Ed McBain_87th Precinct 47 (30 page)

Hudson—Dr. James
Melvin
Hudson, Oncology—immediately sat next to Sharyn, Kling noticed, and not him. The pair of them immediately fell into a lively
conversation about a patient Sharyn had referred to Hudson—Dr. James
Melvin
Hudson—several months back, and who, as fate would have it, had got shot dead on the street last night.

“Bert’s a detective,” Sharyn said.

“Oh, really?” Hudson said.

Kling wondered why she had thought it necessary to mention that he was a detective, whereas she hadn’t thought it necessary
to mention that Hudson was a doctor. Perhaps she was informing Hudson that her relationship with Kling was a professional
one, both of them being cops and all. In which case, why hadn’t she informed Kling that the relationship with
Hudson
was a professional one, both of them being
doctors
and all. He suddenly wondered if Dr. James Melvin Hudson was the guy she was dating tonight. He suddenly felt like kicking
him under the table.

“The irony is the man was dying of cancer, anyway,” Hudson said. “I figure he had two, three months at most.”

“Also,
the man
was such a square…”

“Letter carrier, wasn’t he?”

“Straight as an arrow.”

“Takes two in the head.”

“Was it a drive-by?”

“No, he was at home in bed, that’s the thing of it! These two guys came in and dusted him while he was asleep in bed.”

“How do they know it was two guys?”

“Landlady saw them going out.”

“Was it a mistake?”

“Looks that way. The building he lived in is full of dope dealers.”

“What a break, huh?”

“Awful. I’ve got to run,” Hudson said, and rose, and shook hands with Kling again, and said, “Nice meeting you,” and then
turned to Sharyn and said, “See you at eight.”

“Eight, Jamie,” she said, and waggled her fingers at him as he rushed off.

They were both silent for several moments.

“A mutual patient,” she said.

“Uh-huh,” Kling said.

He
was thinking
he didn’t stand a chance against Dr. James Melvin Hudson.

“Another
thing I hate about doctors,” he said.

He and Carella were standing under the theater marquee, waiting for Josie Beales to arrive. The clock in front of the hot-bed
hotel across the street read ten minutes to two. Carella’s watch read eight minutes to two. Either way, she wasn’t here yet.

“…is they think
their
time is more valuable than anyone else’s,” Kling said. “Have you ever noticed that if you’re going to a hospital for the
least little thing, they always get you there two hours beforehand? That’s so the doctor won’t waste any of
his
time, he can finish one lobotomy and rush next door to do another one. Meanwhile,
you’re
waiting there since noon for a two o’clock removal of a cyst on your ass…”

“Did you ever have a cyst on your ass?” Carella asked.

“No. On my hand once. The point is, you haven’t had anything to eat since the night before, even though this is going to be
local
anesthesia, and they drag you in two hours before to sit and wait for the
doctor’s
convenience. It doesn’t matter who you are, how important you may be, the minute you’re in a doctor’s office or a hospital,
the doctor reigns supreme. You can be working a case where a homicidal maniac has killed fourteen people with an ice pick
and he’s working on number fifteen right that minute, but the doctor’s time is more important than yours, and you can just
sit there reading last year’s magazines, pal, until he’s damn good and ready
to
sec you. I
hate
doctors.”

“Boy,” Carella said.

“I hate nurses, too. I go to a doctor’s office, the nurse right away calls me Bert. I never met her in my life, we’re all
of a sudden on a first-name basis. President of the United States goes into a doctor’s office, the nurse says, ’Have a seat,
Bill, doctor will be with you shortly.’ The only time
I
use anybody’s first name is if I know him or if he’s a thief. Nurses call anybody who walks in the office by his first name.
Sit down, Jack. Sit down, Helen. Does she call the
doctor
by his first name? Does she buzz him and say, ’Mel, Bert is here
.’
No. It’s
’Doctor
will see you shortly, Bert.’ I hate doctors
and
nurses.”

“But how do you
really
feel about them?”

“This guy doing the autopsy is supposed to be good, though,” Kling said. “Dwyer.”

“How do you know?”

“Sharyn told me.”

“Who’s…oh, Sharyn. How does
she
know?”

“She’s a doctor.”

“I thought you said she’s a cop.”

“She’s a
doctor
cop.”

“I thought you hated doctors.”

“Not Sharyn.”

“You’re a very complicated person, Bert,” Carella said. “If I may call you Bert.”

A yellow cab was pulling into the curb. The way the sun was hitting the windows, they couldn’t tell who was inside paying
the driver. They watched, waited. The door opened, and Josie Beales swiveled on the seat, reaching with one leg for the sidewalk.
She was wearing jeans, a tangerine-colored, cotton tank-top shirt with no bra, and brown sandals. Her strawberry-blond hair
was pulled hack in a ponytail, held with a brown ribbon that matched her eyes. A brown leather tote bag was slung over her
shoulder, a blue-bound copy of
Romance
jutting up out of it. She glanced at her watch as she stepped out of the cab, looked up, and saw Carella and Kling approaching
her. She appeared startled for a moment. Sunlight struck the single ruby-red earring in her left ear.

“Hi,” she said, and smiled.

Something about the smile and the way she said that single word told them they had her.

“Few questions we’d like to ask,” Carella said.

“Rehearsal starts at two,” she said, and looked at her watch again.

“Won’t take a minute.”

“Is this about Chuck last night?”

“Yes. Few other things, too.”

“Why would he have done such a thing?” she asked, and shook her head and sighed heavily. Carella had the feeling she’d done
just that in a play sometime before. Maybe
several
plays.

“This is the note he left,” he said, and took from his pocket a folded scrap of paper on which he’d copied the note in Madden’s
machine.

DEAR GOD, PLEASE FORGIVE ME

FOR WHAT I DID TOMKHELLE

“I don’t understand,” she said. “I thought you already
had
the…”

“Yes, we thought so, too,” Carella said.

Or at least
Ollie
thought so, and Nellie
Brand
thought so, and even Lieutenant
Byrnes
thought so. But they’d just found the twin to Josie’s ruby-red earring under the bed in Madden’s apartment.

“This would make it seem he’d…well…
done
something to her,” Josie said.

Carella was thinking it sometimes worked if you opened the garden gate and led them down the path.

“It would make it seem he’d
killed
her, in fact,” he said.

“Well…yes. But I thought…”

She looked at the note again.

“How do you know he wrote this?” she said. “It isn’t signed.”

“It was in his typewriter.”

“This isn’t even his handwriting,” she said.

“That’s right, it’s mine,” Carella said. “I copied it from…”

“How do you know what his handwriting looks like?” Kling asked.

“He was our stage manager. Stage managers write notes about rehearsal calls or costume fittings or whatever. Everybody on
the show knows Chuck’s handwriting.
Knew
it. Whatever. I think this is
awful
, him killing himself.”

“How about him killing Michelle?” Kling asked. “If that’s what he did.”

“Well, he doesn’t actually
say
that’s what he…”

“No.”

“In fact, the lines could be given any number of readings.”

“Lines?”

“In his note. What he says in his note. If it
is
his note. You don’t really know he wrote it for a fact, do you?”

“No, we don’t,” Carella admitted. “But
if
he did…”

“Then it would seem he killed Michelle,” Josie said
,
and did the head-shaking, heavy-sighing bit again.

“How well did he know her?” Carella asked.

“I don’t think he knew her at
all
well. I mean, she was living with her
agent
, I didn’t think…why would Chuck have killed her? What did
he
have to do with her?”

“It does seem odd, doesn’t it?”

Gently down the garden, he thought.

“I mean, he only seemed to know her
casually
,” Josie said. “I can’t believe there was anything between…”

“How well did he know
you
, Miss Beales?”

“Me?”

“Yes.”

“Why?” she asked, and looked suddenly wary.

“You said he only knew Josie casually…”

“Yes?”

“So how well did he know you?”

“The only place I ever saw him was here in the theater,” she said, and jerked her head toward the marquee.

“Do you know where he lived?” Kling asked.

“No.”

“Never mentioned where he lived?” Carella said.

“Not to me.”

“Ever been to his apartment?”

“Never. I just told you, the only place I ever saw him was in the goddamn
theater,
” she said, and jerked her head toward the marquee again, sharply this time.

“How long have you known him?”

“Two months or so.”

“When did you first meet him?”

“When l read for the part.”

“When was that?”

“Beginning of March.”

“Where?”

“Here.”

“Where were you last night at eleven-thirty?”

“What?”

“Where were…”

“I heard you. Am I going to need a lawyer here?”

“Why would you need a lawyer? All we’re doing is investigating a suicide.”

“Why are you investigating a
suicid
e to begin with? A man throws himself out the goddamn window…”

“We treat homicides and suicides in exactly the same way.”

“But
homicide’s
the operative word here, isn’t it? You show me a note you say Chuck left…”

“That’s right…”

“And it says he
did
something to Michelle. Well, what somebody
did
to Michelle was murder her. That’s
homicide,
isn’t it? What you’re trying to do here is implicate me in a goddamn
homicide!
Somebody writes a note, you don’t even know if Chuck himself wrote it, so you automatically think Ah-
ha
, we’ve caught the Mad Stabber!
She’s
the one who got Michelle’s part, so
naturally
she’s the one who put him up to killing her!”

“There’s nothing in his note about that, Miss Beales.”

“No, that’s in your
heads,
is where it is,” she said, and glanced furiously at her watch. “Are we done here?”

“Not yet. Where were you last night at eleven-thirty?”

“Asleep.”

“Where?”

“Home.”

“Alone?”

“Good title for a movie,” she said.

“Miss Beales, we don’t find anything comical about this.”

“Neither do I!” she snapped.

“So where were you?”

“Home in bed. Alone.”

“What time did you go to bed?”

“Around ten.”

“Anyone with you before that time?”

“No,”

“Talk to anyone on the phone before that time?”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“Ashley.”

“Ashley Kendall?”

“Yes.”

“What time was that?”

“Around eight-thirty.”

“What’d you talk about?”

“What do you
think
we talked about? We’ve got a
play
opening in five days.”

“Talk to anyone else before ten?”

“No.”

“How about
after
ten
^?“

“I told you…”

“Yes, but did your phone ring at any time after you went to bed?”

“No.”

“What time did you wake up this morning?”

“Eight-thirty. I had a voice lesson at ten.”

“When did you learn Mr. Madden was dead?”

“I saw it on
Good Morning America
.”

“Talk to anyone about it after that?”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“Freddie Corbin. He’d seen it on television, too.”

“Miss Beales,” Carella said, “the last time we talked to you…”

“I know. I said I was sorry for what happened to Michelle, but happy for myself. That doesn’t mean…”

“Yes, you said that, too. But you
also
mentioned losing the mate to the earring you’re wearing right this minute…”

“My good-luck earrings, yes.”

“Recognize this?” he asked, and took from his jacket pocket a sealed plastic bag marked with the word EVIDENCE and containing
the ruby-red earring they’d found in Madden’s apartment.

“Is that
mine
?” she asked.

“Looks like it.”

“I don’t understand…where’d you…?”

“Under Chuck Madden’s bed,” Carella said.

“Goodbye, fellas,” she said at once, “I’m calling my lawyer.”

L
IEUTENANT BYRNES KNEW THAT CARELLA’S DEADLINE WAS
Tuesday the fourteenth, and whereas he didn’t with to rain on Carella’s parade, he simply could not see the
logic
in this thing. Which is why he gathered them all together in his office late that Saturday afternoon. Sometimes a great notion,
he figured.

The detectives Byrnes had called in for his informal snowballing session were Carella and Kling—the two actively working the
case—and Brown, Meyer, Hawes and Parker, who’d seen enough about it on television and in the papers to believe they themselves
were working the damn thing. This was now four-forty in the afternoon, and Parker wanted to go home. Truth be known, he
always
wanted to go home, even when it wasn’t five minutes before the shift was about to be relieved.