"It be dam' nice," Angelica said, "an' that's no bull. You see my bosom?"
"I see it."
Come on, phone! He could hear Angelica's words, and they drummed in his ears, but his ears were straining for another sound, the shrill sound of the telephone, and the squad room seemed to be an empty vacuum waiting only for that single sound.
"Iss my real bosom," she said.
"No bra. I got no bra on. You believe it?"
"I believe it."
"I show you."
"You don't have to. I believe it."
"So how 'bout it?"
"How about what?"
"You talk to the others, you let me go.
Then you come see me later, hah?"
Hawes shook his head.
"No dice."
"Why not? Angelica some piece," Angelica said.
Hawes nodded.
"Angelica some piece," he agreed.
"So?"
"Number one. You see that lady sitting over there?"
"She's not letting anyone out of here, some piece or not. Understand?"
"Si. I mean when she iss gone."
"If she is ever gone," Hawes said.
"And then I couldn't let you go anyway because that man standing over there near the bulletin board is thee lieutenant in charge of this squad. And if I let you go, he might fire me or send me to prison-or even shoot me."
Angelica nodded.
"It be worth it," she said.
"Believe me. Angelica some stuff, believe me."
"I believe you," Hawes said.
He did not want to leave the girl because he had to be in her vicinity when the telephone rang, if it rang, wouldn't the damn thing ever ring? At the same time, he sensed that their conversation had reached a dead end, had come as far as it could possibly go. Stalling for time, he asked a timeless question.
"How'd you get to be a hooker, Angelica?"
"I no' hooker," she said.
"Really."
"Now, Angelica," he said chidingly.
"Well, sometimes," she said.
"But only to buy pretty clothes. I dress pretty, no?"
"Yes. Oh, yes."
"Listen, you come see me, hab? We make it."
"Honey," he said, "where you're going, they don't make anything but license plates."
"What?" she said, and the telephone rang.
The sound startled Hawes. He almost turned automatically to reach for the wall, and then he remembered that he had to wait until Virginia picked up the phone. He saw Byrnes start across toward the instrument on the desk nearest him. He saw Byrnes waiting for Virginia's nod before he picked up the receiver.
The phone kept shrilling into the squad room
Virginia shifted the gun to her left hand.
With her right hand, she picked up the receiver and nodded toward Byrnes. Byrnes lifted his phone.
"Eightyseventh Squad, Lieutenant Byrnes."
"Well, well, how come they've got the big cheese answering telephones?" the voice said.
Hawes edged toward the wall, backing toward it. Virginia Dodge was still partially facing him, so that he could not raise his hand. Then, slowly, she swiveled in the chair so that her back was to him. Swiftly, Hawes lifted his hand.
"Who is this?" Byrnes asked into the mouthpiece.
"This is Sam Grossman at the lab. Who the hell did you think it was?"
The thermostat was secured tightly to the wall. Hawes grasped it in one hand, and with a quick snap of his wrist raised the setting to its outermost reading.
On one of the mildest days in October, the temperature in the squad room was now set for ninety-eight degrees.
Sam Grossman was a detective, and a lieutenant, and a very thorough man." A less thorough man in charge of a police laboratory might have allowed his call to wait until the morning. It was, after all, three minutes to six, and Grossman did have a family waiting home to begin dinner. But Sam Grossman believed in laboratory work, and he believed in crime detection, and he believed that one went hand in hand with the other. Sam would never miss the opportunity to prove to his colleagues who did the actual legwork that the laboratory was a vital part of detection, and that they should use the lab as often as possible.
"The M.E. gave us a look at the corpse, Pete," he said into the phone now.
"What corpse?"
"The old man. Jefferson Scott."
"Oh, yes."
"Carella working on that one?" Grossman said.
"Yes."
Byrnes glanced across to Virginia Dodge.
She had sat up straighter in her chair at mention of Carella's name, and now she was listening intently to the conversation.
"He's a good man," Grossman said.
"Is he out there at the Scott house now?"
"I don't know where he is," Byrnes said.
"He might be. Why?"
"Well, if he is, it might be a good idea to get in touch with him."
"Why, Sam?"
"The M.E. set the cause of death as strangulation. You familiar with the case, Pete?"
"I've read Carella~s report."
"Yeah, well, the old guy was found hanging. No broken neck or anything like that. Strangulation. Looked like suicide.
Remember that Hemandez case a while back-where it looked like the kid had hanged himself, but it was really an overdose of heroin? Remember that one?"
"Yes."
"Well, we haven't got exactly the same thing here. This guy died of strangulation, all right" "Yes?"
"But he wasn't strangled by the rope. He didn't hang himself" "What happened then?"
