So Long As You Both Shall Live (87th Precinct) (8 page)

The Royal Arms had never warranted its majestic name, but at one time it had at least been a reasonably habitable hotel. Situated as far uptown as it was, before World War II it had attracted a clientele consisting largely of traveling salesmen seeking clean lodgings at reasonable prices. In 1942, though, much to everyone’s surprise, a hotel went up across the street from the Royal Arms. The new hotel was called the Grand, another example of rampant hyperbole. There was speculation at the time—well, it was actually a great deal more than speculation, since five detectives working out of the Eight-Nine were busted for taking bribes, and obstructing justice, and the like. But that was in 1945, long after the Grand had established a reputation for itself and amassed a small fortune for its owners.

The mob owned the Grand Hotel.

Or so it was rumored.

This was way back then, Gertie. The mob owned the Grand, and they had opened it in the asshole end of the city only because the Hamilton Bridge was on Fifty-sixth and the River Road, some six blocks north of Hopkins Avenue—and across that bridge, in the next state, some fifteen miles from the bridge, to be exact, was an Army base full of red-blooded young American soldiers anxious to get into the city whenever they got a pass. Not to mention a harbor full of Navy ships a bit farther downtown, full to bursting with crew-cutted sailors similarly inclined, though in the Navy they called it liberty. Liberty was what could very definitely be enjoyed at the Grand Hotel in those dim dear days of World War II. Passes, too. Both liberty
and
passes could be enjoyed at the Grand. Furloughs and leaves could be enjoyed there, too. The mob sure knew how to run one hell of a swinging hotel, especially when half the detectives of the 89th Squad were being paid to look the other way. The mob didn’t even bother to put any muscle on the people who owned the Royal Arms across the street. All the mob did was set up a little nightclub in the hotel, to attract the servicemen from hither and yon.

There is nothing illegal about running a nightclub, not if you have a cabaret license, which the mob was able to get very easily, since the man fronting the operation was as clean as the day is long. The nightclub was strictly legitimate. And where you’ve got a nightclub, you’ve got to expect girls kicking up their legs on the floor, and girls showing their legs at the bar, which back in those splendid days of garter belts and nylon stockings was a sight indeed to behold. You had to expect such goings-on in a nightclub; this was, after all, the big city. So the cops weren’t being paid off merely because a few dozen girls were kicking up their legs at the nightclub bar. No, Virginia, the cops were being paid off because a few
hundred
girls were spreading their legs upstairs in the Grand’s grandly appointed boudoirs.

The Grand, in short, was what you might call a whorehouse.

And a very successful one indeed, until somebody blew the whistle on all those hardworking detectives who were looking the other way. Meanwhile, the Royal Arms kept sliding downhill because it just couldn’t compete with the acres of flesh being offered at the Grand across the street. Eventually, and long before those cops on the pad were caught, even the steady clientele of tired traveling salesmen moved over to the Grand, where rejuvenation could be had for a reasonable price. Ironically, the Grand was now one of those hotels rented by the city for use as a temporary welfare shelter; the people who lived in it were poor, but entirely respectable. It was the Royal Arms that was now a haven for prostitutes and junkies.

Albert Brice was in room 1406 at the Royal Arms.

They asked for him at the desk, and the clerk immediately recognized them as cops and asked in turn how he might possibly assist the police department of this fair city. They told him how.

At seven minutes to 5:00, Detective Hal Willis knocked on the door to room 1406. Carella stood just to his right, his gun drawn. They had talked this one over on the way to the Grand, and had decided to use extreme caution in approaching Al Brice. Normally, knowing the man was armed, they’d have kicked the door in without announcing themselves, and they’d have fanned out into the room hoping to get the drop on Brice before he could use the Magnum. The .38 didn’t frighten them much (like hell it didn’t), but the Magnum was a weapon to respect. The Magnum could literally tear off a leg or an arm or a goodly portion of the head. They did not want a trigger-happy ex-con cutting loose with a Magnum. They would not have wanted that even if Brice had been alone in the room.

But Brice was not alone. Brice had checked in with a woman at or around midnight last night, a half-hour after Augusta Blair Kling had been abducted from her hotel room. The woman accompanying Brice could have been anyone in the universe, of course; there was no real reason to believe she was Augusta. But Carella and Willis had to operate on the theory that she
was
in fact Augusta, or at least might possibly
be
Augusta. And if the woman in room 1406 was Augusta, the last thing they wanted was a hail of exchanged bullets. So they had asked the desk clerk to call the room and tell Brice the plumber was there to check that faucet, and Brice had said, “
What
faucet? What the hell are you talking about?” and the desk clerk had simply told him he’d send the plumber right up. Had the Royal Arms been a fancier hotel, Willis might have pretended he was a bellhop. The truth of the matter, though—sad to relate—was that the Royal Arms didn’t
have
a bellhop, and so Willis knocked on the door, and when Brice called, “Who is it?” Willis said, “The plumber.”

“I didn’t ask for no plumber,” Brice said. He was just behind the door now.

“Yeah, but we got to fix the faucet, mister,” Willis said. “That’s a city regulation, we’ll get a fine we don’t fix it.”

“Well, come back later,” Brice said.

“I can’t come back later. I go off at five.”

“Shit,” Brice said, and he unlocked the door and opened it wide.

“Police officer,” Willis said. “Don’t move.”

Brice seemed
about
to move, in fact, but he changed his mind the moment he saw the gun in Willis’s fist.

“What is this?” he asked, which was a reasonable question.

The two detectives were inside the room now. Carella closed and locked the door behind him. There was a rumpled bed opposite the door, but no one was in it.

“Where’s the woman?” Willis asked.

“In the john,” Brice said. “What the hell
is
this, would you mind telling me?”

“Get her out here,” Carella said.

“Come on out!” Brice yelled.

“Who is it?” a woman asked from behind the closed bathroom door.

“It’s the fuzz. Come on out here, okay?”

“Well, okay,” she said. The door opened. The woman was naked. Well, almost naked. She was wearing blue stockings rolled to the knees, and she was wearing red high-heeled shoes. She was perhaps twenty-seven or twenty-eight, a woman who may have been considered pretty once upon a time, when knights roamed the earth and chivalry was the order of the day. But chivalry was dead, and so was the girl’s spirit, slain in a thousand shoddy hotel rooms by a succession of faceless men, slain too by the tread marks running up and down the inside of both arms. The girl looked exactly like both of the things she was—a junkie and a hooker. There was nothing exciting about her nakedness. The detectives had seen naked corpses with as much life.

“Anybody else here?” Carella asked.

“There’s nobody else here,” Brice said. “Just the two of us.”

“Hal?” Carella said, and Willis went to check out the bathroom.

“What’s the beef?” Brice asked.

“Where were you all day yesterday?” Carella asked.

“Why?”

“Here it is straight,” Carella said. “Something happened to a policeman’s wife. The policeman is somebody you know. So where were you yesterday?”

“Who’s the policeman? Never mind, don’t tell me. The son of a bitch who killed my brother, am I right?”

“That’s right.”

“What happened to his wife? I hope somebody—”

“Where were you yesterday, Al?”

“
Mister
Brice, if you don’t mind. I done my time, I’m a private citizen now, you can call me
Mister
Brice.”

“Where were you yesterday, and cut the bullshit. We know you’ve got a pair of weapons in this room, and unless you’ve got a permit for them…”

“You find a gun in this room, I’ll
eat
the fucking thing. Who told you I’ve got a gun in here?”

Willis came out of the bathroom, nodded to Carella, and then crossed the room to open the closet door.

“Let’s start with three o’clock yesterday, okay?” Carella said.

“Let’s start with
shit,
” Brice said. “I was with Jenny all day yesterday. Whatever happened to Kling’s wife—”

“You know his name, huh, Al?” Willis asked from the closet.

“I’ll never forget that prick’s name as long as I live,” Brice said.

“How about it, Jenny?”

“He was with me,” Jenny said.

“All day long?”

“All day.”

“You didn’t happen to go to a wedding, did you?”

“No,” Jenny said.

“Where
did
you go?”

“We were up my apartment,” Jenny said.

“If you’ve got your own apartment, why’d you come here?”

“’Cause I got a roommate, and she came home around eleven, and Al and me still wanted to be together.”

“What’s your roommate’s name?” Carella asked.

“Glenda.”

“Glenda what?”

“Glenda Manning.”

“Is that her real name?”

“It’s real enough. It’s what’s in the mailbox.”

“Where?”

“1142 Jericho.”

“Is she there now?”

“I don’t know where she is.”

“Is there a phone in the apartment?”

“Why?”

“Because I want to call her and ask her if you and Al were there last night when she came in at eleven.”

“Sure, go ahead,” Jenny said. “The number’s Halifax 4-3071.”

Carella went to the room phone and lifted the receiver. The desk clerk came on, and he told him what number he wanted. From the closet, Willis said, “No guns in the room, huh, Al? What do you suppose these are?” He held up a holstered .38 and a .357 Magnum wrapped in flannel, its long barrel protruding from the folds of the cloth.

“I don’t know, what are they?” Brice said.

“They’re a pair of kosher pickles,” Willis said.

“I never seen them before in my life.”

“Never, huh?”

“Never,” Brice said. “Must belong to the guy who checked out.”

“Mm-huh,” Willis said.

Into the phone, Carella said, “Let me talk to Glenda Manning, please.”

“This is Glenda,” a woman’s voice said.

“This is Detective Steve Carella,” he said. “I want to ask you some questions.”

“Yes, officer, what about?” Glenda said. “If someone has made a complaint about this telephone number…”

“This isn’t the Vice Squad,” Carella said. “Relax.”

“Why shouldn’t I relax, anyway?” Glenda said. “Even if it
is
the Vice Squad.”

“Glenda, where were you at eleven o’clock last night?” Carella asked.

“Why?”

“Routine investigation,” he said. “Where were you?”

“Here.”

“Were you there all night?”

“No.”

“What time did you get there?”

“Just
about
eleven, in fact.”

“Can anybody verify that?”

“Sure.”

“Who?”

“My roommate and her boyfriend. They were here when I come in.”

“That was about eleven o’clock, you say?”

“That’s right. We had a cup of coffee together, and then they left around a quarter to twelve.”

“Okay, Glenda.”

“Why, what happened?” Glenda asked.

“Nothing.”

“Then why do you want to know where I was at eleven o’clock last night?”

“Forget it,” Carella said. “You’ve got nothing to worry about.” He put the phone back on the cradle.

“Okay, Al,” Willis said, “where’d you get these pieces?”

“They’re not mine. I already told you. Somebody must’ve left them in the room here.”

Willis sighed.

Carella looked at him.

“Worth the collar?” Willis asked.

“Any other time, yeah,” Carella said. “Right now, we don’t need the headache. So long, Brice, keep your nose clean. We get anything even
smelling
of those pieces, we’ll be knocking on your door.”

Willis threw both guns onto the bed.

“Nice meeting you, miss,” he said.

“My pleasure,” she answered unconvincingly.

By twenty minutes to midnight, Fat Ollie Weeks had almost reached the end of the trail. With the help of Kling, Cutler, and Pike, he had matched up photographs of husbands and wives, boyfriends and girl friends, boyfriends and boyfriends, and (in one instance) girl friend and girl friend. He had been left with pictures of four unidentified men and three unidentified women, and he had then gone over the invitation list in search of men and women who had been invited
alone
to the wedding and reception. There were eighteen such names on the list. Kling told him that all of the invited singles had been encouraged to bring a guest if they liked. So when Ollie left the hotel, he had a list of the eighteen in his pocket, together with photographs of the unidentified seven. By twenty minutes to midnight, he had checked out seventeen of the eighteen names, and had identified all but one person—a blond young man who’d appeared in several of the photographs taken at the church, but in none of the photographs taken at the reception. Ollie’s task might have been a tedious one had it not been for two things: (1) he actually
liked
legwork, and (2) all of the women he spoke to that night were beautiful.

The last person on his list was a woman named Linda Hackett, and he knew
she
wasn’t beautiful because she’d been pointed out to him in photographs taken at the wedding and the reception. “Miss Linda Hackett,” as she’d been referred to by both Cutler and Pike (as though they were somehow referring to royalty), was the editor of a fashion magazine, a formidable-looking broad in her early sixties, substantial of bosom (the way a pouter pigeon is), harsh of eye, fierce of visage, and (according to Cutler) probably cloven of hoof as well. Ollie was tired. All he wanted to do was go home, pour himself a drink, watch some television, and then go to sleep. But the possibility existed that Miss Linda Hackett had needed an escort for the festivities yesterday, and had asked the blond young man to serve in that capacity. Ollie rang the doorbell.

“Who is it?” a woman’s voice asked.

“It’s the police, miss,” Ollie said.

“The police?”

“Yes, miss.”

“Just a minute.”

He waited. He heard her unlocking the door, and then the door opened just a crack, restrained by a night chain. He held up his shield. “Detective Oliver Weeks,” he said. “I’d like to talk to Miss Linda Hackett, please.”

“I am Miss Linda Hackett.”

“Miss Hackett,” he said, “I would like to ask you a few questions, if you wouldn’t mind taking off the chain and letting me in.”

“It’s almost midnight,” she said. “I was just getting ready for bed.”

“I shall try to be as brief as possible,” Ollie said, and cleared his throat.

“Well…”

“Please, Miss Hackett, this is of extreme importance.”

“All right,” she said. “But you’ll have to wait a minute.”

“Certainly,” he said.

She closed the door. Ollie figured she was going to put on a bathrobe or something. He further figured that a woman, for some strange reason, sometimes took ten or twelve minutes to put on a bathrobe, whereas the same action usually took a man a minute and a half. Sighing, he pulled a cigarette from the package in his breast pocket, lit it, and had smoked it down almost to the filter tip when he heard the night chain being taken off the door. He ground out the butt, and looked at his watch. It was ten minutes to 12:00. Miss Linda Hackett opened the door.

If anything, she seemed much more formidable in person than she had in her photographs. The photographs had given no real impression of height, but standing outside her door, Ollie realized she was at least five feet ten inches tall, if not taller, and rather wide of shoulder. Her face was rock-hard, her nose, mouth, and massive jaw chiseled from Mount Rushmore. She possessed all the delicate femininity and grace of a roller-derby queen or a female wrestler—and yet she was the editor of one of the most influential fashion magazines in the world.

“Come in,” she said.

Sighing, Ollie followed her into the living room and took a seat beside her on the sofa. He took out his photographs, cleared his throat again, and by way of preamble said, “I am going to show you some pictures taken at Augusta Blair’s wedding yesterday, and I am going to ask you if you recognize the young man in these photographs.”

“Why?” Miss Linda Hackett asked.

“I can’t tell you why,” Ollie said.

“You come here in the middle of the night—”

“Yes, but—”

“All right, let me see the pictures. You people really take the cake. Where the hell were you when my apartment was robbed last July?”

“Burglarized,” Ollie said.

“Yes, where the hell were you then?”

“This is not my precinct,” Ollie said. “My precinct is the Eight-Three.”

“Then what are you doing here in the middle of the night with pictures for me to look at?”

“Well,” Ollie said, “it’s too complicated to explain.”

“I’ll just
bet
it is,” she said. “Let me see the damn pictures. I’ve got an eight o’clock meeting tomorrow morning, do you know that?”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize that,” Ollie said.

“Let me see the damn pictures.”

He showed her the pictures.

“This is the man,” he said. “This blond man. Do you know him?”

“This one?”

“Yes.”

“Who is he supposed to be?”

“Huh? What do you mean?” Ollie asked.

“Well, what’s he
done?
Did he rob one of the guests or something?”

“I’m not at liberty to tell you anything about the case,” Ollie said. “Do you recognize him?”

“Let me see those other pictures. Are they all of him?”

“Yes.”

“Let me see them. Where were these taken? At the church?”

“Yes.”

“Mm,” she said, and studied the pictures.

The man in question seemed to be in his late twenties, a thin-faced man with longish, straight blond hair and light eyes. In each of the pictures he was staring directly ahead of him, his mouth unsmiling.

“What’s he
looking
at?”

“Well, those were taken inside the church,” Ollie said. “He was probably watching the ceremony.”

“He looks very creepy,” she said, and suddenly looked up. “Don’t you think he looks creepy?”

“Yes, he does,” Ollie said.

“Jesus, he looks creepy,” she said, and shuddered.

“Do you recognize him?” Ollie said.

“No,” she said.

He was sitting just inside the door.

Augusta had heard him entering the room some ten minutes ago. He had not said anything in all that time, but she knew he was sitting there, watching her. When his voice came, it startled her.

“Your husband has blond hair,” he said.

She nodded. She could not answer him because he had replaced the gag the moment they’d concluded their earlier conversation, though he had not bothered to stuff anything into her mouth this time, had only wrapped the thick adhesive tape tightly across it and around the back of her head. That had been sometime after 3:30; he had mentioned the time to her. She was ravenously hungry now, and knew she would accept food if he offered it to her. She made a sound deep in her throat to let him know she wished him to remove the gag again. He either did not hear her or pretended not to.

“What color do you think my hair is?” he asked.

She shook her head. She knew what color his hair was, of course; she had seen it when he’d burst hatless into the hotel room. His hair was blond. And his eyes above the surgical mask…

“You do not know?” he asked.

Again she shook her head.

“Ah, but you
saw
me,” he chided gently. “At the hotel.
Surely
you noticed the color of my hair.”

She made a sound behind the gag again.

“Something?” he asked.

She lifted her chin, twisted her head, tried to indicate to him that she wished the gag removed from her mouth. And in doing so, felt completely dependent upon him, and felt again a helpless rage.

“Ah, the adhesive,” he said. “Do you wish the adhesive removed? Is that it?”

She nodded.

“You wish to talk to me?”

She nodded again.

“I will not talk to you if you continue to lie,” he said, and she heard him rising from the chair. A moment later she heard him closing and locking the door to the room.

He did not return for what seemed like a very long time.

“Augusta?” he whispered. “Are you asleep?”

She shook her head.

“Do you know what time it is?”

She shook her head again.

“It’s two o’clock in the morning. You should try to sleep, Augusta. Or would you prefer to talk?”

She nodded.

“But you must not lie to me again. You lied to me earlier. You said you didn’t know what color my hair is. You
do
know what color it is, don’t you?”

Wearily, she nodded.

“Shall I remove the adhesive? You must promise not to scream. Here,” he said, “feel.” He had moved to her side, and she felt now the cold steel of the scalpel against her throat. “You know what that is,” he said. “I will use it if you scream. So,” he said, and slid the blade flat under the adhesive, and then twisted it, and cut the tape, and pulled it free.

“Thank you,” she said.

“You’re quite welcome,” he said. “Are you hungry?”

“Yes.”

“I thought you might be. You need not be afraid of me, Augusta.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” she lied.

“I shall prepare you something to eat in a moment.”

“Thank you.”

“What color is my hair, Augusta? Please don’t lie this time.”

“Blond,” she said.

“Yes. And my eyes?”

“Blue.”

“You had a very good look at me.”

“Yes.”

“Why did you lie? Were you worried that if you could identify me, I might harm you?”

“Why would you want to harm me?” she asked.

“Is that what you thought? That I might harm you?”

“Why am I here?” she asked.

“Augusta, please, you are making me angry again,” he said. “When I ask you something, please answer it. I know you have many questions, but
my
questions come first, do you understand that?”

“Yes,” she said.

“
Why
do my questions come first?” he asked.

“Because…” She shook her head. She did not know what answer he wanted from her.

“Because I am the one who has the scalpel,” he said.

“Yes,” she said.

“And you are the one who is helplessly bound.”

“Yes.”

“Do you realize
just
how helpless you are, Augusta?”

“Yes.”

“I
could
in fact harm you if I wished to.”

“But you said…”

“Yes, what did I say?”

“That you wouldn’t harm me.”

“No, I did not say that, Augusta.”

“I thought…”

“You must listen more carefully.”

“I thought that was what you said.”

“No. If you weren’t so intent on asking questions of your own, then perhaps you would listen more carefully.”

“Yes, I’ll try to listen,” she said.

“You must.”

“Yes.”

“I did
not
say I wouldn’t harm you. I asked if you
thought
I might harm you. Isn’t that so?”

“Yes, I remember now.”

“And you did not answer my question. Would you like to answer it now? I’ll repeat it for you. I asked if—”

“I remember what you asked.”

“Please don’t interrupt, Augusta. You make me very impatient.”

“I’m sorry, I…”

“Augusta, do you want me to put the adhesive on again?”

“No. No, I don’t.”

“Then please speak only when I
ask
you to speak. All right?”

“Yes, all right.”

“I asked you why you lied to me. I asked whether you were worried that I might harm you if you could identify me.”

“Yes, I remember that.”

“Is that why you lied to me, Augusta?”

“Yes.”

“But surely I
had
to know you’d seen me.”

“Yes, but you were wearing a surgical mask. I still don’t really know what you look like. The mask covered—”

“You’re trying to protect yourself again, aren’t you?” he said. “By saying you still don’t know what I look like?”

“I suppose so, yes. But it’s true, you know. There
are
lots of people with blond hair and…”

“But you
are
trying to protect yourself?”

“Yes. Yes, I am. Yes.”

“Because you still feel I might harm you.”

“Yes.”

“I might indeed,” he said, and laughed. He seized her chin then, and taped her mouth again, and swiftly left the room.

On the floor, Augusta began trembling violently.

She heard the key turning in the lock, and then the door opened. He came to where she was lying near the wall, and stood there silently for what seemed like a very long time.

“Augusta,” he said at last, “I do not wish to keep you gagged. Perhaps if I explain your situation, you will realize how foolish it would be to scream. We are in a three-story brownstone, Augusta, on the top floor of the building. The first two floors are rented by a retired optometrist and his wife. They go to Florida at the beginning of November each year. We are quite alone in the building, Augusta. The room we are in was a very large pantry at one time. I have used it for storage ever since I moved into the apartment. It is quite empty now. I emptied it last month, after I decided what had to be done. Do you understand?”

She nodded.

“Fine,” he said, and cut the tape and pulled it free. She did not scream, but only because she was afraid of the scalpel. She did not believe for a moment that they were alone together in a three-story brownstone; if indeed he did not gag her again, she would scream as soon as he left her alone in the room.

“I’ve made you some soup,” he said. “You shall have to sit up. I shall have to untie your hands.”

“Good,” she said.

“You wish your hands untied?”

“Yes.”

“And your feet, too?”

“Yes.”