“Bert,” he said, “I’ve arranged with Pete to put a twenty-four-hour tail on Fletcher, and I want to handle the first round myself. You think you can go with Meyer tomorrow when he hits Thornton?”
“Hits
“The second guy in Sarah Fletcher’s book.”
“Oh, sure, sure. What time’s he going?”
“He’ll be in touch with you.”
“Where are you, Steve? Home?”
“No, I’ve got the graveyard shift. Incidentally, there was a call for you.”
“Oh? Who called?”
“Cindy Forrest.”
Kling caught his breath. “What’d she say?”
“Just to tell you she’d called.”
“Thanks,” Kling said.
“Good night,” Carella said, and hung up.
Kling put the receiver back on its cradle, took off his jacket, loosened his tie, and began unlacing his shoes. Twice he lifted the receiver from its cradle, began dialing Cindy’s number, and changed his mind. Instead, he turned on the television in time to catch the one o’clock news. The weather forecaster announced that the promised snowstorm had blown out to sea. Kling got undressed, and went to bed.
Michael Thornton lived in an apartment building several blocks from the Quarter, close enough to absorb some of its artistic flavor, distant enough to escape its high rents. Kling and Meyer did not knock on Thornton’s door until 11 A . M ., on the theory that a man is entitled to sleep late on a Sunday morning, even if his name is listed in a dead lady’s address book.
The man who opened the door was perhaps twenty-eight years old, with blond hair and a blond beard stubble. He was wearing pajama bottoms and socks, and his brown eyes were still edged with sleep. They had announced themselves as policemen through the wooden barrier of the closed door, and now the blond man looked at them bleary-eyed and asked to see their badges. He studied Meyer’s shield, nodded, and, without moving from his position in the doorway, yawned and said, “So what can I do for you?”
“We’re looking for a man named Michael Thornton. Would you happen to be . . . ?”
“Mike isn’t here right now.”
“Does he live here?”
“He lives here, but he isn’t here right now.”
“Where is he?”
“What’s this about?” the man said.
“Routine investigation,” Kling said.
The words “routine investigation,” Kling noticed, never failed to strike terror into the hearts of man or beast. Had he said they were investigating a hatchet murder or a nursery school arson, the blond man’s face would not have gone as pale, his eyes would not have begun to blink the way they did. In the land of supersell, the understatement—“routine investigation”—was more powerful than trumpets and kettledrums. The blond man was visibly frightened and thinking furiously. Somewhere in the building, a toilet flushed. Meyer and Kling waited patiently.
“Do you know where he is?” Kling said at last.
“Whatever this is, I know he had nothing to do with it.”
“It’s just a routine investigation,” Kling repeated, and smiled.
“What’s
“Paul Wendling.”
“Do you live here?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know where we can find Michael Thornton?”
“He went over to the shop.”
“What shop?”
“We have a jewelry shop in the Quarter. We make silver jewelry.”
“The shop’s open today?”
“Not to the public. We’re not violating the law, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“If you’re not open to the public . . .”
“Mike’s working on some new stuff. We make our jewelry in the back of the shop.”
“What’s the address there?” Meyer asked.
“1156 Hadley Place.”
“Thank you,” Meyer said.
Behind them, Paul Wendling watched as they went down the steps, and then quickly closed the door.
“You know what he’s doing right this minute?” Meyer asked.
“Sure,” Kling said. “He’s calling his pal at the shop to tell him we’re on the way over.”
Michael Thornton, as they had guessed, was not surprised to see them. They held up their shields to the plate-glass entrance door, but he was clearly expecting them, and he unlocked the door at once.
“Mr. Thornton?” Meyer asked.
“Yes?”
He was wearing a blue work smock, but the contours of the garment did nothing to hide his powerful build. Wide-shouldered, barrel-chested, thick forearms and wrists showing below the short sleeves of the smock, he backed away from the door like a boulder moving on ball bearings and allowed them to enter the shop. His eyes were blue, his hair black. A small scar showed white in the thick eyebrow over his left eye.
“We understand you’re working,” Meyer said. “Sorry to break in on you this way.”
“That’s okay,” Thornton said. “What’s up?”
“You know a woman named Sarah Fletcher?”
“No,” Thornton said.
“You know a woman named Sadie Collins?”
Thornton hesitated. “Yes,” he said.
“This the woman?” Meyer asked, and showed him a newly made stat of the photograph they had confiscated from the Fletcher bedroom.
“That’s Sadie. What about her?”
