Ghosts

“Hello?” a woman’s voice said.

“Hello, this is Detective Carella of the 87th Squad in Isola,” Carella said. “I spoke to someone there a little while ago, and he told me that Jerry Mandel had checked out early this morning…”

“Yes?”

“The person I spoke to said he had no idea where Mr. Mandel was heading. I was wondering…”

“I have no idea either,” the woman said.

“Who is this, please?”

“Mrs. Carmody, the manager.”

“Mrs. Carmody, has there been any substantial snowfall in the state over the past several days?”

“Not in the state, no. I understand it’s snowing there in the city…”

“Yes, right now, in fact.”

“Well, maybe we’ll get some of it later today. I hope,” she said.

“Where would the nearest area with snow be?”

“From Semanee, do you mean?”

“Yes. If Mr. Mandel was looking for snow, where would he have found it?”

“Not before Vermont,” Mrs. Carmody said.

“Vermont.”

“Yes, Mount Snow was reporting excellent conditions, as were Bromley, Stratton, Sugarbush, and Stowe. We’ve been desperate for snow here, and so has Massachusetts. My guess is he’d have headed for Vermont.”

“Where in Vermont? Which area would be the closest to Semanee?”

“Mount Snow.”

“Is that a very busy area? Are there many motels there?”

“You’ve got to be joking,” Mrs. Carmody said. “Were you thinking of trying to track him down?”

“It crossed my mind,” Carella said.

“If you started calling all the hotels at Mount Snow right this minute, you’d miss Santa coming down the chimney,” she said, and he was sure she was smiling at her own witticism.

“How do I get a complete listing of all the available lodging there?” Carella asked.

“Are you serious?”

“Yes, ma’am, we’re investigating a murder here.”

“Well…I guess you can call the Mount Snow Lodging Bureau. Maybe they can help you.”

“Thank you,” Carella said, and hung up.

Hawes came over to the desk with the timetable he’d been typing.

“This is the way it looks to me,” he said, and handed the sheet to Carella:

TIMETABLE—

CRAIG AND ESPOSITO MURDERS

THURSDAY, DECEMBER 21

5:00 P.M. Man claiming to be Daniel Corbett arrives at Harborview, goes up in elevator after being a

6:15 P.M. Man has still not left building when Karlson relieves Mandel at the door.

6:40 P.M. Call to Emergency 911 from unidentified male reporting cutting victim on sidewalk outside 781 Jackson Street.

6:43 P.M. Car Adam Eleven responds, woman later identified as Marian Esposito, white female, thirty-two years old, DOA.

7:10 P.M. Call to Emergency 911 from Hillary Scott reporting stabbing in Apartment 304 at 781 Jackson.

7:14 P.M. Detectives already on scene of Esposito murder respond. Victim Gregory Craig, white male, fifty-four years old, DOA.

“That’s about it, all right,” Carella said.

“Doesn’t tell us a damn thing, does it?” Hawes said.

“Not much,” Carella said, “but it’s nice to have it all spelled out every now and then.” He picked up the phone, dialed the operator, and asked for Vermont Information. She told him he could dial that direct, and he testily informed her he was a detective investigating a homicide, and he’d appreciate it if she could get it for him. She said, sarcastically, “Oh, I beg your pardon,” but she co

Carella debated this for a moment.

Then he said, “No, never mind, thanks,” and hung up.

The second crank call—or so it seemed at first—came twenty minutes after the first one. He lifted the receiver from its cradle and said, “87th Squad, Carella.”

“It has something to do with water,” a woman’s voice said.

“What?”

“Water,” the voice repeated, and suddenly he recognized her.

“Miss Scott?” he said.

“Yes. The murder has to do with water. Can I see you this afternoon? You’re the source.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m not sure yet. But you’re the source. I have to talk to you.”

He remembered what Gregory Craig’s daughter had told them yesterday: She drowned. They said it was an accident. Water, he thought, and said at once, “Where will you be?”

“At my sister’s,” she said.

“Give me half an hour,” he said.

“I’ll see you there,” she said, and hung up.

When she opened the door for him, she was wearing a short robe belted over either pantyhose or nylons. She wore no makeup; without lipstick, rouge, or liner, she resembled Teddy even more than she had before.

“I’m sorry,” she said at once. “I was dressing when my sister called. Come in.”

The apartment was in the Stewart City section of Isola. Stewart City was not really a city, or even a town, but merely a collection of swank apartment buildings overlooking the River Dix on the true city’s south side. If you could boast of a Stewart City address, you could also boast of a high income, a country place on Sands Spit, and a Mercedes-Benz in the garage under your building. You could give your address with a measure of snobbery and pride. There were few places left in the city—or perhaps the world—where you could do the same. Hillary’s sister’s apartment, as befitted its location, was decorated expensively but not ostentatiously; it had the effect on Carella of making him feel immediately uncomfortable. The cool white artificial Christmas tree in one corner of the room compounded his sense of ill ease. He was accustomed to the scuzziness of the Eight-Seven, where the Christmas trees were real and the carpeting underfoot—unlike the lawn growing in this place—was more often than not tattered and frayed.

“Miss Scott,” he said, “on the phone, you—”

“Is it still snowing out there?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“I’m supposed to be downtown at five for a cocktail party. Are there any cabs on the street?”

“A few.”

“Can I get you a drink?” she asked. “What time is it anyway?”

“Four o’clock,” he said.

“That’s not too early for a drink, is it?”

“I can’t,” he said.

“Right, you’re on duty,” she said. “Mind if I have one?”

“Go right ahead.”

She went to a tall cabinet on the wall opposite the tree and opened both doors of it to reveal an array of bottles within. She poured generously from one of the bottles, took two ice cubes from a bucket, and dropped them into the glass. Turning to him, she said, “Cheers, happy holidays.”

“Cheers,” he said.

“Sit down,” she said. “Please.” Her smile was so similar to Teddy’s that he found himself experiencing an odd sense of disorientation. The woman in this apartment should have been in his Riverhead house instead. He should have been telling her about the hard day’s work he’d put in, soliciting sympathy for the policeman’s lot; he should have been mixing her a scotch and soda and laying a fire for her on the hearth. Instead, he was here to talk about water.

“So,” he said, “what about water?”

She looked at him, puzzled, and then said, “Thanks, I prefer it on the rocks.”

He looked back at her, equally puzzled. She sat in the chair opposite him, the robe falling away as she crossed her legs. She rearranged the wayward flap at once.