Sadie When She Died полностью

Among Sarah Fletcher’s personal effects that were considered of interest to the police before they arrested Ralph Corwin was an address book found in the dead woman’s handbag on the bedroom dresser. In the Thursday afternoon stillness of the squadroom, Carella examined the book while Meyer and Kling discussed the potency of the copper bracelet Kling wore on his wrist. The squadroom was unusually quiet; a person could actually hear himself think. The typewriters were silent, the telephones were not ringing, there were no prisoners in the detention cage yelling their heads off about police brutality or human rights, and all the windows were tightly closed, shutting out even the noises of the street below. In deference to the calm (and also because Carella seemed so hard at work with Sarah Fletcher’s address book), Meyer and Kling spoke in what amounted to whispers.

“I can only tell you,” Meyer said, “that the bracelet is supposed to work miracles. Now what else can I tell you?”

“You can tell me how come it hasn’t worked any miracles on me so far?”

“When did you put it on?” Meyer said.

“I marked it on my calendar,” Kling said. They were sitting in the corner of the squadroom closest to the detention cage, Kling in a wooden chair behind his desk, Meyer perched on one end of the desk. The desk was against the wall, and the wall was covered with departmental flyers, memos on new rules and regulations, next year’s Detectives’ Duty Chart (listing Night Duty, Day Duty, and Open Days for each of the squad’s six detective teams), a cartoon clipped from the police magazine every red-blooded cop subscribed to, several telephone numbers of complainants Kling hoped to get back to before his tour ended, a photograph of Cindy Forrest (which he’d meant to take down), and several less-flattering mug shots of wanted criminals. Kling’s calendar was buried under the morass on the wall; he had to take down an announcement for the P.B.A.’s annual New Year’s Eve party to get at it. “Here,” he said. “You gave me the bracelet on December first.”

“And today’s what?” Meyer asked.

“Today’s the sixteenth.”

“How do you know I gave it to you on the first?”

“That’s what the MB stands for. Meyer’s bracelet.”

“All right, so that’s exactly two weeks. So what do you expect? I told you it’d begin working in two weeks.”

“You said ten days.”

“I said two weeks.”

“Anyway, it’s more than two weeks.”

“Listen, Bert, the bracelet works miracles, it can cure anything from arthritis to . . .”

“Then why isn’t it working on me?”

“What do you expect?” Meyer asked. “Miracles?”

There was nothing terribly fascinating about the alphabetical listings in Sarah Fletcher’s address book. She had possessed a good handwriting, and the names, addresses, and telephone numbers were all clearly written and easily read. Even when she’d crossed out a telephone number to write in a new listing, the deletion was made with a single sure stroke of her pen, the new number written directly beneath it. Carella leafed through the pages, finding that most of the listings were for obviously married couples, (Chuck and Nancy Benton, Harold and Marie Spander, George and Ina Grossman, and on and on), some were for girlfriends, some for local merchants and service people, one for Sarah’s hairdresser, another for her dentist, several for doctors, and a few for restaurants in town and across the river. A thoroughly uninspiring address book—until Carella came to a page at the end of the book, with the printed word MEMORANDA at its top.

“All I know,” Kling said, “is that my shoulder still hurts. I’m lucky I haven’t been in any fierce pistol duels lately, because I’m sure I wouldn’t be able to draw my gun.”

“When’s the last time you were in a fierce pistol duel?” Meyer asked.

“I’m in fierce pistol duels all the time,” Kling said, and grinned.

Under the single word MEMORANDA there were five names, addresses, and telephone numbers written in Sarah’s meticulous hand. All of the names were men’s names. They had obviously been entered in the book at different times because some were written in pencil and others in ink. The parenthetical initials following each entry were all noted in felt marking pens of various colors:

If there was one thing Carella loved, it was a code. He loved a code almost as much as he loved German measles.

Sighing, he opened the top drawer of his desk and pulled out the Isola directory. He was verifying the address for the first name on Sarah Fletcher’s MEMORANDA list when Kling said, “There are some guys who won’t let a case go, even after it’s been solved.”

“Who did you have in mind?” Meyer asked.

“Certain very conscientious guys,” Kling said.

Carella pretended neither of them was there. The telephone book address for Andrew Hart matched the one in Sarah’s handwriting. He flipped to the back of the directory.

“I knew a very conscientious cop one time,” Meyer said, and winked.

“Tell me about him,” Kling said, and winked back.