At first, Santo thought he could hold out on her. Okay, you bitch, you want to keep me prisoner on this fuckin island with a fuckin German shepherd roaming the grounds, okay, you know what you're gonna get from me? You're gonna get this. sister, that's what you're gonna get, you're gonna get nothin, zero, zilch, nada, bubkes, that's what! But when she came in to make love that first time-this was maybe two or three weeks after she bought the dog-she locked the doors behind her, both doors, and then hung the keys on Clarence's collar, and said, "Sit, Clarence," and the fuckin mutt sat just inside the door, and watched her as she walked to the bed. She was wearing a pale blue nightgown, nothing under it, he could see her body through the thin nylon, a beautiful body, it was her body that had attracted him to her in the first place, tall and slender, with good breasts and long legs, she came to the bed and sat on the edge of it and said, "Don't you want to make love, Santo?" and he told her he didn't want to make love, he wouldn't make love to anybody who kept him prisoner with a goddamn dog named Clarence ready to bite him, get the dog out of here, get out of here yourself, I don't want to make love to a bitch like you!

  But… you know… it had been almost three weeks already, three weeks since he'd had any woman at all, three weeks since they'd been going at it day and night, and here she was now, crawling onto the bed beside him, and wriggling out of the gown, and then taking him in her hands, and then in her mouth, and then suddenly moving away from him, rolling onto her back and throwing her legs wide the way she had that night in the kitchen, and suddenly he was on top of her and not caring whether he was her prisoner or her slave or whatever, only wanting her, wanting her, and hating himself for wanting her.

  He dreamed constantly of escape. He held back a fork from his tray one time-she never let him have a knife, the bitch, his food was always cut for him when she brought it in-kept the fork and tried digging a hole in the bathroom wall, get out of this fuckin room into the basement, get around the dog somehow, but the fork broke on the cinderblock, and when she found it missing later, she punished him again, there was always the punishment when he did something wrong, something she thought was wrong. Another time, he pretended he was sick, stuck his finger down his throat and vomited all over the floor, told her he thought he had appendicitis or something, figured if he could get her to call a doctor… but no, she told him no doctor, she made him wipe up the vomit, he said he was going to die, she said, "No, you're not going to die." Always dreaming of escape. Get out of here, get to the boat. Get free.

  He heard a key turning in the inner door. He waited. The door opened. She stood there holding Clarence's leash in one hand. She smiled, led Clarence into the room, said, "Sit, Clarence," and then went out into the corridor for Santo's tray of food. She carried it to the coffee table in front of the couch, put it down, and-still smiling-said, "Are you hungry, sweetie?"

  He did not answer her. He sat immediately and began eating.

  "Did you miss me?" she asked.

  He still said nothing. He continued wolfing down the food. From across the room, just inside the door, Clarence sat on his haunches and watched.

  "I had some business to take care of in the city," she said.

  "I'm not interested," he said.

  "I thought you might be."

  "I'm not."

  She shrugged, went to the door, and took the dog's leash in her hand again. "I'll be back later," she said.

  "You ever wonder what would happen if you should die?" he asked suddenly, looking up from the food on his tray. "I'd starve to death in here, do you realize that?"

  "Yes, I do," she said. "But don't worry, sweetie, we've got a good long life ahead of us."

  He said nothing.

  "What shall I wear later?" she asked.

  "I don't care what you wear," he said.

  "What's your favorite? I want to make you happy tonight."

  "You can make me happy by leaving me alone."

  "I don't believe that."

  "Believe it, it's true."

  "Shall I wear the black wig?"

  "I told you I don't care."

  "Finish your dinner," she said. "I'll surprise you, all right? I'll wear something you've never seen before."

  "If you want to surprise me, you'll come in later and tell me I'm a free man."

  "No, I can't do that."

  "Why not?"

  "I need you, Santo."

  "I want to leave here."

  "Yes, I know that."

  "I'm going crazy here. If you keep me here any longer, I'll go out of my mind. I'll die, do you understand? I'll die in this room."

  "You won't die," she said, and smiled again. "Not unless I want you to die. Please remember that, Santo." She looked up at the clock. "I'll be back in an hour. Will you be ready for me in an hour?"

  "No."

  "Be ready," she said.

  "I hate you," he said softly.

  "You love me," she answered, and smiled again. She was leaving the room when she seemed to remember something. She turned, looked at him, and said, "Oh, by the way-C. J. won't be visiting us anymore."

  8

  Monday morning, September 18, while Meyer was on the phone checking with both the Muscular Dystrophy Association and the National Multiple Sclerosis Society in an attempt to determine whether either or both had sponsored a benefit ball early in September seven years ago, Carella took a call from a man named Henry Gombes at Ballistics.

  "On these spent bullets found at the scene," he said.

  "This the Chadderton case?" Carella asked.

  "Chadderton, Chadderton," Gombes said, obviously consulting a sheet of paper in front of him, "yes, Chadderton, Culver and South Eleventh, September fifteenth, that's right."

  "That's right," Carella said.

  "I'll send the report on later," Gombes said, "but meanwhile, do you want to take some of this stuff down?"

  "Shoot," Carella said.

  "No ejected cartridge casings found at the scene, which indicates the weapon wasn't an automatic pistol. Five bullets were recovered, though, three of them badly deformed-"

  "Those would've been the three that hit the victims," Carella said.

  "Two victims, were there?"

  "Yes."

  "One still alive from what I understand."

  "That's right."

  "Did he say how many shots he'd heard?"

  "He couldn't remember."

  "The reason I ask… the fact that only five bullets were found at the scene doesn't necessarily indicate the revolver had only a five-shot capacity."

  "It was empty when the killer tried to finish him off," Carella said.

  "Is that right? Mmm. Well, in any case, the recovered bullets all measured.3585 inches in diameter, which tells us we're dealing with a.38-caliber Smith & Wesson cartridge. Your twist in inches was 183/4 to the right, and your groove diameter was.357, which would be the markings a.38 Smith & Wesson revolver would leave on a bullet, and which-when combined with the six lands we found-would seem to point pretty conclusively toward a.38-caliber Smith & Wesson revolver firing.38-caliber Smith & Wesson cartridges. You've got your Regulation Police Model 33 taking Smith & Wesson.38s, and you've got your Terrier Model 32, which also takes the Smith & Wesson.38s, and both guns have a five-shot capacity. Now your Chiefs Special and your Bodyguard Model and also your Centennial take.38 S & W Specials, which have the same twist and groove as your regular.38, but your.38 Special has a different diameter than your.38, and the reading we got-as I told you-was.3585, which is the diameter of a.38 bullet and not a.38 Special bullet. Our micrometers here are calibrated to one one-thousandth of an inch, so I don't think we've made any mistake about the caliber of this gun, it's a.38, all right, and given all the other factors, I'd say a Smith & Wesson.38, either the Regulation Police or the Terrier, both of which have five-shot capacities. Your Regulation Police-what do you carry, Carella?"

  "The Special."

  "Mm, well, your Regulation comes only with a four-inch barrel. Your Terrier comes with a two-inch barrel, and it's a lighter gun, seventeen ounces as opposed to eighteen for the Regulation. Are we dealing with a man or a woman here?"

  "We don't know yet."

  "Not that the ounce makes any difference, but the shorter barrel might. Easier to get in a handbag, do you see?"

  "Yes," Carella said.

  "So that's it," Gombes said. "A.38-caliber Smith & Wesson revolver, either the Regulation Police Model 33 or the Terrier Model 32. Hope I was able to help you," he said, and hung up.

  Meyer was still on the phone. Carella went down the hall to the Clerical Office and asked Miscolo to contact Communications and ask them to send out an interdepartmental flyer to all precincts asking for any information bearing on a suspect.38 Smith & Wesson revolver, Regulation Police Model 33 or Terrier Model 32, used in a fatal shooting on the night of September 15. Miscolo said he would call Communications as soon as his coffee perked. Carella went back up the hall to the squadroom, where Meyer was just putting up the phone.

  "Any luck?" he asked.

  "It wasn't Muscular Dystrophy, and it wasn't Multiple Sclerosis," Meyer said. "Maybe it was a wedding, after all. Maybe the groom was a Dr. Harvey Cooper and maybe-"

  "Let's try the A.F. of M.," Carella said. "Find out if they've got a member named Harvey Cooper. If they do-"

  "Yeah, but will their job records go back seven years?"

  "It's worth a try. If you get anything, move on it. I want to start visiting some of these people who were in Chadderton's appointment calendar."

  "How many names you got there?"

  "Ten or so. Let me see," Carella said, and began counting the names he'd listed in his notebook. "Eight that Chloe Chadderton could identify, two she didn't know, and two sets of initials-C. J. and C. C."

  "Have you called any of them yet?"

  "I was about to do that now."

  "Want to split the list with me?"

  "First see what you get at the A.F. of M."

  ***

  Cynthia Rogers Hargrove was wearing a quilted dressing gown over what appeared to be a granny nightgown with a lace Peter Pan collar. A pearl choker was around her neck. Mrs. Hargrove was seventy-six years old if she was a day. She sat opposite Meyer Meyer at a damask-covered table in the dining alcove of her Hall Avenue apartment, the pouring rain streaking eastern windows that might otherwise have been streaming sunshine. Mrs. Hargrove spoke with the sort of voice Meyer associated with only the very wealthy-it was not only in Britain that a person's vocal inflections gave away his class. Mrs. Hargrove was Vassar out of Rosemary Hall out of private elementary school someplace in the city. Mrs. Hargrove was sleek-lined sloops racing off Newport. Mrs. Hargrove was afternoon tea in Palm Beach. Mrs. Hargrove was breakfast at ten o'clock on a Monday morning when almost everyone else in the city had been up since seven and had consumed his first meal of the day before eight. In this land of the free and home of the brave, in this nation where all men were created equal, Mrs. Hargrove was nonetheless living testament to the wag's adage that some men were created more equal than others. Meyer felt somewhat intimidated in her presence. Perhaps because he'd never eaten a toasted English muffin with genuine Scottish gooseberry jam on it. As he bit into it, he was certain the crunch could be heard clear uptown and crosstown in the very muster room of the Eight-Seven. Hastily, he sipped at his coffee, hoping to muffle the sounds of mastication.

  "The Blondie Ball, we called it," Mrs. Hargrove said.

  Meyer blinked at her, and then said, "The Blondie Ball?"

  "Yes. Do you know the comic-strip characters? Blondie and Dagwood? Are they familiar to you?"

  "Yes, certainly," Meyer said.

  "That was our theme. The comic strip. More coffee?" she asked, and reached for the silver coffeepot just to the right of her plate. "How did you happen to get to me?" she asked, pouring.

  "I called the A.F. of M.," Meyer said, "and they-"

  "A.F. of M.?"

  "American Federation of Musicians."

  "Yes, surely," Mrs. Hargrove said.

  "Yes," Meyer said, "and asked them if they could check their records… I discovered the leader has to file contracts with them, the band leader…"

  "Oh, yes, I would imagine," Mrs. Hargrove said.

  "Yes," Meyer said, "and I asked them to check on a musician named Harvey Cooper…"

  "Oh, yes."

  "The name means something to you?"

  "Yes, he's the man I hired for the job."

  "Yes," Meyer said, "this was seven years ago, September the eleventh, to be exact, this is all information the union gave me. And they also supplied me with your name and address, which was on the contract you signed."

  "Yes, how simple really."

  "It took us a little while to get there," Meyer said. "Earlier, we were looking for something sponsored by either the Muscular Dystrophy Association or the National Multiple Sclerosis-"

  "Oh no, nothing quite that grand," Mrs. Hargrove said. "Do have another muffin, Mr. Meyer. They will go to waste otherwise."

  "But it was a charity ball, isn't that so?"

  "Yes. But what one might call a private charity, rather than one of the national organizations, do you understand?"

  "What was the charity?"

  "We were trying to establish a scholarship fund for the local high school. So that deserving youngsters might go on to college. Most of the local residents, as you can appreciate, send their children to preparatory schools when they're of age. But the neighborhood high school is really quite good, and we felt the youngsters there should be given the same opportunities the more privileged youngsters enjoy."

  "I see," Meyer said. "So the purpose of the ball was to raise money for this scholarship fund?"

  "Yes."

  "How much did you hope to raise?"

  "The estimated four-year tuition and living expenses for a student at a quality institution of higher learning was approximately twenty thousand dollars. We hoped to raise enough to send three students to college for the full four-year terms."

  "Then you hoped to raise sixty thousand dollars?"

  "Yes."

  "And how much did you actually raise?"

  "Twenty thousand more than that. The ball was quite successful. I imagine the Blondie theme had a lot to do with it."

  "What does that mean actually," Meyer asked, "the Blondie theme?"

  "Well, it was a fancy-dress ball, you understand. The women all had to come as Blondie and the men had to come as Dagwood. Some of them brought along their dogs, of course, posing as Daisy, the dog in the comic strip. I tried to discourage that, I made it clear in the preball announcements that animals were not encouraged, hoping of course they would understand we didn't want a plethora of Daisys. But some people missed the point, however bluntly I'd worded it. We had three hundred and twenty Blondies, an equal number of Dagwoods, and at least a dozen Daisys."

  "Dogs running around, do you mean?"

  "Yes. Well, not precisely running around. We were prepared for such an occasion, you see. We had contacted an organization that supplies dog-walkers-"

  "Dog-walkers?"

  "Yes. College students, usually, who will take dogs for their ritual walks during the day, for example, in a situation where both people in a marriage are working people, or at night, should anyone simply not desire the responsibility of walking an animal-a position I find quite understandable, by the way. I loathe dogs, don't you?"

  "Well, I wouldn't say I-"

  "Positively loathsome," Mrs. Hargrove said. "Then again, all animals are. Why people would want to keep pets is beyond my imagination. Filthy little things, all of them. In any event, we had this cadre of trained dog-walkers on hand to redeliver, so to speak, any wayward pup whence it had come. Only two of the patrons objected. One of them had a dachshund that was supposed to represent Daisy, can you visualize that, and the other had a Pekingese. We put them in separate cloakrooms-the dogs, not the patrons-and solved the problem that way. But really, can you imagine what bedlam we would have had if everyone were allowed to bring a dog? Some people have no sense at all when it comes to animals. None whatsoever. Loathsome beasts, all of them."

  "When you say you had three hundred and twenty Blondies…"

  "Yes, we sold that many admission tickets. Two hundred and fifty dollars a couple. Three hundred and twenty women masquerading as Blondie and three hundred and twenty men with their hair sticking up in front, the way Dagwood's sticks up-the poor man has a cowlick at the front of his head-and wearing bow ties. Blondie and Dagwood."

  "What was the purpose of that, Mrs. Hargrove?"

  "The purpose? Oh, it was just a gimmick, Mr. Meyer. But it earned us eighty thousand dollars in admissions, which wasn't bad. And the Cadillac we gave as first prize for the best impersonation was donated by a local dealer."

  "Was there a contest or something for the best costume?"

  "Well, not merely the costume. Dagwood and Blondie, after all, are not that distinctively dressed in the comic strip. In fact, I think it was the very simplicity of the theme that accounted for its success, don't you see? The women, after all, could wear whatever they chose, so long as they were blond in the bargain. And the man needed only a bow tie and a little hair pomade. But it was for the overall impression that the prize was awarded. The way a couple walked and moved, the representation, the impersonation of Blondie and Dagwood. They were all masked, you understand…"

 

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