom I'd been so close, and with whom I'd survived a bitter divorce and subsequent remarriage. Brown waited, too. He was wondering if the Fragile Little Girl stuff was an act. He wasn't too familiar with very many white women, but he knew plenty of black women - some of them as blonde as this one - who could do the wispy, willowy bit to perfection.
"I had a drink with him last Thursday," she said.
The day before he'd caught it. Four in the face. And by the way, here's a couple for your mutt.
"What time would that have been?" Carella asked.
"Five-thirty. After I closed the shop. I met him down near his office. A place called Bits."
"Any special reason for the meeting?" Brown asked.
"No, we just hadn't seen each other in a while."
"Did you normally..."
"Yes."
". . . meet for drinks?"
"Yes."
"Rather than dinner or lunch?"
"Yes. Margaret. . ."
She stopped.
Carella waited. So did Brown.
"She didn't approve of Daddy seeing us. Margaret. The woman he married when he divorced Mother."
The woman he married. Unwilling to dignify the relationship by calling her his wife. Merely the woman he married.
"How'd you feel about that?"
Lois shrugged.
"She's a difficult woman," she said at last.
Which, of course, didn'4-answer the question.
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"Difficult how?"
"Extremely possessive. Jealous to the point of insanity."
Strong word, Brown thought. Insanity.
"But how'd you feel about these restrictions she laid down?" Carella asked.
"I would have preferred seeing Daddy more often. . . I love him, I loved him," Lois said. "But if it meant causing problems for him, then I was willing to see him however and whenever it was possible."
"How'd he feel about that?"
"I have no idea."
"You never discussed it with him?"
"Never."
"Just went along with her wishes," Carella said.
"Yes. He was married to her," Lois said, and shrugged again.
"How'd your sister feel about all this?"
"He never saw Betsy at all."
"How come?"
"My sister took the divorce personally."
Doesn't everyone? Brown wondered.
"The whole sordid business beforehand ..."
"What business was that?" Carella asked at once.
"Well, he was having an affair with her, you know. He left Mother because of her. This wasn't a matter of getting a divorce and then meeting someone after the divorce, this was getting the divorce because he wanted to marry Margaret. He already had Margaret, you see. There's a difference."
"Yes," Carella said.
"So . . . my sister wouldn't accept it. She stopped seeing him ... oh, it must've been eight, nine months after he remarried. In effect, I became his only daughter. All he had, really."
All he had? Brown thought.
"What'd you talk about last Thursday?" Carella asked.
"Oh, this and that."
"Did he say anything was bothering him?"
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"No."
"Didn't mention any kind of . . ."
"No."
"... trouble or . . ."
"No."
"... argument..."
"No."
"... or personal matter that..."
"Nothing like that."
"Well, did he seem troubled by anything?"
"No."
"Or worried about anything?"
"No."
"Did he seem to be avoiding anything?"
"Avoiding?"
"Reluctant to talk about anything? Hiding anything?"
"No, he seemed like his usual self."
"Can you give us some idea of what you talked about?" Brown asked.
"It was just father-daughter talk," Lois said.
"About what?"
"I think we talked about his trip to Europe ... he was going to Europe on business at the end of the month."
"Yes, what did he say about that?" Carella asked.
"Only that he was looking forward to it. He had a new client in Milan - a designer who's bringing his line of clothes here to the city - and then he had some business in France . . . Lyons, I think he said ..."
"Yes, he was flying back from Lyons."
"Then you know."
"I don't think Margaret was going with him."
"Did he mention who might be going with him?"
"No."
"What else did you talk about?"
"You know, really, this was just talk. I mean, we didn't
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discuss anything special, it was just ... a nice friendly conversation between a father and his daughter."
"Yes, but about whatV Brown insisted.
Lois looked at him impatiently, squelching what appeared to be a formative sigh. She was silent for several seconds, thinking, and then she said, "I guess I told him I was going on a diet, and he said I was being ridiculous, I certainly didn't need to lose any weight ... oh, and he told me he was thinking of taking piano lessons again, when he was young he used to play piano in a swing band ..."
Blue-gray eyes looking skyward now, trying to pluck memory out of the air, corner of her lower lip caught between her teeth like a teenage girl doing homework . . .
"... and I guess I said something about Marc's birthday ... my husband, Marc, his birthday is next week, I still haven't bought him anything. You know, this is really very difficult, trying to remember every word we ..."
"You're doing fine," Carella said.
Lois nodded skeptically.
"Your husband's birthday," Brown prompted.
"Yes. I think we talked about what would be a good gift, he's so hard to please . . . and Daddy suggested getting him one of those little computerized memo things that fit in your pocket, Marc loves hi-tech stuff, he's a dentist."
Carella remembered a dentist he had recently known. The man was now doing time at Castleview upstate. Lots of time. For playing around with poison on the side. He wondered what kind of dentist Marc Stein was. It occurred to him that he had never met a dentist he had liked.
"... which Marc never even wore. That was last year. Daddy said you had to be careful with gifts like that. I told him I'd thought of getting Marc a dog, but he said dogs were a lot of trouble once you got past the cute puppy stage, and I ought to give that a little thought."
Two bullets in the dog, Brown thought. Who the hell would want to kill a man's dog!
"Did your father's dog ever bite anyone?" he asked.
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"Bite anyone?"
"Or even scare anyone, threaten anyone?" "Well ... I really don't know. He never mentioned anything like that, but ... I just don't know. You don't think . . .?"
"Just curious," Brown said.
He was thinking there were all kinds in this city.
"Betsy hated that dog," Lois said.
Both detectives looked at her.
"She hates all dogs in general, but she had a particular animosity for Amos."
Amos, Brown thought.
"What kind of dog was he?" he asked.
"A black Lab," Lois said.
Figures, he thought.
"Why'd your sister hate him?" Carella asked.
"I think he symbolized the marriage. The dog was a gift from Margaret, she gave it to Daddy on their first Christmas together. This was when Betsy was still seeing him, before the rift. She hated the dog on sight. He was such a sweet dog, too, well, you know Labs. But Betsy's a very mixed-up girl. Hate Margaret, therefore you hate the dog Margaret bought. Simple."
"Is your sister still living on Rodman?" Carella asked, and showed her the page in his notebook where he'd jotted down Betsy Schumacher's address.
"Yes, that's her address," Lois said.
"When did you see her last?" Brown asked.
"Sunday. At the funeral."
"She went to the funeral?" Carella asked, surprised.
"Yes," Lois said. And then, wistfully, "Because she loved him, I guess."
"Nice view," the girl said.
"Yeah," Kling said.
They were standing at the single window in the room. In the near distance, the Calm's Point Bridge hurled its lights across
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the River Dix. Aside from the spectacular view of the bridge and the buildings on the opposite bank, there wasn't much else upon which to comment. Kling was renting what was euphemistically called a "studio" apartment. This made it sound as if an artist might live quite comfortably here, splashing paint on canvases or hurling clay at wire frames. Actually, the studio was a single small room with a kitchen the size of a closet and a bathroom tacked on as a seeming afterthought. There was a bed in the room, and a dresser, and an easy chair, and a television set and a lamp.
The girl's name was Melinda.
He had picked her up in a singles bar.
Almost the first thing she'd said to him was that she'd checked out negative for the AIDS virus. He felt this was promising. He told her that he did not have AIDS, either. Or herpes. Or any other sexually transmitted disease. She'd asked him whether he had any non-sexually transmitted diseases, and they'd both laughed. Now they were in his studio apartment admiring the view, neither of them laughing.
"Can I fix you a drink?" he asked.
"That might be very nice," she said. "What do you have?"
At the bar, she'd been drinking something called a Devil's Fling. She told him there were four different kinds of rum in it, and that it was creme de menthe that gave the drink its greenish tint and its faint whiff of brimstone. She said this with a grin. This was when he began thinking she might be interesting to take home. Sort of a sharp big-city-girl edge to her. Whiff of brimstone. He liked that. But he didn't have either creme de menthe or four different kinds of rum here in his magnificent studio apartment with its glorious view. All he had was scotch. Which, alone here on too many nights, he drank in the dark. He was not alone tonight. And somehow scotch seemed inadequate.
"Scotch?" he said tentatively.
"Uh-huh?"
"That's it," he said, and shrugged. "Scotch. But I can phone
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I down for anything you like. There's a liquor store right around the . . ."
"Scotch will be fine," she said. "On the rocks, please. With just a splash of soda."
"I don't think I have any soda."
"Water will be fine then. Just a splash, please."
He poured scotch for both of them, and dropped ice cubes into both glasses, and then let just a dribble of water from the tap splash into her glass. They clinked the glasses together in a silent toast, and then drank.
"Nice," she said, and smiled.
She had brown hair and brown eyes. Twenty-six or -seven years old, Kling guessed, around five-six or thereabouts, with a pert little figure and a secret little smile that made you think she knew things she wasn't sharing with you. He wondered what those things might be. He had not had another woman in this room since Eileen left him.
"Bet it looks even better in the dark," she said.
He looked at her.
"The view," she said.
Secret little smile on her mouth.
He went to the lamp, turned it off.
"There," she said.
Beyond the window, the bridge's span sparkled white against the night, dotted with red taillight flashes from the steady stream of traffic crossing to Calm's Point. He went to stand with her at the window, put his arms around her from behind. She lifted her head. He kissed her neck. She turned in his arms. Their lips met. His hands found her breasts. She caught her breath. And looked up at him. And smiled her secret smile.
"I'll only be a minute," she whispered, and moved out of his arms and toward the bathroom door, smiling again, over her shoulder this time. The door closed behind her. He heard water running in the sink. The only light in the room came from the bridge. He went to the bed and sat on the edge of it,
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looking through the window where the air conditioner hummed.
When the telephone rang, it startled him.
He picked up the receiver at once.
"Hello?" he said.
"Bert?" she said. "This is Eileen."
She could remember a telephon
e call a long time ago, when they were both strangers to each other. It had been difficult to make that call because she'd inadvertently offended him and she was calling to apologize, but it was more difficult to make this call tonight. She was not calling to apologize tonight, or perhaps she was, but either way she would have given anything in the world not to have to be making this call.
"Eileen?" he said.
Totally and completely surprised. It had been months and months.
"How are you?" she said.
She felt stupid. Absolutely stupid. Dumb and awkward and thoroughly idiotic.
"Eileen?" he said again.
"Is this a bad time for you?" she asked hopefully.
Looking for a reprieve. Call him back later or maybe not at all, once she'd had a chance to think this over. Damn Karin and her brilliant ideas.
"No, no," he said, "how are you?"
"Fine," she said. "Bert, the reason I'm calling . . ."
"Bert?" she heard someone say.
He must have covered the mouthpiece. Sudden silence on the other end of the line. There was someone with him. A woman? It had sounded like a woman.
Melinda was wearing only bikini panties and high-heeled pumps. She stood in partial silhouette just inside the bathroom door, her naked breasts larger than they'd seemed when she was fully dressed, the smile on her face again. "Do you have a toothbrush I can use?" she asked.
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I "Uh . . . yes," he said, his left hand covering the mouth-I piece, "there should be ... I think there's an unopened one I ... uh ... in the cabinet over the sink . . . there should be a I new one in there."
She glanced at the phone in his hand. Arched an eyebrow. Smiled again, secretly. Turned to show her pert little behind in the skimpy panties, posed there for a moment like Betty Grable in the famous World War II poster, and then closed the bathroom door again, blocking the wondrous sight of her from view. "Eileen?" he said.
"Yes, hi," she said, "is there someone with you?"
"No," he said.
"I thought I heard someone."
"The television set is on," he said.
"I thought I heard someone say your name."
"No, I'm alone here."
"Anyway, I'll make this short," she said. "Karin . . ."
"You don't have to make it short," he said.
"Karin thinks it might be a good idea if the three of us . . ."
"Karin?"
"Lefkowitz. My shrink."
"Oh. Right. How is she?"