. . . quite often myself. And when you told me that on Monday you thought of me while you were doing it, the bubble bath foaming around you, your hand busy under the suds, finding that sweet tight. . .
. . . known you only since New Year's Day, and yet I think of you all the time. I saw you yesterday, I'll see you again tomorrow, but I walk around eternally embarrassed because I'm sure everyone can see the bulge of my . . .
The letters went on and on.
Twenty-two of them in all.
The last one was perhaps the most revealing of the lot. In part, before it sailed off into the usual erotic stratosphere, it dealt with business of a sort:
My darling Susan,
I know you're becoming impatient with what seems an interminable delay in getting you into the new apartment. I myself feel uneasy searching for a taxi when I leave there late at night, knowing the streets to the south of the Oval are neither well-lighted nor well-patrolled. I'll be so much happier when you're settled downtown, closer to my office, in a safer neighborhood, in the luxurious surroundings I promised you.
But please don't take the delay as a sign of indifference or changing attitude on my part. And please don't become impatient or forgetful. I would hate to lose this apartment before the other one comes free - which I've been assured will be any day now. I'll make sure you have the cash to cover any checks you write, but please pay all of the apartment bills promptly. You can't risk losing the lease on default.
I've been going to my post office box every day, but nothing from Susan. Is little Susan afraid to write? Is little Susan losing interest? I would hate to think so. Or does sweet Susan need reminding that she's mine? I think you may have to be punished the next time I see you. I think I'll have to turn you over my knee, and pull down your panties, and spank you till your cheeks turn pink, watch your ass writhing under my hand, hear you moaning . . .
This letter, too, was unsigned.
It was a shame.
It made their job more difficult.
The clock on the squadroom wall read twelve minutes to midnight. The Graveyard Shift had just relieved, and Hawes was arguing with Bob O'Brien, who didn't want to be the one who broke the news to Carella. He told Hawes he should stick around, do it himself, even though he'd been officially relieved.
"You're the one the sister talked to," O'Brien said. "You're the one should tell Steve."
Hawes said he had an urgent engagement, what did O'Brien want him to do, leave a note on Carella's desk? The urgent engagement was with a Detective/First Grade named Annie Rawles who had bought him the red socks he was wearing. The socks matched Hawes's hair and the tie he was wearing. He was also wearing a white shirt that echoed the white streak of hair over his left temple. Hawes was dressed for the summer heat. Lightweight blue blazer over gray tropical slacks, red silk tie and the red socks Annie had given him.
This was the seventeenth day of July, a Tuesday night, and the temperature outside the squadroom was eighty-six degrees Fahrenheit. By Hawes's reckoning that came to thirty degrees Celsius, which was damn hot in any language. He hated the summer. He particularly hated this summer, because it seemed to have started in May and it was still here, day after day of torrid temperatures and heavy humidity that combined to turn a person to mush.
"Can't you just do me this one simple favor?" he said.
"It's not such a simple favor," O'Brien said. "This is the most traumatic thing that can happen in a man's life, don't you know that?"
"No, I didn't know that," Hawes said.
"Also," O'Brien said, "I have a reputation around here as a hard-luck cop …"
"Where'd you get that idea?" Hawes said.
"I got that idea because I have a habit of getting into shoot-outs, and I know nobody likes being partnered with me."
"That's ridiculous," Hawes said, lying.
"Now you're asking me to tell Steve this terrible thing, he'll confuse the messenger with the message and he'll think Here's this hard-luck cop bringing hard luck to me."
"Steve won't think that at all," Hawes said.
"I won't think what?" Carella said from the gate in the slatted-rail divider, taking off his jacket as he came into the room. Brown was right behind him. Both men looked wilted.
"What won't I think?" Carella asked again.
O'Brien and Hawes looked at him.
"What is it?" Carella said.
Neither of them said anything.
"Cotton?" he said. "Bob? What is it?"
"Steve . . ."
"What?"
"I hate to have to tell you this, but. . ."
"What, Bob?"
"Your sister called a little while ago," O'Brien said.
"Your father is dead," Hawes said.
Carella looked at them blankly.
Then he nodded.
Then he said, "Where is she?"
"Your mother's house."
He went directly to the phone and dialed the number from memory. His sister picked up on the third ring.
"Angela," he said, "it's Steve."
She'd been crying, her voice revealed that.
"We just got back from the hospital," she said.
"What happened?" he asked. "Was it his heart again?"
"No, Steve. Not his heart."
"Then what?"
