Todd Alexander was a stout little blond man wearing a navy blue sports jacket over a checkered vest and gray flannel trousers. He looked as if he might be more at home attending a yachting meet than standing here in one of the city's grubbier squadrooms, but his manner was that of a man who had dealt with countless bogus charges brought by hundreds of reckless police officers, and he seemed completely unruffled by the present venue or the circ.u.mstances that necessitated his being here.

"So tell me what this is all about," he demanded. "In twenty-five words or less."

Carella didn't even blink.

"We have a necropsy report indicating that Andrew Hale died of asphyxia," he said. "Is that twenty-five words or less?"

"Twelve," Meyer said. "But who's counting?"

"Evidence would seem to indicate that the belt from Mr Hale's cashmere robe was knotted and looped around his neck," Carella said, "and then dropped over the hook on the bathroom door in order to effect hanging, either suicidal or homicidal."

"What's that got to do with my client?"

"Your client seems to think her father died in bed."

"Is that what you told them?"

"I told them I found him in bed."

"Dead?"

"Yes," Cynthia said.

"Has Mrs Keating been informed of her rights?" Alexander asked.

"We haven't asked her any questions yet," Carella said.

"She just told me . . ."

"That was at the scene."

"You haven't talked to her since she arrived here?"

"She got here literally three minutes before you did."

"Has she been charged with anything?"

"No."

"Why is she here?"

"We want to ask her some questions."

"Then read her her rights."

"Sure."

"Don't sound so surprised, Detective. She's in custody, you're throwing around words like homicide, I want her to hear her rights. Then we'll decide whether she wants to answer any questions."

"Sure," Carella said again, and began the recitation he knew by heart. "In keeping with the Supreme Court decision in the case of Miranda versus Escobedo," he intoned, and advised her that she had the right to remain silent, asking her every step along the way if she understood what he was saying, told her she had the right to consult a lawyer, which she already had done, told her they would obtain a lawyer for her if she didn't have one, which no longer applied, told her that if she decided to answer questions with or without her lawyer present, she could call off the questioning at any time, do you understand, and finally asked if she wished to answer questions at this time, to which she responded, "I have nothing to hide."

"Does that mean yes?" Carella asked.

"Yes. I'll answer any questions you have."

"Where's that autopsy report?" Alexander asked.

"Right there on my desk."

Alexander picked it up, looked at it briefly . . .

"Who signed it?" he asked.

"Carl Blaney."

. . . seemed abruptly bored by it, and tossed it back onto the desk again.

"Did you also speak to Blaney in person?" he asked.

15.Ed McBain "Yes, I did."

"Did he have anything to add to his findings?"

"Only that because the ligature around the neck was soft and wide, there was only a faint impression of the loop on the skin. But the knot caused a typical abrasion under the chin."

"All right, ask your questions," Alexander said. "We haven't got all day here."

"Mrs Keating," Carella said, "what time did you get to your father's apartment this morning?"

"A little after ten."

"Did you call the Emergency Service number at ten-oh-seven A.M.?"

"I don't know the exact time."

"Would this refresh your memory?" Carella asked, and started to hand her a computer printout.

"May I see that, please?" Alexander said, and took it from Carella's hand. Again, he looked at the doc.u.ment only perfunctorily, handed it to Cynthia, and asked, "Did you make this call?"

"Well, may I see it?" she said.

He handed her the printout. She read it silently and said, "Yes, I did."

"Is the time correct?" Carella asked.

"Well, that's the time listed here, so I guess that's the time it was."

"Ten-oh-seven."

"Yes."

"Did you tell the operator that you'd just come into your father's apartment and found him dead in bed?"

"Yes, I did."

"Did you ask her to send someone right away?"

"I did."

"Here's the call sheet from Adam Two," Carella said. "Their time of arrival . . ."

"Adam Two?" Alexander asked.

16."From the precinct here. One of the cars patrolling Adam Sector from eight A.M. to four P.M. today. Mr Bale's apartment is in Adam Sector. They list their time of arrival as ten-fifteen A.M. And this is my own Detective Division report, which lists the time of our arrival as ten-thirty-one. My partner and I. Detective Meyer and myself."

"All of which is intended to prove what, Detective?"

"Nothing at all, sir, except the sequence of events."

"Remarkable," Alexander said. "Not twenty-four minutes after Mrs Keating called 911, there were no fewer than four policemen at the scene! Wonderful! But before you ask any more questions, may I ask where all this is going?"

"I want Mrs Keating to tell me what she did before she called 911."

"She's already told you. She came into the apartment, found her father dead in his own bed, and immediately called the police. That's what she did, Detective."

"I don't think so."

"What do you think she did?"

"I don't know. But I do know she was in that apartment for almost forty minutes before she called the emergency number."

"I see. And how do you know that?"

"The super told me he saw her going in at nine-thirty."

"Is that true, Cynthia?"

"No, it's not."

"In which case, I'd like to suggest that we call off the questioning and go about our more productive endeavors. Detective Carella, Detective Meyer, it's been a distinct . . ."

"He's down the hall," Carella said. "In the lieutenant's office. Shall I ask him to come in?"

"Who is down the hall?"

Ed McBain "The super. Mr Zabriski. He remembers it was nine-thirty because that's when he puts out the garbage cans each morning. The truck comes by at nine-forty-five."

The room was silent for a moment.

"a.s.suming you do have this super . . ." Alexander said.

"Oh, I have him, all right."

"And a.s.suming he did see Mrs Keating entering the building at nine-thirty . . ."

"That's what he told me."

"What exactly do you think happened in that apartment between then and ten-oh-seven, when she called the emergency number?"

"Well," Carella said, "a.s.suming she herself didn't hang her father from that bathroom hook-"

"Goodbye, Mr Carella," Alexander said, and rose abruptly. "Cynthia," he said, "leave us hie yonder. Bob," he said to her husband, "it's a good thing you called me. Mr Carella here is fishing for a murder charge."

"Try Obstruction," Carella said.

"What?"

"Or Tampering with Evidence."

"What?"

"Or both. You want to know what I think happened, Mr Alexander? I think Mrs Keating found her father hanging from that hook . . ."

"Let's go, Cynthia."

". . . and took him down and carried him to the bed. I think she removed . . ."

"Time's up," Alexander said cheerfully. "Goodbye, Detec . . ."

". . . the belt from his neck, took off his shoes and socks, and pulled a blanket up over him. Then she called the police."

"For what purpose?" Alexander asked.

"Ask her, why don't you? All /know is that Obstructing 18.Governmental Administration is a violation of Section 195.05 of the Penal Law. And Tampering with Evidence is a violation of Section 215.40. Obstructing is a mere A-Mis, but . . ."

"You have no evidence of either crime!" Alexander said.

"I know that body was movedl" Carella said. "And that's Tampering! And for that one, she can get four years in jail!"

Cynthia Keating suddenly burst into tears.

The way she tells it...

"Cynthia, I think I should advise you," her attorney keeps interrupting over and over again, but tell it she will, the way all of them-sooner or later-will tell it if they will.

"The way it happened," she says, and now there are three detectives listening to her, Carella and Meyer who caught the squeal, joined by Lieutenant Byrnes, because all of a sudden this is interesting enough to drag him out of his corner office and into the interrogation room. Byrnes is wearing a brown suit, a wheat colored b.u.t.ton-down shirt, a darker brown tie with a neat Windsor knot. Even dressed as he is, he gives the impression of a flinty Irishman who's just come in off the bogs where he's been gathering peat. Maybe it's the haircut. His gray hair looks windblown, even though there isn't a breeze stirring in this windowless room. His eyes are a dangerous blue; he doesn't like anyone messing with the law, male or female.

"I stopped by to see him," Cynthia says, "because he really hadn't been feeling too good these days, and I was worried about him. I'd spoken to him the night before . . ."