Sadie When She Died полностью

On Tuesday, December 14, which was the first of Carella’s two days off that week, he received a call at home from Gerald Fletcher. He knew that no one in the squad room would have given his home number to a civilian, and he further knew that the number was unlisted in the Riverhead directory. Puzzled, he said, “How’d you get my number, Mr. Fletcher?”

“Friend of mine in the D.A.’s office,” Fletcher said.

“Well, what can I do for you?” Carella asked. His voice, he realized, was something less than cordial.

“I’m sorry to bother you at home this way.”

“It is my day off,” Carella said, fully aware that he was being rude.

“I wanted to apologize for the other night,” Fletcher said.

“Oh?” Carella answered, surprised.

“I know I behaved badly. You men had a job to do, and I wasn’t making it any easier for you. I’ve been trying to understand what provoked my attitude, and I can only think I must have been in shock. I disliked my wife, true, but finding her dead that way was probably more unnerving than I realized. I’m sorry if I caused any trouble.”

“No trouble at all,” Carella said. “You’ve been informed, of course, that . . .”

“Yes, you caught the murderer.”

“Yes.”

“That was fast and admirable work, Detective Carella. And it only adds to the embarrassment I feel for having behaved so idiotically.”

“Well,” Carella said, and the line went silent.

“Please accept my apologies,” Fletcher said.

“Sure,” Carella said, beginning to feel embarrassed himself.

“I was wondering if you’re free for lunch today.”

“Well,” Carella said, “I was going to get some Christmas shopping done. My wife and I made out a list last night, and I thought . . .”

“Will you be coming downtown?”

“Yes, but . . .”

“Perhaps you could manage both.”

“Well, look, Mr. Fletcher,” Carella said, “I know you feel bad about the other night, but you said you’re sorry and that’s enough, believe me. It was nice of you to call, I realize it wasn’t an easy thing to . . .”

“Why not meet me at The Golden Lion at one o’clock?” Fletcher said. “Christmas shopping can be exhausting. You might welcome a break along about then.”

“Well . . . where’s The Golden Lion?” Carella asked.

“On Juniper and High.”

“Downtown? Near the Criminal Courts Building?”

“Exactly. Do you know it?”

“I’ll find it.”

“One o’clock then?” Fletcher said.

“Well, yeah, okay,” Carella said.

“Good, I’ll look for you.”

Carella did not know why he went to see Sam Grossman at the Police Lab that afternoon. He told himself that he was going to be in the neighborhood, anyway, The Golden Lion being all the way downtown in the area bordered by the city’s various courthouses. But this did not explain why he rushed through the not-unpleasant task of choosing a doll for his daughter, April, in order to get to Police Headquarters on High Street a full half hour before he was to meet Fletcher.

Grossman was hunched over a microscope when Carella walked in, but without opening his one closed eye, and without raising his head from the eyepiece, he said, “Sit down, Steve, be with you in a minute.”

Grossman kept adjusting the focus and jotting notes on a pad near his right hand, never lifting his head. Carella was trying to puzzle out how Grossman had known it was he. The sound of his footfalls? The smell of his aftershave lotion? The faint aroma of his wife’s perfume clinging to the shoulder of his overcoat? He had not, until this moment, been aware that Detective-Lieutenant Sam Grossman, he of the spectacles and sharp blue eyes, he of the craggy face and clipped no-nonsense voice, was in reality Sherlock Holmes of 221B Baker Street, who was capable of recognizing a man without looking at him. Grossman’s remarkable trick occupied all of Carella’s thoughts for the next five minutes. At the end of that time, Grossman looked up from the microscope, extended his hand, and said, “What brings you to the eighth circle?”

“How’d you know it was me?”

“Huh?” Grossman said.

“I came into the room, and you never looked up, but you said, ‘Sit down, Steve, be right with you.’ How’d you know it was me without first looking at me?”

“Ah-ha,” Grossman said.

“No, come on, Sam, it’s bugging the hell out of me.”

“Well, it’s really quite simple,” Grossman said, grinning. “You will notice that the time is now twenty-five minutes to one, and that the sun, having passed its zenith, is glancing obliquely through the bank of windows lining the laboratory wall, touching the clock ever so faintly and casting shadows the angle of which can easily be measured.”

“Mmm?” Carella said.