Douglas Ettinger had remarried a couple of years after Barbara's death. He'd been a caseworker for the Welfare Department during their marriage, but he'd quit that job shortly after the murder and gone into sales. His second wife's father owned a sporting goods store onLong Island and after the marriage he'd taken in Ettinger as a partner. Ettinger lived in Mineola with his wife and two or three children-Londonwasn't sure of the number. He had come alone to Helen London's funeral andLondon hadn't had any contact with him since then, nor had he ever met the new wife.
Lynn London would be thirty-three in a month. She lived inChelsea and taught fourth-graders at a progressive private school in the Village. She'd been married shortly after Barbara was killed, and she and her husband had separated after a little over two years of marriage and divorced not long after that.
No children.
He mentioned other people. Neighbors, friends. The operator of the day-care center where Barbara had worked. A coworker there. Her closest friend from college. Sometimes he remembered names, sometimes not, but he gave me bits and pieces and I could take it from there. Not that any of it would necessarily lead anywhere.
He went off on tangents a lot. I didn't attempt to rein him in. I thought I might get a better picture of the dead woman by letting him wander, but even so I didn't develop any real sense of her. I learned she was attractive, that she'd been popular as a teenager, that she'd done well in school. She was interested in helping people, she liked working with children, and she'd been eager to have a family of her own.
The image that came through was of a woman of no vices and the blandest virtues, wavering in age from childhood to an age she hadn't lived to attain. I had the feeling that he hadn't known her terribly well, that he'd been insulated by his work and by his role as her father from any reliable perception of her as a person.
Not uncommon, that. Most people don't really know their children until the children have become parents themselves. And Barbara hadn't lived that long.
WHEN he ran out of things to tell me I flipped through my notes, then closed the book. I told him I'd see what I could do.
'I'll need some money,' I said.
'How much?'
I never know how to set a fee. What's too little and what's too much? I knew I needed money-a chronic condition, that-and that he probably had it in fair supply. Insurance agents can earn a lot or a little, but it seemed to me that selling group coverage to corporations was probably quite lucrative. I flipped a mental coin and came up with a figure of fifteen hundred dollars.
'And what will that buy, Mr. Scudder?'
I told him I really didn't know. 'It'll buy my efforts,' I said. 'I'll work on this until I come up with something or until it's clear to me that there's nothing to come up with. If that happens before I figure I've earned your money you'll get some back. If I feel I have more coming I'll let you know, and you can decide then whether or not you want to pay me.'
'It's very irregular, isn't it?'
'You might not be comfortable with it.'
He considered that but didn't say anything. Instead he got out a checkbook and asked how he should make the check payable. To Matthew Scudder, I told him, and he wrote it out and tore it out of the book and set it on the table between us.
I didn't pick it up. I said, 'You know, I'm not the only alternative to the police. There are big, well-staffed agencies who operate in a much more conventional manner. They'll report in detail, they'll account for every cent of fees and expenses. On top of that, they've got more resources than I do.'
'Detective Fitzroy said as much. He said there were a couple of major agencies he could recommend.'
'But he recommended me?'
'Yes.'
'Why?' I knew one reason, of course, but it wasn't one he'd have givenLondon .
Londonsmiled for the first time. 'He said you're a crazy son of a bitch,' he said. 'Those were his words, not mine.'
'And?'
'He said you might get caught up in this in a way a large agency wouldn't. That when you get your teeth in something you don't let go.
He said the odds were against it, but you just might find out who killed Barbara.'
'He said that, did he?' I picked up his check, studied it, folded it in half. I said, 'Well, he's right. I might.'
Chapter 2
It was too late to get to the bank. AfterLondon left I settled my tab and cashed a marker at the bar. My first stop would be the Eighteenth Precinct, and it's considered bad manners to show up empty-handed.
I called first to make sure he'd be there, then took a bus east and another one downtown. Armstrong's is onNinth Avenue , around the corner from myFifty-seventh Street hotel. The Eighteenth is housed on the ground floor of thePoliceAcademy , a modern eight-story building with classes for recruits and prep courses for the sergeants' and lieutenants' exams. They've got a pool there, and a gym equipped with weight machines and a running track. You can take martial arts courses, or deafen yourself practicing on the pistol range.
I felt the way I always do when I walk into a station house. Like an impostor, I suppose, and an unsuccessful one at that. I stopped at the desk, said I had business with Detective Fitzroy. The uniformed sergeant waved me on. He probably assumed I was a member in good standing. I must still look like a cop, or walk like one, or something. People read me that way. Even cops.
