'I don't know. I rather doubt it, but I'm not sure. I'm seeing her tomorrow.
Evidently she was someone Wendy knew at college. Did she ever mention a friend named Marcia Maisel?'
'Maisel? I don't think so.'
'Do you know the names of any of her friends from college?'
'I don't believe I do. Let me think. I seem to recall that she would refer to them by first names, and they didn't stick in my mind.'
'It's probably unimportant. Does the name Cottrell mean anything to you?'
'Cottrell?' I spelled it, and he said it aloud again. 'No, it doesn't mean anything to me. Should it?'
'Wendy used a firm by that name as a job reference when she signed her apartment lease. The firm doesn't seem to exist.'
'Why did you think I would have heard of it?'
'Just a shot in the dark. I've been taking a lot of them lately, Mr. Hanniford.
Was Wendy a good cook?'
'Wendy? Not as far as I know. Of course she may have developed an interest in cooking at college. I wouldn't know about that. When she was living at home, I don't think she ever made anything more ambitious than a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich. Why?'
'No reason.'
His other phone rang, and he asked if there was anything else. I started to say that there wasn't and then thought of what I should have thought of at the beginning. 'The postcards,' I said.
'What about them?'
'What's on the other side?'
'The other side?'
'They're picture postcards, aren't they? Turn them over. I want to know what's on the other side.'
'I'll see. Grant's Tomb. Is that an important piece of the puzzle, Scudder?'
I ignored the sarcasm. 'That's New York,' I said. 'I'm more interested in the Miami one.'
'It's a hotel.'
'What hotel?'
'Oh, for Christ's sake. I didn't even think of it that way. It could mean something, couldn't it?'
'What hotel, Mr. Hanniford?'
'The Eden Roc. Does that give you an important lead?'
IT didn't.
I got the manager at the Eden Roc and told him I was a New York City police officer investigating a fraud case. I had him dig out his registration cards for the month of September 1970. I was on the phone for half an hour while he located the cards and went through them, looking for a registration in the name of either Hanniford or Cottrell. He came up empty.
I wasn't too surprised. Cottrell didn't have to be the man who took her to Miami. Even if he was, that didn't mean he would necessarily sign his real name on a registration card. It would have made life simpler if he had, but nothing about Wendy Hanniford's life and death had been simple so far, and I couldn't expect a sudden rush of simplicity now.
I poured another drink and decided to let the rest of the day spin itself out. I was trying to do too much, trying to sift all the sand in the desert. Pointless, because I was looking for answers to questions my client hadn't even asked. It didn't much matter who Richie Vanderpoel was, or why he had drawn red lines on Wendy. All Hanniford wanted was a hint of the life that late she led. Mrs. Gerald Thal, the former Miss Marcia Maisel, would provide as much tomorrow.
So until then I could take it easy. Look at the paper, drink my drink, wander over to Armstrong's when the walls of my room moved too close to one another.
Except that I couldn't. I made the drink last almost half an hour, then rinsed out the glass and put my coat on and caught the A train downtown.
WHEN you hit a gay bar in the middle of a weekday afternoon you wonder why they don't call it something else. In the evenings, with a good crowd drinking and cruising, there is a very real gaiety in the air. It may seem forced, and you may sense an undercurrent of insufficiently quiet desperation, but gay then is about as good a word as any. But not around three or four on a Thursday afternoon, when the place is down to a handful of serious drinkers with no place else to go and a bartender whose face says he knows how bad things are and that he's stopped waiting for them to get better.
I made the rounds. A basement club on Bank Street where a man with long white hair and a waxed moustache played the bowling machine all by himself while his beer went flat. A big room on West Tenth, its ambience pitched for the old college athlete crowd, sawdust on the floor and Greek-letter pennants on the exposed brick walls. In all, half a dozen gay bars within a four-block radius of 194
Bethune Street.
I got stared at a lot. Was I a cop? Or a potential sexual partner? Or both?
I had the newspaper photo of Richie, and I showed it around a lot to whoever was willing to look at it.
Almost everyone recognized the photo because they had seen it in the paper.
