what appeared to be a dozen or more songs. There were pages of doodles, apparently scrawled while Chadderton was awaiting inspiration. On one of the pages, doodled all across it in block lettering and script lettering alike, overlapping and crisscrossing, were the words "IN THE LIFE."
"What's this?" Carella said, and showed the page to Chloe.
"I don't know. Maybe a song title."
"Did he sing anything called 'In the Life'?"
"No, but maybe it's just the idea for a song, just the title."
"Do you know what that expression means?" Carella asked.
"Yes, I think so. It refers to criminals, doesn't it? People in… well, in the criminal life."
"Yes," Carella said. "But your husband wasn't associating with any criminals, was he?"
"Not to my knowledge."
"None of the pushers or prostitutes he wrote about?"
"Not to my knowledge."
"That's a common expression among prostitutes," Carella said. "In the life." Chloe said nothing. "Is that the closet?" Carella asked.
"Yes, right there," she said, gesturing with her head. Carella handed the spiral notebook to Meyer, and then opened the closet door. Chloe watched him as he began moving hangers and clothing. She watched him intently. He wondered if she realized he was not looking for any of the colorful costumes her husband had worn on his various gigs, but instead was looking for black boots, a black raincoat, and a black hat- preferably wet. "These are what he wore, huh?" he asked.
"Yes. He had them made for him by a woman on St. Sab's."
"Nice," Carella said. Chloe was still watching him. He shoved aside several of the garments on their hangers, looked deeper into the closet.
"Mrs. Chadderton," Meyer said, "can you tell us whether your husband seemed worried or depressed lately? Were there any unexplained absences, did he seem to have any inkling at all that his life was in danger?"
Searching the closet, hoping that his search appeared casual, Carella recognized that Meyer had buried his "unexplained absences" question in a heap of camouflaging debris, circling back to the matter of possible infidelity in a way that might not ruffle Chloe's already substantially ruffled feathers. In the closet, there were several coats, none of them black and none of them wet. On the floor, a row of women's high-heeled pumps, several pairs of men's shoes, some low-heeled women's walking shoes, and a pair of medium-heeled women's boots-tan. Chloe had still not answered Meyer's question. Her attention had focused on Carella again. "Mrs. Chadderton?" Meyer said.
"No. He seemed the same as always," she said. "What are you looking for?" she asked Carella abruptly. "A gun?"
"No, ma'm," Carella said. "You don't own a gun, do you?"
"This has got to be some kind of comedy act," Chloe said, and stalked out of the bedroom. They followed her into the kitchen. She was standing by the refrigerator, weeping again.
"I didn't kill him," she said.
Neither of the detectives said anything.
"If you're done here, I wish you'd leave," she said.
"May I take the notebook with me?" Carella asked.
"Take it. Just go."
"I'll give you a receipt, ma'm, if you-"
"I don't need a receipt," she said, and burst into fresh tears.
"Ma'm…"
"Would you please go?" she said. "Would you please get the hell out of here?" They left silently.
In the hallway outside, Meyer said, "We were clumsy."
"We were worse than that," Carella said.
4
In the silence of the 3:00 a.m. squadroom, he sat alone at his desk and wondered what the hell was happening to him. He would have to call her in the morning, apologize to her, tell her it had been a long day and a longer night, tell her that sometimes in this business you began looking for murderers under every rock, explain-
"What's this?" Carella said, and showed the page to Chloe.
"I don't know. Maybe a song title."
"Did he sing anything called 'In the Life'?"
"No, but maybe it's just the idea for a song, just the title."
"Do you know what that expression means?" Carella asked.
"Yes, I think so. It refers to criminals, doesn't it? People in… well, in the criminal life."
"Yes," Carella said. "But your husband wasn't associating with any criminals, was he?"
"Not to my knowledge."
"None of the pushers or prostitutes he wrote about?"
"Not to my knowledge."
"That's a common expression among prostitutes," Carella said. "In the life." Chloe said nothing. "Is that the closet?" Carella asked.
"Yes, right there," she said, gesturing with her head. Carella handed the spiral notebook to Meyer, and then opened the closet door. Chloe watched him as he began moving hangers and clothing. She watched him intently. He wondered if she realized he was not looking for any of the colorful costumes her husband had worn on his various gigs, but instead was looking for black boots, a black raincoat, and a black hat- preferably wet. "These are what he wore, huh?" he asked.
"Yes. He had them made for him by a woman on St. Sab's."
"Nice," Carella said. Chloe was still watching him. He shoved aside several of the garments on their hangers, looked deeper into the closet.
"Mrs. Chadderton," Meyer said, "can you tell us whether your husband seemed worried or depressed lately? Were there any unexplained absences, did he seem to have any inkling at all that his life was in danger?"
Searching the closet, hoping that his search appeared casual, Carella recognized that Meyer had buried his "unexplained absences" question in a heap of camouflaging debris, circling back to the matter of possible infidelity in a way that might not ruffle Chloe's already substantially ruffled feathers. In the closet, there were several coats, none of them black and none of them wet. On the floor, a row of women's high-heeled pumps, several pairs of men's shoes, some low-heeled women's walking shoes, and a pair of medium-heeled women's boots-tan. Chloe had still not answered Meyer's question. Her attention had focused on Carella again. "Mrs. Chadderton?" Meyer said.
"No. He seemed the same as always," she said. "What are you looking for?" she asked Carella abruptly. "A gun?"
"No, ma'm," Carella said. "You don't own a gun, do you?"
"This has got to be some kind of comedy act," Chloe said, and stalked out of the bedroom. They followed her into the kitchen. She was standing by the refrigerator, weeping again.
"I didn't kill him," she said.
Neither of the detectives said anything.
"If you're done here, I wish you'd leave," she said.
"May I take the notebook with me?" Carella asked.
"Take it. Just go."
"I'll give you a receipt, ma'm, if you-"
"I don't need a receipt," she said, and burst into fresh tears.
"Ma'm…"
"Would you please go?" she said. "Would you please get the hell out of here?" They left silently.
In the hallway outside, Meyer said, "We were clumsy."
"We were worse than that," Carella said.
4
In the silence of the 3:00 a.m. squadroom, he sat alone at his desk and wondered what the hell was happening to him. He would have to call her in the morning, apologize to her, tell her it had been a long day and a longer night, tell her that sometimes in this business you began looking for murderers under every rock, explain-
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