by Ed McBain
A simple business arrangement. Basic barter. A usual arrangement at that. Sex for dope. And because everyone was stoned or about to get stoned, it was rarely if ever safe sex. When crack's on the scene, nobody's worrying about a rubber. Which is why you had a lot of crack addicts getting pregnant. Which is why you had a lot of tormented crack babies crying for cocaine. What goes around comes around.
"I don't know where they got all that money ..." she said.
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Killed a man for it, Wade thought.
". . . but listen, who cares?"
Twelve hundred dollars, he thought.
"I do you, you do me, one hand washes the other, am I right? No questions asked, just beam me up, Scottie."
Just beam you up, he thought.
"How'd you end up on Sloane Street?" he asked.
"I think they were on the run."
"What do you mean?"
"I think they done a job that night. They called me up, told me they didn't want to come home. They were afraid ..."
"Which is where?"
"So we like went to this crack house, you know, but the guy on the door looks at us through the peephole, he says 'How the fuck / know who you are?' Like we're cops, right?" she said sarcastically. "I been hookin' since I was thirteen, I suddenly look like I'm undercover, right? Sonny and Diz, too, you ain't gonna mistake either one of them for nothing but an ex-con. So the guy at the door gives us all this bullshit and we're forced to score on the street. Which is no big deal, I mean I do it all the time, you can buy crack on any street corner, look who I'm tellin'. But it would've been easier we could've smoked there in private without having to find a place to go. 'Cause we couldn't go back to the pad, you know. 'Cause Sonny and Diz thought the cops would come lookin' for them there."
"And where's that?" Bent asked.
"So that's how we ended up on Sloane, in that building, Jesus, what a place! Rats the size of alligators, I swear to God. So that was you guys, huh?"
"Yeah, that was us," Wade said.
"Scared the shit out of us," Dolly said, and giggled the way she had that night. "We went down the fire escape."
"We figured."
"I almost broke my neck."
"Where're Sonny and Diz now?"
"I already told you everything I know about them."
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"Except where they are."
"I don't know where they are."
"You said you were living together ..."
"But not no more."
"You said you had a pad ..."
"Yeah, that was then."
"Dolly . . ." Wade said warningly.
"I mean it," she said. "I don't know."
"Okay," he said, "let's go up the station house, okay?"
"No, wait a minute," she said. "Please."
The Q&A took place in Lieutenant Byrnes's office at twenty minutes to ten that night. That was how long it took everyone to assemble. Nellie Brand had to come all the way uptown from her apartment on Everetts. The police stenographer with his video camera had to come all the way uptown, too, from the Headquarters Building on High Street. Pauline Weed's attorney, a man named Henry Kahn, had to come all the way crosstown from his office on Stockton. Brown, Carella, and Byrnes were the only ones who'd just had to walk down the hall from the squadroom to the Interrogation Room.
Nellie was here to find out if this was real meat. It had sounded that way when they'd filled her in on the initial interrogation, but you never knew. She was wearing a lightweight beige suit with a straw-colored handbag and pumps. She still wore her tawny hair in a wedge that gave an impression of speed, someone on the move, windswept, almost airborne. She knew that as assistant DA she'd be asking most of the questions unless she needed Carella or Brown to fill in something specific. She wasn't expecting any problems; Pauline's lawyer looked like a dip - but, again, you never knew. Tall and thin and wearing a wrinkled brown suit that matched his watery eyes, he sat alongside Pauline at the far end of the long table, whispering something Nellie couldn't hear. The stack of steamy letters were on the table in front of her. She had read them when she'd got here. Some letters. From a woman who looked as if butter wouldn't melt.
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Carella started to read Pauline her rights again, but Kahn interrupted with a curt, "We've been through all that already, Detective," to which Carella replied, "Just for the record, Counselor," each of them using the respective titles in a way that made them sound derogative and somewhat dishonorable. Kahn gave his permission with an impatient patting of his hand on the air, and Pauline listened and affirmed that she knew her rights and that she was willing to answer the questions about to be put to her.
Carella looked up at the clock, and - for the videotape and the stenographer - announced that it was now nine-fifty p.m. Nellie began her questioning:
Q: Can you tell me your name, please?
A: Pauline Weed.
Q: Is that your full name?
A: Yes.
Q: What I'm asking you, Miss Weed . . .
A: (from Mr Kahn) She's answered the question.
Q: I don't believe she has. I'm asking if that's the name on her
birth certificate.
A: (from Mr Kahn) All right, go ahead then.
Q: Is that the name on your birth certificate? Pauline Weed?
A: No.
Q: What is the name on your birth certificate?
A: Pauline Byerly Weed.
Q: Then that's your full name.
A: Yes.
Q: Thank you. Where does the Byerly come from?
A: It was my mother's maiden . . .
A: (from Mr Kahn) Excuse me, but what's any of this got to
do with . . .?
Q: I think you'll see where I'm going, Mr Kahn.
A: Well, I wish I knew where you were going now. You drag
my client down here in the middle of the night . . .
Q: Excuse me, Mr Kahn. If your client doesn't want to answer
my questions, all she has to do is . . .
A: Oh, please, spare me First-Year Law, will you please?
Q: Just tell me what you want to do, Mr Kahn. Do you want
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the questions stopped? That's your prerogative, your client
said she understood her rights. Does she wish me to stop?
If not, please let me ask my questions, okay? A: Go ahead, go ahead, it's always the same old story. Q: Miss Weed, are you ever known by the nickname Bye? A: Sometimes.
Q: Wouldn't you say it's more than just sometimes? A: Occasionally. I would say occasionally. Q: Well, do you answer to that name? Bye? A: Yes.
Q: If I called you Bye, you'd answer to it, wouldn't you? A: Yes.
Q: What does that stand for? Bye? A: Byerly.
Q: Which, of course, is your middle name. A: Yes. Q: So it's really a common thing, isn't it? Your being called
Bye, your answering to the name Bye. A: I sometimes use the name Bye. But I'm also called Pauline.
And Byerly, too, sometimes. Q: Do you ever sign your letters with that name? A: Byerly, do you mean? Q: No, I mean Bye. Do you ever sign your letters with the
name Bye? A: Sometimes.
Q: Miss Weed, I show you copies of letters . . . A: (from Mr Kahn) May I see those, please? Q: They're copies of letters Detectives Brown and Carella
recovered from Arthur Schumacher's safe-deposit box. We
don't want the originals handled any more than they've
already been.
A: Let me see them, please. Q: Sure. Don't burn your fingers. (Questioning resumed at 10:05 p.m.) Q: Miss Weed, did you write these letters? A: No.
Q: You did not sign the name Bye to these letters? A: Nobody signed a name to those letters. Q: Yes, excuse me, you're absolutely right. Did you type the
name Bye to these letters?
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A: No, I didn't. I didn't write those letters.
Q: We have a typewriter the detectives recovered at your
>
shop . . . A: (from Mr Kahn) What typewriter? I don't see any
typewriter. Q: It's on the way to the lab, Mr Kahn. It was recovered at
Bide-A-Wee Pets at 602 Jefferson Avenue and is now being
examined as possible evidence ...
A: Evidence? Of what? %
Q: Evidence in the crime of murder. A: I don't see the connection, Ms Brand, I'm sorry. Even if
Miss Weed did write those letters. . . and I certainly hope
you have proof of that since the letters in themselves would
appear damaging to her reputation . . . Q: That's why the typewriter's at the lab, Mr Kahn. But if
you'll excuse me, we're not trying a case here, we're simply
trying to question a suspect, aren't we? So may I be
permitted to do that? Or, as I suggested earlier, do you
want me to stop the questioning right now? A: (from Miss Weed) I have nothing to hide. Q: Mr Kahn? May I take that as permission to continue? A: Sure, go ahead, it's always the same old story. Q: Miss Weed, when did you first meet Arthur Schumacher? A: January a year ago. Q: That would've been . . . what's this? A: (from Mr Carella) July thirty-first. Q: So that would've been . . . what does that come to?
Eighteen, nineteen months? A: (from Mr Carella) Eighteen. Q: Is that right, Miss Weed? A: A bit more.
Q: How did you happen to meet him? A: His wife bought a dog from me. For a Christmas present.
He came in a month later to ask about a collar. Q: And that was the start of your relationship. A: I didn't have a relationship with him. He was a customer. Q: Nothing more than that. A: Nothing.
Q: Then how do you explain these letters? A: I didn't write those letters.
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Q: You do know, do you not, that under the Miranda
guidelines . . .
A: (from Mr Kahn) Here comes First-Year Law again! Q: We are permitted to take your fingerprints, for
example . . .
A: (from Mr Kahn) I would strenuously object to that. Q: Yes, but it wouldn't change the law. Are you aware of that,
Miss Weed?
A: If you say that's the law . . . Q: I say so.
A: Then I guess it's the law. Q: Are you also aware that whereas a great many people have
already handled the originals of these letters . . . A: I didn't write those letters. Q: Whoever wrote them, the writer's fingerprints may still be
on the originals, are you aware of that? A: I don't know anything about those letters. I don't know
whose fingerprints are on those letters. Q: Have you ever seen the originals of these letters? A: No.
Q: You're sure about that. A: (Silence) Q: Miss Weed?
A: Yes. I'm sure I never saw them. Q: Then your fingerprints couldn't possibly be on them, isn't
that so?
A: They couldn't. Q: What if they are! What if we find fingerprints on the letters
and they match yours? How would you explain that, Miss
Weed? A: (Silence) Q: Miss Weed? A: (Silence)
Q: Miss Weed? Would you please answer my question? A: (Silence) Q: Lieutenant, I'd like this prisoner's fingerprints taken,
please. A: (from Mr Kahn) Hey now, wait just a minute. There's
nothing in Miranda that says you can . . . Q: Can someone please get him a copy of the guidelines?
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A: (from Mr Kahn) Now wait just a minute!
A: (from Lt Byrnes) Somebody go down to the desk, see if there's a copy of the Miranda book behind it. Miss, you want to come along now? Steve, take her prints for me, will you?
A: (from Mr Carella) Let's go, Miss.
Q: (from Ms Brand) Miss Weed?
A: (Silence)
Q: Miss Weed?
A: I loved him so much.
I didn't know he'd found someone else. I thought he'd just lost interest. That happens, you know. People fall out of love. And I was willing to accept that. If a person doesn't love you anymore, then he just doesn't. It had been a year - well a little less than a year, actually. He came into the shop that first time on the twenty-third, that was our anniversary, the twenty-third of January. So we'd had a good run. Nowadays, a year is a long time, believe me. I have girlfriends, if a man stays with them for six months they consider themselves lucky. This was almost a year. The day he told me he wanted to end it was the fifteenth of January. I'm good on dates. That was almost a year. So ...
You know.
I ...
I said okay.
I mean, what can you do? If a man doesn't love you anymore, you just have to let him go, don't you?
I kept remembering the things we did together.
The letters were fun, but that only lasted a little while, it was a hot summer.
Every now and then I'd get this other girl for him. Well, for us. I used to go to college with her. Marian. A blonde, like me . . . well, he liked blondes. But that was when I was still sure of him. I mean, it was the three of us, sure, but it was still really just the two of us, do you know what I mean? It was him and me calling the tune. Marian was just there to please us.
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We had good times together.
But when something's over, it's over, am I right? I mean, I'm not a child, I know when to call it a day. And even though I was lonely . . .
I was very lonely.
I loved him so much.
Still I ... I figured I could live with it. I had the shop, I love animals, you know. I kept myself busy. And I guess I would have been able to manage if I hadn't . . .
It was one of those things where I thought I was looking at myself in a mirror, a younger version of myself, walking up the street toward me, hanging on Arthur's arm, head thrown back in a laugh, long blonde hair and blue eyes, it was me and Arthur all over again. Only it wasn't me. It was another woman, a girl really, she couldn't have been older than twenty, reaching up to kiss him on the cheek, I turned away before he could see me. Turned my back. Started to cross the street against traffic. Horns blowing, it was terrible. When I turned back again, they were gone. Lost in the crowd. Lost.
I thought Well well.
I thought The son of a bitch already has somebody new.
It's only a month . . .
This was February the twelfth, I'm very good on dates . . .
It was only a month and already he had himself a new woman, a new girl, really, she looked so young. And then I wondered if ...
I mean, was it possible he could have found someone else so fast? I mean, only a month after we'd said goodbye? Wasn't that awfully fast? And then it occurred to me that he'd maybe had her all along, maybe he'd had her before he called it quits with me. And that bothered me. It really did. I guess I should have said the hell with it, but it really bothered me. You know how some things can just eat at you? Well, that's what this did to me. It just ate at my insides.
I mean, all the things we did together.
Jesus.
So I ...
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I guess I began following him. Because I wanted to find out how long this had been going on, you see. I mean, had he been making a fool of me all along? Did he have this girl on the side while I was writing all those letters to him, and getting other women for him . . . well, just Marian, but we did it a lot with her, we must have done it a dozen times with her at least. Had he been making a goddamn fool of me all along?
She lived in this fancy apartment building on Silvermine Oval. . . well, you know where she lived. He would go to see her maybe two, three times a week. I followed him up there. One day I asked one of the doormen, not the Saudi, whatever he is, the little one who can't speak English, this was another doorman. I told him I was sure I knew the girl who'd just gone in, a girl named Helen King, I was sure I used to work with her, and he said no, that wasn't her name, and I said I'm sure that was her, can you tell me her name, please, and he gave me that look doormen always give you, as if you're going to go in and kill somebody in their precious fucking building, and he
said, No, I can't give out names, so you see it wasn't so easy getting her name.
I began following her around, too. Not just when he was with her, Arthur, but when she was alone. Trying to find out her name, you know. It's not easy to find out somebody's name in this city, everybody's so suspicious. I finally got it at the supermarket. From following her around I knew she got all her groceries from the Food Emporium up on The Stem, filled out this little slip to have the stuff delivered. So I just made sure I got in line at the checkout behind her, and I watched while she wrote down her name and the address on the order pad, Susan Brauer, 301 Silvermine Oval, PH, bingo.
Not that I was planning to do anything.
I just wanted to know about her.
Because it kept eating at me that maybe he'd been seeing her at the same time he was telling me how much he loved me.
And then one day, I saw the other man.
Saw her and this other man together.
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This was right after Easter, the eighteenth of April, it was raining. It was the daytime. Raining hard. They came out of the building together, he'd obviously been up there with her. He had white hair, I thought he was an old man at first. I couldn't understand what she saw in him. After Arthur? This skinny little bullfighter?
They went to lunch together in an Italian restaurant on Culver. Then they went back to the apartment. They were up there all afternoon. Arthur went there later that night. She was seeing both of them, I couldn't believe it! Mott, his name was. Thomas Mott. I followed him to an antiques shop he owns on Drittel. I went in the shop one day, just to see him up close. He was younger than I'd thought, in his fifties, I guessed. Dark brown eyes in a very pale face. I told him I was interested in a Tiffany lamp. He seemed pleasant.
But you see, she'd made her one big mistake.
This was how I could get Arthur back. By telling him she was cheating on him. I mean, in all the time I knew Arthur -it was almost a year, don't forget - I never once cheated on him. Never. But here was someone he'd known since . . . well, I really didn't know how long because it could have been going on forever, for all I knew . . . but it had to have been since January at least, and here it was only April, and she was already cheating on him. So I thought I'd go talk to her. Tell her I was going to blow the whistle unless she quit seeing Arthur. Reason with her. She had one man, why did she need two? Talk to her. Reason with her. The day I went there . . .