The City When It Rains by Thomas H. Cook Page B

here.”
    â€œMaybe she wasn’t very nice,” Corman said. He took out his notebook, wrote down the name. “Know anything about her?”
    Kellerman shrugged. “No. Why, is she somebody’s daughter?”
    â€œShe was a college graduate,” Corman said. “At least that’s what they say at Number One.”
    Kellerman looked at Corman curiously. “So, not only a Jewish girl, but a college girl. The world is getting strange.”
    â€œDo you know anything at all about her?”
    â€œJust that somebody’s picking her up tomorrow.”
    Corman felt the tip of his pen bear down on the open notebook. “Who?”
    â€œA funeral home on the Upper East Side,” Kellerman said.
    â€œThey left a message on the machine. Tomlinson’s Chapel.” He watched Corman intently. “You think she was some big shot’s daughter?”
    Corman let the question pass. “She was starving, wasn’t she?” he asked.
    â€œYeah, she was,” Kellerman replied. “Very severe malnutrition.”
    â€œWhat was she hooked on?”
    â€œHooked?”
    â€œThe needle marks.”
    Kellerman shook his head. “She wasn’t hooked on anything at all.”
    â€œBut there were needle marks,” Corman said. “I took some pictures of them.”
    â€œThose were needle marks, all right,” Kellerman said. “But not from shooting dope. They were too big for that.”
    â€œWhat’d they come from?”
    â€œMy guess is she’d been selling blood,” Kellerman said. “The puncture marks were very large. They looked like they came from the sort of needle they have at those blood-buying places down on the Bowery.”
    Corman nodded and guessed that selling blood was the way she’d been able to afford the Similac. “When are they going to pick up tomorrow?” he asked.
    â€œMessage said one P.M.”
    â€œWould you mind if I came by?” Corman asked.
    Kellerman looked at him cautiously. “What for?”
    â€œI just want to take some pictures,” Corman assured him. “I won’t bother anybody.”
    Kellerman thought about it. “I guess it would be okay,” he said finally. “But just be sure you act like you happened by. I don’t want the relatives or whatever to think I set them up.”
    â€œOkay,” Corman said. He looked back down at the body, saw Sarah Rosen’s instead, Julian’s idea floating in his mind like a small white raft in a stormy ocean vastness.
    Once outside, Corman quickly got the number of Tomlinson’s Chapel and gave them a call.
    The voice at the other end sounded as dead as his customers. “Tomlinson’s Chapel. How may I help you?”
    â€œI was wondering about someone who’s going to be at your place tomorrow.”
    â€œBe at our place?”
    â€œA body. A woman. Sarah Judith Rosen’s the name.”
    â€œYes, what about her?”
    â€œI was wondering if you could tell me who’s making the arrangements for her.”
    The voice grew suspicious. “Are you a relative, sir?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œAnd what is your capacity, may I ask?”
    â€œI’m a photographer.”
    The voice chilled. “I’m afraid we’re not allowed to give out information to unauthorized individuals.”
    â€œI just need the name of her parents,” Corman said.
    â€œI’m sorry,” the man replied firmly. “But as I told you, we are not allowed to give out information to unauthorized individuals.”
    Corman started to blurt another question, but the click of the man hanging up silenced him, as if a label had been stamped on his forehead, blocking him forever: an unauthorized person.

CHAPTER
ELEVEN
    C ORMAN ARRIVED at Julian’s office a few minutes later and placed the few photographs he had of the jumper on his desk. “She might be the one you’re looking for,”