Ghosts

“Where did Mr. Craig work?” he asked.

“Here,” she said.

“Here?”

“He’s a writer,” she said, and paused. “Gregory Craig, the writer.”

The name meant nothing to Carella. In his notebook, under the word “Medium,” he wrote “Victim writer,” and then realized she had said, “Gregory Craig, the writer,” and further realized she’d been expecting recognition of the name all along. Cautiously he asked, “What sort of writing did he do?”

“He wrote Deadly Shades,” she said, and again looked directly into his eyes, and he was certain this time that he was supposed to recognize the title of the book Craig had written—if it was a book. He did not ask what it was.

“And he worked here in the apartment, is that it?” he said.

“Yes, in the bedroom. There’s a desk in the bedroom. That’s where he worked.”

“All day long?”

“He usually began about noon and quit about six.”

“And wrote, uh, books or—what is it he wrote, actually, Miss Scott?”

“You haven’t read Deadly Shades?”

“No, I’m sorry.”

“It’s already sold three million copies in paperback. The movie is being shot right this minute.”

“I’m sorry, I’m not familiar with it.”

She said nothing. She simply looked at him. He cleared his throat, glanced at his notebook again, looked up, and said, “Any idea who might have done this?”

“No.”

“Did Mr. Craig have any enemies that you might know of?”

“None.”

“Had he received any threatening telephone calls or letters in the past—”

“No.”

“—several weeks? Anything like that?”

“No, nothing.”

“Did he owe anybody money?”

“No.”

“How long have you been living in this building, Miss Scott?”

“Six months.”

“Any trouble with the neighbors?”

“None.”

“When you got home tonight, was the door locked?”

“Yes. I told you I opened it with my key.”

“You’re sure it was locked?”

“Yes.”

“You heard the tumblers falling when you turned your key?”

“Yes, I know it was locked.”

“Did anyone beside you and Mr. Craig have a key to this apartment?”

“No,” she said. “Just the two of us.”

“Thank you, Miss Scott,” he said, and closed the notebook. He tried a smile and then said, “I’ll have to look for Deadly Shades. What’s it about?”

“Ghosts,” she said.

The head security officer was waiting downstairs with Karlson when Carella got back to the lobby. His name was Randy Judd, and he was a big, beefy Irishman in his sixties. He told Carella at once that he used to be a patrolman working out of the Three-Two. He also mentioned there’d never been any trouble here at Harborview since the complex was built a year ago. Not even a burglary. Nothing.

“The security is very tight at Harborview,” he said.

“Very tight,” Karlson said. He still looked apprehensive, as if more than ever certain the cops would somehow blame him for this.

“Mr. Karlson,” Carella said, “you told me a little while ago that you came to work at six tonight…”

“A little after.”

“A little after six, right. Did you a

“No, sir, I did not.”

“Is that usual procedure? A

“Standard practice,” Judd said.

“All visitors,” Karlson said. “Even delivery boys.”

“Then what happens?”

“When we get clearance from the tenant, the visitor can go up.”

“On the elevators there?”

“Unless it’s a delivery. The service elevator is around to the back.”

“And no one came here asking for Mr. Craig?”

“No one.”

“Who had the shift before you? The noon to six?”

“Jerry Mandel.”

“Have you got his home phone number?” Carella asked.

“Yes, but it won’t do you any good,” Judd said.

“Why not?”

“He was going skiing this weekend,” Karlson said. “Had his skis on top of the car, in fact, was driving upstate the minute I relieved him.”

“When will he be back?”

“Day after Christmas,” Judd said. “He had vacation time coming. I gave him the okay. He’s a big skier.”

“Do you know where he went?”

“Someplace upstate,” Karlson said.

“Did he mention the name of the hotel or the lodge?”

“No, he didn’t.”

“Can I have that phone number anyway?” Carella said.

“Sure,” Judd said. “It’s right in the office here.”

From the office phone Carella dialed Mandel’s home number. He let the phone ring twelve times and then hung up.

“No luck, huh?” Judd said.

“No,” Carella said, and shook his head.

“I told you,” Karlson said. “He was leaving straight from here.”

“Any way of getting in this building except through the front entrance?” Carella asked.

“The garbage is collected out back,” Judd said. “There’s a big door there, we unlock it when the garbage truck gets here.”

“What kind of lock on it?”

“Schlage deadbolt.”

“Who has the key?”

“Building superintendent.”

“Is he here now?”

“Sure. You want to talk to him?”

The building superintendent was a black man named Charles Whittier. He was eating his di

“Mr. Whittier,” Carella said, “a murder was committed upstairs in Apartment 304, we clocked the call in at seven-ten. Was the door back here open at any time today?”

“Yes, sir, it was,” Whittier said.

“Who opened it?”

“I did.”

“When?”

“Twelve noon, when the garbage truck come.”

“Did you let anyone inside the building?”

“Just the garbage men. We keeps the garbage cans inside here ’cause we don’t want rats to get at them. There’s rats in this neighborhood, you know.”

“Every neighborhood,” Judd said, defending his turf.

“So the garbage men come inside here to pick up the cans, is that it?”

“They’re not obliged to,” Judd said, “but we give them a few bucks each year around this time.”

“How many garbage men?” Carella asked.

“Two,” Whittier said.

“Were you here while they were in the building?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Either of them remain inside the building?”

“No, sir. They picked up the garbage, and I locked the door after them.”

“Did you open that door again at any time after that?”

“Yes, sir, I did.”

“When?”

“When it started snowing bad. I wanted to get out and do a little shoveling before it got too heavy to move.”

“What’d you shovel?”

“The ramp back there. So’s the garbage truck can get in tomorrow.”

“Did you lock the door while you were outside?”

“No, sir, I did not. But I could see it all the time I was shoveling.”

“See anybody come in here?”

“No, sir.”

“Were you watching the door every minute?”

“No, sir, not every minute. But I had my eye on it.”

“What time was this?”

“When I started shovelin’? Musta been about five-thirty thereabouts.”

“And you didn’t see anyone going into the building?”

“No, sir. I’da called Security right off had I seen anybody.”

“Okay, thanks, Mr. Whittier,” Carella said. “Sorry to have interrupted your meal.”

On the way upstairs, Judd said, “Security’s very tight here at Harborview, like I told you.”

Carella was thinking it hadn’t been tight enough to prevent a murder on the third floor or one outside on the sidewalk.

2

There were nineteen wounds on the body of Gregory Craig. Carella received the typewritten list from the morgue at Buena Vista Hospital ten minutes before Hawes came in with the morning newspaper. The list read: