Ghosts

“What happened?”

“He was prepared this time. Wouldn’t show a driver’s license, said he didn’t drive. The broker would’ve accepted his Social Security card, but he said he’d left that at home. He produced a postmarked letter addressed to him at 1624 McGrew. Name on the envelope was James Rader. The broker got suspicious because it looked like the name and address had been erased and then typed over again. He wouldn’t have taken it as identification anyway, but it alerted him, you know? So he went in the back room to check our flyer. When he came out again, the guy was gone, and the earrings with him.”

“Anything on James Rader?”

“Nothing in the phone directories, I’m running the name through ID now. It’s most likely a phony. I wouldn’t hold my breath. I’ve also sent the envelope to the lab. There may be prints on it they can compare against the others.”

“How about the address?”

“Nonexistent. McGrew runs for six blocks east to west, just this side of the Stem. Highest number on the street is 1411. He pulled it out of thin air, Steve.”

“Check for Jack Rawles,” Carella said. “The J. R. matches, he may be our man. If there’s nothing for him in the city, check the Boston directories for a listing on Commonwealth Avenue. And if there’s nothing in those, call the Boston PD, see if they can come up with a make.”

“How do you spell the Rawles?” Hawes asked.

“R-A-W-L-E-S.”

“Where’d you get the name?”

“He was renting the house Craig described in his book.”

“So what does that mean?”

“Maybe nothing. Check him out. I’ll be up for a while yet, give me a ring if you get anything.”

“What do you make of all this running around trying to hock the jewels?” Hawes asked.

“Amateur night in Dixie,” Carella said. “He needs money, and he doesn’t know any fences. What’d he sound like?”

“Who?”

“The guy who tried to pawn that stuff,” Carella said impatiently. “James Rader or whatever the fuck his name was.”

“Steve?” Hawes said. “Something wrong up there?”

“Nothing’s wrong. Can you reach those pawnbrokers?”

“Well, they’ll be closed now. It’s close to—”

“Try them at home. Ask them if the guy had a rasping voice.”

“A rasping voice?”

“A rasping voice, a hoarse voice. Get back to me, Cotton.”

He hung up abruptly, rose from the bed, paced the room a moment, and then sat again and dialed Boston Information. In the room next door he could hear Hillary ordering from room service. Carella gave the Boston operator both names—Jack Rawles and James Rader—and asked for a listing on Commonwealth Avenue. She told him she had a listing for a Jack Rawles, but that it was not for Commonwealth Avenue. He wrote down the number anyway and then asked for the address. She told him she was not permitted to give out addresses. He told her testily that he was a police officer investigating a homicide, and she asked him to hold on while she got her supervisor. The supervisor’s voice dripped treacle and peanut butter. She explained patiently that it was telephone company policy not to divulge the addresses of subscribers. When Carella explained with equal patience that he was an Isola detective working a homicide case and gave her the precinct number and its address, and the name of his commanding officer, and then his shield number for good measure, the supervisor said, simply and not so patiently, “I’m sorry, sir,” and hung up on him.

Angrily he dialed the number the operator had given him for Jack Rawles. In the hallway outside, Carella could hear someone knocking on Hillary’s door. He was about to hang up when a woman answered the phone.

“Hello?” she said.

“Mr. Rawles, please,” Carella said.

“Sorry, he’s out just now.”

“Where is he, would you know?”

“Who’s this, please?”

“An old friend,” he said. “Steve Carella.”

“Sorry, Steve, he’s out of town,” the woman said.

“Who’s this?”

“Marcia.”

“Marcia, do you know when he’ll be back?”

“No, I just got back myself. I’m a flight attendant, I got stuck in London. There’s a note here for my boyfriend, says Jack had to go down to the city, won’t be back for a couple of days.”

“What city?” Carella said.

“The city, man,” Marcia said. “There’s only one city in the entire world, and it ain’t Boston, believe me.”

“By your boyfriend…who do you mean?”

“Jack’s roommate, Andy. They’ve been living together since the fire.”

“What fire was that?” Carella said.

“Jack’s place on Commonwealth. Lost everything he had in it.”

“What’s he doing these days?” Carella asked.

“When did you last see him?”

“We met here in Hampstead, three summers ago.”

“Oh. Then he’s doing the exact same thing. He must’ve been at the Hampstead Playhouse then, am I right?”

“Still acting?” Carella asked, taking a chance and hoping Jack Rawles hadn’t been a stage manager or an electrician or a set designer.

“Still acting,” Marcia said. “Or at least trying to act. In the summer it’s stock. In the winter it’s zilch. Jack’s always broke, always scrounging for a part someplace. The only time he ever had any money was just before that summer in Hampstead, and he blew it all to rent that house he was staying in. Two thousand bucks, I think it was, for a television commercial he did in the city. I keep telling him he should move down there. What’s there for an actor in Boston?”

“I don’t remember him mentioning a fire,” Carella said, circling back.

“Well, when did you say you’d met? Three summers ago? The fire wasn’t until…let me think.”

Carella waited.

“Two years ago, it must’ve been. Yeah, around this time, two years ago.”

“Uh-huh,” Carella said. “When did he leave Boston, would you know?”

“The note doesn’t say. It had to be sometime after the twentieth, though.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I left for London on the twentieth, and Andy left for California the same day, and Jack was still here. Elementary, my dear Watson.”

“Where’s Andy now?”

“Search me. I just got in a few minutes ago. You want a madhouse during the holidays? Try Heathrow.”

“You wouldn’t know whether Jack is still in the city, would you?”

“Well, if he was back here, I’d know it,” Marcia said. “He’s the slob of all time. Open the sugar bowl, you’re liable to find a pair of his dirty jockey shorts in it.”

Carella chuckled and then said, “Does he still have that distinctive speaking voice?”

“Old Bearclaw Rawles, do you mean?”

“Sort of rasping?”

“Like a file,” Marcia said.

“You wouldn’t know where he’s staying in the city, would you?”

“Big city, Steve,” she said. “He could be anywhere.”

“Yeah,” Carella said. “Well, look, tell him I called, okay? Nothing important, just wanted to wish him a Happy New Year.”

“Will do,” Marcia said, and hung up.

Carella put the receiver back on the cradle. He debated calling Hawes again to tell him he’d made contact and decided against it. If he knew Hawes, he’d be trying the Boston Police right this minute, even after he got a telephone number for Rawles. A cup of Irish coffee sounded very good just now. He crossed the room and knocked on the connecting door.

“Come in,” Hillary said.

She was sitting dejectedly in an easy chair, the two cups of Irish coffee on a low table before her. She was still wearing the raccoon coat, huddled inside it.

“You okay?” he asked.

“I guess.”

He took one of the cups from the table, sipped at it, and licked whipped cream from his lips. “Why don’t you drink it before it gets cold?” he said.

She lifted the other cup, but she did not drink from it.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.”

“Drink your coffee.”

She sipped at it, her eyes lowered.

“Want to tell me?”

“No.”