Fat Ollie's Book (15 page)

First off, he was very handsome…

“I don't know any detectives who are handsome,” he said.

I know one,
she said.

He took her hands, kissed first one, and then the other.

“I have to make one phone call,” he said. “Then we can have some lunch and start home. Will you be okay here?”

If I have any more coffee, I won't be
able
to eat lunch,
she said.

“This'll take maybe ten, fifteen minutes,” he said.

Morgan found him a phone in a private little office, and provided him with an 800 number to call for American Express. The woman at the other end wanted to know how she could tell for sure he was a police detective. He gave her his shield number, gave her the number at the precinct, gave her his lieutenant's name, even gave her the name of the Chief of Detectives and the number to call at Headquarters to verify that he was for real. She asked him to hold while she talked to her supervisor.

Carella waited.

The woman came back some five minutes later.

“Sorry, Detective Carella,” she said, “we have to check. What can I do for you?”

He explained what she could do for him.

 

AT LUNCH
, he told Teddy what he had learned today.

“He was definitely here with the girl. One of the maids saw him kissing her while they were waiting for an elevator.”

Romantic,
Teddy signed.

“Very. Unless you're married to someone else.”

You'd better never,
she said.

“My guess is she checked into a separate room, snuck down the hall each night to sleep with him.”

Like the English do,
Teddy said.
At country houses on weekends down from London.

“Yes, exactly like the English do,” he said. “How do you know what the English do in country houses on weekends?”

Movies,
she said, and shrugged.

“His Sunday morning room service charge was for
two
breakfasts. Bit careless, huh?”

Not if you don't think anyone'll come around checking.

“American Express gave me two restaurant charges for him. One for dinner on Saturday night, the other for dinner on Sunday. Nothing for lunch Saturday, that's when he was with the Governor. The Saturday night dinner cost two hundred bucks…”

Teddy rolled her eyes.

“You said it. Dinner on Sunday was a hundred and eighty. These were the best restaurants in town, but he couldn't have been alone unless he had an enormous appetite.”

Teddy nodded agreement.

“I'd like to check both restaurants, if you still have the patience. What it looks like, he sent his aide home, dallied with the blonde on Saturday and Sunday nights, and then…”

You didn't mention she was a blonde.

“A blonde, yes.”

Do you like blondes?

“Everyone likes blondes.”

How about
you?
We're talking about
you
here. Do
you
like blondes?

“I like brunettes with big brown eyes and enormous appetites.”

Am I eating too much?

“Not if you're hungry.”

I'm very hungry. How about one of these women who sign to the deaf on television shows? The ones you see on the side of the screen in a little box?

“Hey,” he said. “Now
that's
a good idea.”

You think so?

“I really do.”

Wouldn't I have to hear what the anchors are saying?

“They work from scripts. You'll have a script.”

Is that what they do?

“Absolutely.”

The problem is…

Her hands stopped.

“What?” he said.

I'm not pretty enough,
she said, and shrugged.

“You're beautiful,” he said.

Her eyes were suddenly brimming with tears.

But worthless,
she signed.

He reached across the table and took her hands.

“Beautiful and valuable,” he said.

To you.

“To anyone with any sense at all,” he said, and got up in the crowded restaurant and walked around the table and tilted her face to his, and kissed her on the lips.

Someone across the room applauded.

 

THE MAITRE D' AT
Amboise, the restaurant Henderson and his little blond friend had dined at on Saturday night, remembered the couple well.

“Yes indeed,” he said. “He was a man in his late forties, I'd say, short, slim, with one of those haircuts you see on all those television politicians. They ought to get new barbers, don't you think?”

“And the woman with him?”

“Oh, very pretty. Very. A young blond girl, I thought at first she was his daughter.”

“What changed your mind?”

“Well, to begin with, he asked for a quiet table. And the girl said, ‘A
romantic
table, please,' and squeezed his arm, you know the way they do. He ordered a bottle of champagne before dinner, and when they toasted, they looped their arms through each other, you know, hooked their arms together, and brought their heads close over the table, whispering to each other, you know the way they do. And they were holding hands all through dinner, and…well, to put it plainly, they were behaving like sweethearts. I've never seen a father and daughter behave that way, and I've been in this business thirty-one years now.”

“How old would you say she was?”

“Eighteen? Nineteen? No older than that.”

“You didn't happen to hear her name, did you?”

“No, I didn't.”

“Wouldn't have heard him calling her ‘Carrie,' would you?”

“I'm sorry, no.”

“What time did they leave here?”

“Well, the reservation was for eight, I think they left at around nine-thirty, it must have been. He had his arm around her. They were definitely not father and daughter. He told me the food had been delicious, and the girl said, ‘Oh, yesss,' gushing, you know the way they do. Well, I'm
sure
she enjoyed the meal, she came back for lunch the next day.”

“What do you mean? He brought her here again on Sun…?”

“No, no. She was here alone. The girl. She came back alone. Walked in at about twelve-thirty, asked for the same table they'd had the night before. I was happy to oblige. We don't get much of a lunch crowd.”

“How did she pay?” Carella asked.

“Credit card,” the maitre d' said.

“I don't suppose…”

“Let me check.”

 

THE NAME ON
the credit card was Carolyn Harris.

This did not jibe with the JSH monogram on the stationery, but then again it never had, and now at least they had a last name.

And a first one, too, for that matter.

Carella called Kling from the train station and told him what he had. Kling said he'd get on it right away. The time was four fifty-nine, and the clock was ticking: Carella's train left at five-oh-seven.

Kling could find no listing for a Carolyn Harris in any of the city's phone directories.

Her credit card company adamantly refused to reveal her address. Kling told a supervisor in Arizona or wherever the hell she was that he would have to petition for a court order. She told him she was sorry he felt that way, but she had to protect the confidentiality of their clients, and so on and so forth, but at least she was live, which was better than listening to a menu with four hundred choices. But she knew damn well he would not petition for a court order.

Instead, he went down the list of the stores carrying Letter Perfect stationery, dialing each one in order, this time asking each and every one of them to please check for any monogrammed stationery order with the last name “Harris,” the first initial “J,” and the middle initial “S.”

Each of the stores promised to get back to him.

One of them phoned at six-thirty that Saturday night, just as Kling was about to leave the squadroom.

The woman on the phone told him they'd taken that particular stationery order six months ago, on the phone, from a charge customer named Joanna Susan Harris, who lived in Fort Lauderdale, Florida. Kling wrote down her address, dialed 411 for information, and phoned her not a moment later. He told her who he was, and then asked if she had a daughter named Carolyn.

“What is it?” Mrs. Harris said at once. “Has something happened to her?”

“No, ma'am,” Kling said, “she's fine. But we're investigating a case here…”

“Has she done something wrong?”

“No, no, please, believe me, she's not in any sort of trouble. We'd like to ask her some questions about the victim, though, a man we think she may have known.”

There was a long silence on the line. When Mrs. Harris spoke again, she sounded suddenly very distant.

“I see,” she said.

“Would you know where we can reach her, ma'am?”

“Why?”

“So we can…”

“Is she going to need a lawyer?” Mrs. Harris asked.

“I don't think so. Why would she need a lawyer?”

“You said victim.”

“Yes, ma'am, this is a homicide we're investigating.”

Another long silence. Then:

“Is she a suspect?”

“No, ma'am.”

“Then why…?”

“We're tracking the victim's whereabouts, we think your daughter may have been with him on the day before the murder.”

“Then she
is
a suspect.”

“No, ma'am, I would not say she's a suspect.”

“I won't give you her address,” Mrs. Harris said, and hung up.

He called her back at once.

“Mrs. Harris,” he said, “don't hang up on me again, okay? This is a homicide we're investigating, and we need to know your daughter's address. If I can't get it from you on the phone, then I'll go to the Grand Jury here for a subpoena compelling you to testify. Our DA will make a call to the prosecutor in Broward or Dade, or wherever you are, and he'll go to a local court for an order supporting the subpoena. Next thing you know, there'll be a sheriff on your doorstep, and you'll be flying up here to face the Grand Jury, who'll either get the address from you or charge you with contempt. Air travel is no picnic these days, ma'am, so why not save all of us a lot of trouble and give me the address right here and now?”

“You are a bully, young man,” Mrs. Harris said.

But she gave him the address.

The trouble with Livvie's city was that it was imaginary. The people, the places in her pages were all fictitious. For all Emilio knew, even the police routine was phony and not based on established investigatory technique. He realized that this was what she'd had to do in order to throw the bad guys off her track, but man it certainly made things difficult for a person trying to rescue her.

He thought of himself as her rescuer.

Her savior.

Her knight in shining armor.

The person who would kick in the door to that basement, wherever the hell it was, clutching her brave report in his hands and crying, “I'm here, Olivia, what ho!”

Was what they cried in novels and movies.

But, still, he wished she hadn't made it so damn complicated. Things were complicated enough these days without imaginary cities with imaginary places in them. For example…

Where was this bar two blocks from Livvie's station house?

And where was this factory across the river?

He had just learned from reading her report yet another time that there was a ladies underwear factory across the river, which was exciting in itself, all garter belts and panties and such. He supposed “dee River Dowd” was the River Dix in real life, and he further guessed that the “Queen Elizabeth side” of the river was Majesta, directly over the bridge. But none of this brought him any closer to finding the basement Livvie was trapped in.

He wondered if he should read her report yet another time from top to bottom because, to tell the truth, it was very lively reading and it gave him some very keen insights into the workings of a woman's mind, which he could use in his business, as it were, or even was. On the other hand, wouldn't it be more profitable to take a stroll over the bridge, scope the neighborhood there, see if there was anything that even
sounded
like Rêve du Jour Underwear Factory at 2144 Riverview Place, which of course was a phony street name in Livvie's imaginary city.

He wondered if Aine would like to come with him.

Sometimes, if you offered a dealer a two-fer, he gave you a break on the price.

Emilio let her phone ring a dozen times.

Either she was out looking for a bar two blocks from a police precinct, or else she was laying on the floor stoned out of her mind.

So he headed for the bridge all by his lonesome.

 

THE STREETS ON
either side of the Majesta Bridge were perhaps among the noisiest in the entire city. Teeming with vehicular traffic, the approaches to the bridge seemed miles long, although in actuality they measured only several blocks. The din was relentless. Taxis, trucks, passenger cars honked their horns incessantly.

The building Carolyn Harris lived in was in the shadow of the bridge. If Emilio Herrera had looked down as he started across the bridge that morning at ten, he would have seen two detectives talking to the doorman outside. He wouldn't have recognized them, and in any case he wouldn't have known they were detectives. Emilio had met many detectives in his checkered career, but not these two. Besides, the only detective on his mind right now was Olivia Wesley Watts.

The doorman was telling Carella and Kling that he'd seen Miss Harris leaving the building for church at a quarter to nine this morning. He expected she'd be back by eleven. What she usually did was go to nine o'clock mass, take holy communion, and then have breakfast afterward at a deli on Bradley.

“Did she do that last week, too?” Kling asked.

“No, sir,” the doorman said. “She was out of town last week.”

“Bradley and where?” Carella asked.

They recognized her at once because she was the only blonde eating in the place, sitting in a booth, her back to the entrance doors. They debated just going in and sitting opposite her in the booth, and then decided to wait outside until she'd finished her breakfast. They let her walk a respectable distance from the deli, and then caught up with her on the street corner. Even on a Sunday, the noise was horrific.

“Miss Harris?” Carella said.

She turned, surprised.

She was sporting a shiner the color of Burgundy wine.

“Yes?” she said.

“Detective Carella,” he said, and flashed the tin. “My partner, Detective Kling.”

She knew at once.

“This is about Lester, isn't it?” she said.

“Yes, miss, it's about Lester. What happened to your eye?”

“Nothing. A bee stung me.”

Which was perhaps more inventive than “I walked into a door,” or “I got hit with a tennis ball,” or “I fell off the toilet bowl,” or any one of the dozen or more reasons abused women found to alibi the men who were abusing them.

Carella let it pass. For now.

“Few questions we'd like to ask you,” he said. “If you've got a minute.”

They walked several blocks downtown and then south to the river where a pocket park nestled at the water's edge. The noise was less frightful here; it merely sounded like distant thunder. Across the river, they could see Majesta with its factories and smoke stacks. They did not know, nor would it have meant anything to them, that at about that time, Emilio Herrera was just leaving the bridge's footpath and coming down the steps to the street below.

“How did you find me?” Carrie asked.

“The stationery,” Carella said.

“My mother's,” she said, and nodded. “I shouldn't have used her stationery. She let me take some home with me when I went down to see her last winter. She lives in Florida, you know…well, I guess you
do
know if that's how you got to me, her stationery.”

“Miss Harris,” Carella said, “where were you last week at around this time?”

“I was with Lester Henderson.”

“Where?”

“The Raleigh Hotel. Upstate. The capital.”

“You had a room at the Raleigh, did you?”

“Yes. But we spent most of the time in his room.”

“Did you have dinner with him last Saturday night, at a restaurant called Amboise?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Did you go back there for lunch alone the next day? Sunday?”

“Yes.”

“And did you have dinner with him that Sunday night at a restaurant called The Unicorn?”

“Yes, I did. We did.”

“Did you spend Sunday night with him as well?”

“Yes.”

“Did you accompany him home on Monday morning?”

“Yes, we took the same plane back to the city, yes.”

“The same early plane.”

“Seven-ten, it was, I believe.”

“Then what, Miss Harris?”

“I don't know what you mean.”

“Where did you go from the airport?”

“Home.”

She looked surprised. Where do you think I went? Where would you go from the airport? You'd go home, wouldn't you? Well, that's where I went. Home.

“You didn't go to King Memorial, did you?”

“No, of course not. Lester went his way, I went mine. He's married, you know.”

Carella refrained from saying, Yes,
I
know. Did
you
know?

“What happened to your eye?” he asked again.

“I told you. I got stung by a bee.”

“When?”

“When?”

Again the surprised look. What difference does it make
when
I got stung? Did you ever get stung by a bee? Then don't ask me
when
I got stung!

“Yes,” Carella said. “When?”

“Last night, okay?”