“Good idea.” He watched her as she moved toward the bar in the corner of the room. She was wearing work clothes, a paint-smeared white smock over blue jeans. Her dark hair was pulled back, away from her exquisite profile. She moved gracefully and fluidly, walking erect, the way most tall girls did, as though in rebuttal for the years when they’d been forced to slump in order to appear shorter than the tallest boys in the class. She turned and saw him watching her. She smiled, obviously pleased, and said, “Gin or vodka?”
“Gin.”
He waited until she had taken the gin bottle from behind the bar, and then he said, “Where’s the bathroom, Nora?”
“Down the hall. The very end of it. You mean to tell me
He smiled and went out of the room, leaving her busy at the bar. He walked down the long hallway, glancing into the small studio room—drawing board overhung with a fluorescent light, painting of a man jumping up for something, arms stretched over his head, chest muscles rippling, tubes of acrylic paint twisting on a worktable near an empty easel—and continued walking. The bedroom door was open. He looked back toward the living room, closed the bathroom door rather more noisily than was necessary, and stepped quickly into the bedroom.
He went to the dresser first. A silver-framed photograph of a man was on the right-hand end of it. It was inscribed “To Sweet Nora, with all my love, Frankie.” He studied the man’s face, trying to relate it to any of the three men who had jumped him on Monday night. The street had been dark; he had really seen only the one who’d stood in front of him, pounding his fists into his chest and his gut. The man in the photograph was not his attacker. He quickly opened the top drawer of the dresser—panties, nylons, handkerchiefs, brassieres. He closed it, opened the middle drawer, found it full of sweaters and blouses, and then searched the bottom drawer, where Nora kept an odd assortment of gloves, nightgowns, panty-hose, and slips. He closed the drawer and moved rapidly to the night table on the left of the bed, the one upon which the telephone rested. He opened the top drawer, found Nora’s address book, and quickly scanned it. There was only one listing for a man named Frank—Frank Richmond in Calm’s Point. Kling closed the book, went to the door, looked down the hallway, and wondered how much more time he had. He stepped across the hall, eased open the bathroom door, closed it behind him, flushed the toilet, and then turned on the cold water tap. He went into the hallway again, closed the door gently behind him, and crossed swiftly into the bedroom again.
He found what he wanted in the night table on the other side of the bed—a stack of some two dozen letters, all on the same stationery, bound together with a thick rubber band. The top envelope in the pile was addressed to Nora at 721 Silvermine Oval. The return address in the left-hand corner of the envelope read:
Frank Richmond, 80-17-42
Castleview State Penitentiary
Castleview-on-Rawley, 23751
Whatever else Frank Richmond was, he was also a convict. Kling debated putting the letters back into the night-table drawer, decided he wanted to read them, and stuck them instead into the right-hand pocket of his jacket. He closed the drawer, went across the hall to the bathroom, turned off the water tap, and went back into the living room, where Nora had started a decent fire and was pouring the drinks.
“Find it?” she asked.
“Yes,” he answered.
On Thursday morning, two days before Christmas, Carella sat at his desk in the squadroom and looked over the transcripts Miscolo’s clerical staff had typed up for him. He had taped five reels the night before, beginning at 4:55, when Fletcher had entered Arlene Orton’s apartment, and ending at 7:30, when they left to go out to dinner. The reel that interested him most was the second one. The conversation on that reel had at one point changed abruptly in tone and content; Carella thought he knew why, but he wanted to confirm his suspicion by carefully reading the typewritten record:
The following is a transcript of a conversation between Gerald Fletcher and Arlene Orton which took place in Miss Orton’s apartment (11D) at 812 Crane Street on Wednesday, December 22. Conversation on this reel took place commencing at approximately 5:21 P.M. and ended at approximately 5:45 P.M. on that date.
Fletcher:
I meant after the holidays.
Miss Orton:
I thought you meant after the trial.
Fletcher:
No, the holidays.
Miss Orton:
I may be able to get away, I’m not sure. I’ll have to check with my shrink.
Fletcher:
What’s he got to do with it?
Miss Orton:
Well, I have to pay whether I’m there or not, you know.
Fletcher:
You mean, oh, I see.
Miss Orton:
Sure.
Fletcher:
It would be best if we could . . .
Miss Orton:
Sure, coordinate it if we can.
Fletcher:
Is he taking a vacation?
Miss Orton:
He went in February last time.
Fletcher:
February, right.
Miss Orton:
Two weeks.
Fletcher:
