From where Richard the First stood in the back row of the choir, he could see out over the heads of the two other Richards and all the other singers. Like a true monarch surveying his lordly domain, he looked down the center aisle of the church and beyond the transept to the huge oaken entrance doors. Late afternoon sunlight streamed through the leaded stained-glass windows on either side of the massive, vaulted space, illuminating it as if a religious miracle were in progress. Professor Eaton, the choirmaster, had just given them notes on how badly they'd sung the hymn the last time around. They were now waiting for his hand signal to start the third chorus all over again.
Hand and head dipped at precisely the same moment.
"Keep Thou my all, O Lord, hide my life in thine… "Oh let Thy sacred light o'er my pathway shine…" The central portal doors opened.
A very fat man stepped into the narthex and looked up the aisle.
"Kept by Thy tender care, gladly the cross I'll bear… "Hear Thou and grant my prayer…"
"Professor Eaton?" The fat man.
Calling from the back of the church.
"Hold it, hold it," Eaton said, and turned with obvious annoyance toward where the fat man who was coming down the aisle now, a lightweight trench coat open over his beer barrel belly. Under the trench coat Richard could see a plaid sports jacket, also unbuttoned, and a very loud tie. Now he was reaching into the back pocket of his trousers.
"What is it?" Eaton asked.
Now he was holding some kind of small leather case in his hand, a fob, whatever it was, the flap falling open as he waddled toward the altar.
Sunlight caught glittering gold and enameled blue, sending shivers of reflected light into the echoing stillness of the church.
"Detective Oliver Weeks," he said. "There's some hairs I need to match. You got any singing football players?"
Georgie was expecting her at six-thirty. The arrangement was that she'd stop by at her own apartment to change her clothes after work, and then come to his place for a drink before they went to dinner. That was why he'd gone downstairs to the liquor store to pick up a bottle of Canadian Club, because what she drank was Canadian Club and ginger ale, she'd informed him on the phone. He was downstairs for no more than fifteen minutes. The phone was ringing when he got back to the apartment. He put the brown paper bag with the booze in it on the pass-through between the kitchen and living room, yanked the wall phone from the hook and said, "Hello?"
It was Tony again.
"What time do you think you'll be here?" he asked.
"Sometime after dinner," Georgie said. "But I may be a little late."
"Like how late?"
"Maybe eleven, twelve o'clock."
"Why so late?"
"Well."
"Who is she?"
"Somebody."
"Who?"
"I'll tell you later. I got to go, Tony. She'll be here any minute."
"Bring me half of her, too," Tony said.
Smiling, Georgie put up the phone, and checked his watch. Six-twenty:
Plenty of time to go look at the money again. It never failed to delight him, looking at all that money. Still smiling, he went into the bedroom.
The window was open.
The smile dropped from his face.
The drawers had been pulled out of his dresser and his shirts and socks and sweaters and underwear were strewn all over the floor and the bed.
The closet door was open, too. Jackets and suits had been ripped from their hangers and thrown everywhere.
An open shoebox was lying on the floor.
Two black patent-leather shoes lay on the floor beside the box.
Both shoes were empty.
All of fifteen minutes downstairs, he thought.
This city.
Carella woke up at a quarter to seven that evening. The house was very still. He put on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt and padded around looking for someone. Not a soul was in sight. "Fanny?" he called. No answer. "Dad?"
Mark, calling from his bedroom down the hall. He was sitting up in bed, reading, when Carella walked in. "Hi, Dad," he said. "Have a good sleep?"
"Yes. How do you feel?"
"Much better."
"Let's see," Carella said, and sat on the edge of the bed, and put the palm of his hand on Mark's forehead. "Where is everybody?" he asked.
"Fanny took April to ballet and Mom's out shopping."
"Shopping or marketing?"
"What's the difference?"
"About five hundred dollars."
"How can you tell my temperature that way?" Mark asked.
"Your forehead's supposed to feel hot at first. If it continues feeling hot, you've got a fever."
"I still don't get it."
"Trust me."
"So what's my temperature?"
"Ninety-eight point five. Wait," he said, and looked at his palm.
"Five and a half," he corrected. "Either way, you'll be ready for school tomorrow."
"Good. Did you like school when you were a kid?"
"I loved it," Carella said. "So do I."
"How's the book?"
"Crap."
"Then why are you reading it?"
"It's the best Mom could find at the supermarket."
"Speaks well for our culture."
He tousled Mark's hair, kissed him on the cheek, and was heading into the living room when Fanny came through the front door.
"Well, look who's up and about," she said. "Wipe your feet, April."
