as I know, the le Clercs come from a part of Africa worshipped King Kong, not Allah. I am an old-fashioned man, Lieutenant, don’t hold with tryin’ to be someone I ain’t. I go to the Baptist church an’ Celeste goes to the Catholic church. I been a black man in a white man’s army, but if the Germans and the Japs had won, I’d a been a helluva lot worse off, is how I see it. I got a little money in the bank, an’ when I retire, I am goin’ back to Georgia to farm. I had it up to here” — he put his hand to his throat —
“with Connecticut winters. Still an’ all, that’s not why I wanted to see you, sir.”
“Why did you want to see me, Mr. Green?”
“Otis. To get it outta the way. How many people know what I found in that fridge?”
“Hardly any, and we’re trying to keep it that way.”
“It was a little girl, wasn’t it?”
“No. Not a child, at any rate. We know she was from a family of Dominicans, and we know she was sixteen years old.”
“So she black, not white.”
“I’d prefer to say she was neither, Otis. A mixture.”
“Lieutenant, this is a terrible sin!”
“Yes, it is.”
Carmine paused while Otis muttered under his breath, let him calm down, then broached the subject of bags.
“Is there a usual pattern to the number and size of the bags in the fridge, Otis?”
“I guess so,” Otis said after some thought. “I mean, I know when Mrs. Liebman’s doin’ decerebrations ’cos there’s four to six cat bags. Otherwise, it’s mostly rat bags. If a macaque dies, the way we thought Jimmy had, then there’s a real big bag, but I will always know what’s in it ’cos Cecil will be cryin’ his heart out.”
“So when there are four to six cat bags in the fridge, you know that Mrs. Liebman has been decerebrating.”
“’s right, Lieutenant.”
“Can you remember any time in the past when there were four to six cat bags in the fridge that Mrs. Liebman couldn’t have had anything to do with?”
Otis looked surprised, tried to sit up.
“You want your wife in jail for murdering me, Otis? Lie back down, man!”
“About six months ago. Six cat bags when Mrs. Liebman was away on vacation. I remember wonderin’ who was fillin’ in for her, but then I was needed, so I just threw them bags into my bin an’ wheeled them off to the incinerator.”
Carmine rose. “That’s a great help. Thanks, Otis.”
The visitor hadn’t let himself out of the downstairs front door before Celeste and Wesley were back.
“You okay?” Celeste demanded.
“Better than before he came,” said Otis sturdily.
“What color’s the body?” Wesley demanded. “Did the cop say?”
“Not white, but not black either.”
“A mulatto?”
“He didn’t say that. That’s a Louisiana word, Wes.”
“Mulatto’s black, not white,” said Wesley with satisfaction.
“Don’t you go makin’ mountains outta molehills!” Otis cried.
“I gotta see Mohammed” was Wesley’s rejoinder. He zipped himself into his black imitation leather jacket with the white fist painted on its back.
“You’re not seeing Mohammed, boy, you’re going to work this minute! You do not qualify for welfare and I am not boarding you for nothing!” Celeste snapped. “Go on, shoo!”
Sighing, Wesley divested himself of his passport to Mohammed el Nesr’s headquarters at 18 Fifteenth Street, put on a down jacket instead, and hied himself off in his battered 1953 De Soto to Parson Surgical Instruments. Where, if he had bothered to enquire, which he didn’t, he could have discovered that his dexterity at crafting mosquito forceps had more than once made the difference between continued employment and a pink slip.
For Carmine the day was depressing and bitter; the missing persons files that fitted the Mercedes description were beginning to arrive on his desk. Six more, to be exact, one every two months throughout 1964: Waterbury, Holloman, Middletown, Danbury, Meriden and Torrington. The only place where
“with Connecticut winters. Still an’ all, that’s not why I wanted to see you, sir.”
“Why did you want to see me, Mr. Green?”
“Otis. To get it outta the way. How many people know what I found in that fridge?”
“Hardly any, and we’re trying to keep it that way.”
“It was a little girl, wasn’t it?”
“No. Not a child, at any rate. We know she was from a family of Dominicans, and we know she was sixteen years old.”
“So she black, not white.”
“I’d prefer to say she was neither, Otis. A mixture.”
“Lieutenant, this is a terrible sin!”
“Yes, it is.”
Carmine paused while Otis muttered under his breath, let him calm down, then broached the subject of bags.
“Is there a usual pattern to the number and size of the bags in the fridge, Otis?”
“I guess so,” Otis said after some thought. “I mean, I know when Mrs. Liebman’s doin’ decerebrations ’cos there’s four to six cat bags. Otherwise, it’s mostly rat bags. If a macaque dies, the way we thought Jimmy had, then there’s a real big bag, but I will always know what’s in it ’cos Cecil will be cryin’ his heart out.”
“So when there are four to six cat bags in the fridge, you know that Mrs. Liebman has been decerebrating.”
“’s right, Lieutenant.”
“Can you remember any time in the past when there were four to six cat bags in the fridge that Mrs. Liebman couldn’t have had anything to do with?”
Otis looked surprised, tried to sit up.
“You want your wife in jail for murdering me, Otis? Lie back down, man!”
“About six months ago. Six cat bags when Mrs. Liebman was away on vacation. I remember wonderin’ who was fillin’ in for her, but then I was needed, so I just threw them bags into my bin an’ wheeled them off to the incinerator.”
Carmine rose. “That’s a great help. Thanks, Otis.”
The visitor hadn’t let himself out of the downstairs front door before Celeste and Wesley were back.
“You okay?” Celeste demanded.
“Better than before he came,” said Otis sturdily.
“What color’s the body?” Wesley demanded. “Did the cop say?”
“Not white, but not black either.”
“A mulatto?”
“He didn’t say that. That’s a Louisiana word, Wes.”
“Mulatto’s black, not white,” said Wesley with satisfaction.
“Don’t you go makin’ mountains outta molehills!” Otis cried.
“I gotta see Mohammed” was Wesley’s rejoinder. He zipped himself into his black imitation leather jacket with the white fist painted on its back.
“You’re not seeing Mohammed, boy, you’re going to work this minute! You do not qualify for welfare and I am not boarding you for nothing!” Celeste snapped. “Go on, shoo!”
Sighing, Wesley divested himself of his passport to Mohammed el Nesr’s headquarters at 18 Fifteenth Street, put on a down jacket instead, and hied himself off in his battered 1953 De Soto to Parson Surgical Instruments. Where, if he had bothered to enquire, which he didn’t, he could have discovered that his dexterity at crafting mosquito forceps had more than once made the difference between continued employment and a pink slip.
For Carmine the day was depressing and bitter; the missing persons files that fitted the Mercedes description were beginning to arrive on his desk. Six more, to be exact, one every two months throughout 1964: Waterbury, Holloman, Middletown, Danbury, Meriden and Torrington. The only place where
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