“What now?” she said.

  “It’s me. Carella. Let us in, Ida.”

  “What do you want, Carella? Are the bulls getting in the act now?”

  “We want to see a girl you call ‘The Lady.’”

  “She’s busy,” Ida said.

  “We’ll wait.”

  “She may be a while.”

  “We’ll wait.”

  “Wait outside.”

  “Ida,” Carella said gently, “get the hell out of that doorway.”

  Ida moved back. Carella and Hawes stepped into a dim corridor.

  “What do you want with her?” Ida asked.

  “We want to ask her some questions.”

  “What about?”

  “Police business,” Carella answered.

  “You’re not going to take her away, are you?”

  “No. Just some questions.”

  Ida smiled radiantly. There was a gold tooth at the front of her mouth. “Good,” she said. “Come in. Sit down.”

  She led them into a small, cheerless parlor. There was the smell of incense in the room and the smell of perspiration. The perspiration won out.

  Ida looked at Hawes. “Who’s this one?” she asked.

  “Detective Hawes,” Carella said.

  “Handsome,” Ida said unenthusiastically. “What happened to your hair? How’d you get that white hair?”

  “I’m getting old,” Hawes said, touching the streak.

  “How long will she be?” Carella asked.

  “Who knows? She’s slow. She’s hard to get. She’s The Lady, don’t you know? Ladies have to be treated gently. Ladies have to be talked to.”

  “You must lose a lot of money with her.”

  “She costs three times more than the rest,” Ida said.

  “Is she worth it?”

  She shrugged. “If you have to pay for it, I guess she’s worth it.” She looked at Hawes again. “I’ll bet you never had to pay for it.”

  Hawes studied her blandly. He knew the woman was only talking in terms of her trade. He had never known a whore or a madam who did not discuss sex as simply as the average woman discussed clothes or babies. Nonetheless, he did not answer her.

  “How old do you think I am?” she asked him.

  “Sixty,” he answered flatly.

  Ida laughed. “You bastard,” she said. “I’m only forty-five. Come around some afternoon.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Sixty,” she scoffed. “I’ll show you sixty.”

  Upstairs, a door opened and closed. There were footsteps in the hallway. Ida looked up.

  “She’s finished,” she said.

  A man came down the steps. He looked sheepishly into the parlor and then went out the front door.

  “Come on,” Ida said. She watched Hawes as he stood up. “A big one,” she said, almost to herself, and then she led the detectives onto the stairway. “I really ought to charge you for her time.”

  “We can always take her to the squadroom,” Carella said.

  “I’m joking, Carella,” Ida answered. “Don’t you know when I’m joking? What’s your first name, Hawes?”

  “Cotton.”

  “Doesn’t your friend know when I’m joking, Cotton?” She paused on the steps and looked down at Hawes. “Are those sixty- year-old legs?” she asked.

  “Seventy,” Hawes answered, and Carella burst out laughing.

  “You bastard,” Ida said, but she could not suppress the chuckle that came to her throat. They passed into the upstairs corridor. In one of the rooms, a girl in a kimono was sitting on the edge of her bed, polishing her nails. The other doors along the corridor were closed. Ida went to one of the closed doors and knocked on it.

  A soft voice answered, “Si? Who ees it?”

  “Ida. Open up.”

  “One minute, per piacere.”

  Ida pulled a face and waited. The door opened. The girl standing in the doorframe was at least thirty-two years old. Black hair framed a tranquil face with deep-set brown eyes. There was sadness on the face and around the edges of the mouth. There was nobility in the way the girl held her head, in the way she kept her shoulders pulled back, one hand clutched daintily, protectively, to the neck of the kimono, holding it closed over the thrust of her breasts. There was fear in her eyes, as if she dreaded what was coming next.

  “Si?” she said.

  “Some gentlemen to see you,” Ida said.

  She looked to Ida plaintively. “Again?” she said. “Please, signora, not again I beg you. I am so—”

  “Knock it off, Marcia,” Ida said. “They’re cops.”

  The fear left Marcia’s eyes. The hand dropped from the neck of the kimono. The kimono fell open, revealing the first rise of her breasts. All nobility left her face and her carriage. There were hard lines about her eyes and her mouth.

  “What’s the beef?” she asked.

  “None,” Carella said. “We want to talk to you.”

  “You sure that’s all?”

  “That’s all.”

  “Some cops come in here and expect—”

  “Can it,” Hawes said. “We want to talk.”

  “In here? Or downstairs?”

  “Call your own shot.”

  “Here,” she said. She stepped back. Carella and Hawes entered the room.

  “You need me?” Ida asked.

  “No.”

  “I’ll be downstairs. Want a drink before you leave, Cotton?”

  “No, thanks,” Hawes said.

  “What’s the matter? You don’t like me?” Ida cocked her head saucily. “I could show you a few things.”

  “I love you,” Hawes said, grinning, and Carella looked at him in surprise. “I’m just afraid the exertion would kill you.”

  Mama Ida burst out laughing. “You bastard,” she said, and she went out of the room. In the hallway he heard her mumble chucklingly, “The exertion would kill me!”

  Marcia sat, crossing her legs in a most unladylike manner.

  “Okay, what is it?” she asked.

  “You been working here long?” Carella said.

  “About six months.”

  “Get along?”

  “I get along fine.”

  “Have any trouble since you’ve been here?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Any arguments? Fights?”

  “The usual. There’s twelve girls here. Somebody’s always yelling about using somebody else’s bobby pins. You know how it is.”

  “How about anything serious?”

  “Hair pulling? Like that?”

  “Yes.”

  “No. I try to steer clear of the other girls. I get more money than they do, so they don’t like it. I’m not looking for trouble. This is a cushy spot. Best I ever had it. Hell, I’m star of the show here.” She pulled the kimono up over her knees. “Hot, ain’t it?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Carella said. “Did you ever have any trouble with one of the customers?”

  Marcia began flapping the kimono about her legs, using it as a fan. “What’s this all about?” she asked.

  “Did you?”

  “Trouble with the customers? I don’t know. Who the hell remembers? What’s this all about?”

  “We’re trying to figure out whether or not somebody wants to kill you,” Hawes said.

  Marcia stopped fanning her legs with the kimono. The silk dropped from her fingers. “Come again,” she said.

  “You heard it the first time.”

  “Kill me? That’s crazy. Who’d want to kill me?” She paused, then proudly added, “I’m a good lay.”

  “And you never had any trouble with a customer?”

  “What kind of trouble could I—” She stopped. Her face went pensive. For a moment it took on the quiet nobility of her role as The Lady. When she spoke, the moment was gone. “You think it could be him?” she asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re sure somebody wants to kill me? How do you know?”

  “We don’t know. We’re guessing.”

  “Well, there was this guy…” She stopped. “Naw, he was just talking.”

  “Who?”

  “Some jerk. A sailor. He kept trying to place me all the while he was here. Finally, he done it. Remembered me from New London. I was working there during the war. The submarine base, you know. Good pickings. He remembered me and claimed he got cheated, wanted his money back. Said I wasn’t no Italian count’s daughter, I was just a plain phony. I admitted I come from Scranton, but I told him he got what he paid for, and if he didn’t like it, he could take a flying leap. He told me he’d come back. He said when he came back, he’d kill me.”

  “When was this?”

  “About a month ago, I guess.”

  “Do you remember his name?”

  “Yeah. I don’t usually, except this guy raised a fuss. They all tell me their names, you know. First thing. Right off the bat. I’m Charlie, I’m Frank, I’m Ned. You’ll remember me, won’t you, honey? Remember them! Jesus! I have a hard enough time trying to forget some of them.”

  “But you remember this sailor, do you?”

  “Sure. He said he was gonna kill me. Wouldn’t you remember? Besides, he had a goofy name.”

  “What was it?”

  “Mickey.”

  “Mickey what?”

  “That’s what I asked him. I said, ‘What is it? Mickey Mouse?’ It wasn’t Mickey Mouse at all.”

  “What was it?”

  “Mickey Carmichael. I can remember him saying it. Mickey Carmichael. Fire controlman second class. That’s just the way he said it. As if he was saying, ‘His Majesty, the king of England.’ A nut. A real nut.”

  “Did he say where he was based?”

  “He was on a ship. This was his first liberty in the city.”

  “Which ship?”

  “I don’t know. He called it a tin can. That’s a battleship, ain’t it?”

  “That’s a destroyer,” Hawes said. “What else did he say about the ship?”

  “Nothing. Except he was glad to be off it. Wait a minute. A strike? Something about a strike?”

  “A striker?” Carella asked. He turned to Hawes. “That’s a Navy term, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, but I don’t see how it would apply to a noncommisioned officer. He did say fire controlman second class, didn’t he? He didn’t say seaman second? Fire controlman striker?”

  “No, no, he was a sergeant or something. He had red stripes on his sleeve.”

  “Two red stripes?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He was a second-class petty officer,” Hawes said. “She’s right, Steve.” He turned to the girl. “But he said something about a strike?”

  “Something like that.”

  “A mutiny?”

  “Something like that. A strike or something.”

  “A strike,” Hawes said, half to himself. “Strikers, picket lines—” He snapped his fingers. “A picket! Did he say his ship was a picket ship?”

  “Yeah,” Marcia said, her eyes widening. “Yeah. That’s exactly what he said. He seemed pretty proud of that, too.”

  “A picket destroyer,” Hawes said. “That shouldn’t give us much trouble. Mickey Carmichael.” He nodded. “Anything else you want to ask her?”

  “I’m finished.”

  “So am I. Thanks, miss.”

  “You think he’s really gonna try to kill me?” Marcia asked.

  “We’ll find out,” Hawes said.

  “What should I do if he comes here?”

  “We’ll get to him before then.”

  “But suppose he gets past you?”

  “He won’t.”

  “I know. But suppose he does?”

  “Try hiding under the bed,” Carella said.

  “Wise guy,” Marcia said.

  “We’ll call you,” Carella said. “If he’s our man and you’re his target, we’ll let you know.”

  “Look, do me a favor. Let me know even if I ain’t. I don’t want to sit here trembling every time there’s a knock on the door.”

  “You’re not scared, are you?”

  “Damn right I am,” Marcia said.

  “It should help your act,” Carella answered and they left.

  The administration building for the Naval District that boundaried the city had its offices downtown on Worship Avenue. When Carella and Hawes got back to the squad, Hawes looked up the number in the phone book and dialed it.

  “Naval Administration,” a voice answered.

  “This is the police,” Hawes said. “Let me speak to your commanding officer.”

  “One moment, please.” There was a pause and then some clicking on the line.

  “Ensign Davis,” a voice said.

  “Are you the commanding officer?” Hawes asked.

  “No, sir. May I help you?”

  “This is the police. We’re trying to locate a sailor from a—”

  “That would fall into the province of the Shore Patrol, sir. One moment, please.”

  “Look, all I want to—”

  The clicking on the line interrupted Hawes.

  “Yes, sir?” the operator asked.

  “Put this call through to Lieutenant Jergens in Shore Patrol, would you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  More clicking. Hawes waited.

  “Lieutenant Jergens, Shore Patrol,” a voice said.

  “This is Detective Cotton Hawes,” Hawes answered, figuring he’d throw a little rank around among all this brass. “We’re looking for an enlisted man named Mickey Carmichael. He’s aboard a—”

  “What’d he do?” Jergens asked.

  “Nothing yet. We want to stop him before—”

  “If he didn’t do anything, we wouldn’t have any record of him. Is he connected with this building?”

  “No, he’s—”

  “Just a moment, I’ll get you Personnel.”

  “I don’t want—”

  The clicking cut him off again.

  “Operator?” Jergens said.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Put this through to Commander Elliot in Personnel.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Hawes waited.

  Click-click.

  Click-click.

  “Commander Elliot’s office,” a voice said.

  “Is this Commander Elliot?”

  “No, sir. This is Chief Yeoman Pickering.”

  “Let me talk to the commander, Pickering.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, he’s not in right now, sir. Who’s calling, please, sir?”

  “Let me talk to his superior, will you?” Hawes asked.

  “His superior, sir, is commanding officer here, sir. Who’s calling please, sir?”

  “This is Admiral Hawes!” Hawes shouted. “Connect me with your commanding officer at once!”

  “Yes, sir, Admiral. Yes, sir!”

  The clicking was frantic now.

  “Yes, sir?” the operator asked.

  “Put this through to Captain Finchberger,” Pickering said. “On the double.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  The clicking clicked again.

  “Captain Finchberger’s office,” a voice said.

  “Get me the captain! This is Admiral Hawes!” Hawes said, enjoying himself immensely now.

  “Yes, sir!” the voice snapped.

  Hawes waited.

  The voice that came onto the line wasn’t having any damned nonsense.

  “Admiral who?” it shouted.

  “Sir?” Hawes asked, recalling his Navy days and remembering that he was talking to a Naval captain, which is very much different from an Army captain, a Naval captain being a very high rank, indeed, full of scrambled eggs and all sorts of highly polished brass. Considering this, Hawes turned on the oil. “I’m sorry, sir, your secretary must have misunderstood. This is Detective Hawes of the 87th Precinct here in the city. We were wondering if we could have the Navy’s assistance on a rather difficult problem.”

  “What is it, Hawes?” Finchberger said, but he was weakening.

  “Sir, we’re trying to locate a sailor who was in the city a month ago, and who is perhaps still here. He was off a picket destroyer, sir. His name is—”

  “There was a picket destroyer here in June, that’s right,” Finchberger said. “The USS Perriwinkle. She’s gone now. Left on the fourth.”

  “All hands aboard, sir?”

  “The commanding officer did not report anyone AOL or AWOL. The ship left with its full complement.”

  “Have there been any other picket destroyers in port since then, sir?”

  “No, there haven’t.”

  “Any destroyers at all?”

  “We’ve got one scheduled for the end of the week. Coming up from Norfolk. That’s all.”

  “Would it be the Perriwinkle, sir?”

  “No, it would not. It would be the Masterson.”

  “Thank you, sir. Then there is no possibility that this sailor is still in the city or scheduled to arrive in the city?”

  “Not unless he jumped ship in the middle of the Atlantic,” Finchberger said. “The Perriwinkle was headed for England.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Hawes said. “You’ve been very kind.”

  “Don’t pull that admiral routine again, Hawes,” Finchberger said, and he hung up.

  “Find him?” Carella asked.

  Hawes replaced the phone in its cradle.

  “He’s on his way to Europe,” he said.

  “That let’s him out,” Carella said.

  “It doesn’t let our hooker friend out,” Hawes answered.

  “No. She might still be the target. I’ll call her and tell her not to worry about the sailor. In the meantime, I’ll ask Pete for a couple of uniformed men to watch Ida’s joint. If she is the target, our boy won’t try for her with cops around.”

  “We hope.”

  Hawes looked up at the white-faced clock on the squadroom wall. It was exactly 11:00 in the morning.

  In nine hours, their killer—whoever he was—would strike.

  From somewhere across the street in Grover Park, the sun glinted on something shiny, blinking its rays through the grilled window of the squadroom, flashing momentarily on Hawes’s face.

  “Draw that shade, will you, Steve?” he asked.

  Sam Grossman was a police lieutenant, a laboratory technician, and the man in charge of the police laboratory at Headquarters on High Street, downtown.