sent him up to replace a washer in the kitchen faucet, and he'd let himself in with a passkey, figuring the lady . . .
He kept calling her the lady.
. . . was already gone for the day, it being eleven o'clock in the morning and all. Instead, the lady was dead on her back in the bedroom. The handyman didn't know whether or not it was okay to go back downstairs now, nobody was telling him nothing. So he hung around trying not to appear like an illegal, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as if he had to pee.
'So how do you wanna proceed here?' Monoghan asked.
Monroe looked at his watch. 'Is there traffic out there, or what?' he said.
Monoghan shrugged.
'You wanna hear what happened yesterday?' he asked.
'What happened?'
'I go get some takee-outee at this Chinese joint, you know?'
'Yeah?'
'And I place my order with this guy behind one of these computers, and I tell him I also want a coupla bottles non-alcoholic beer. So he . ...'
'Why you drinking non-alcoholic beer?'
'I'm tryin'a lose a little weight.'
'Why? You look okay to me.'
'I'm tryin'a lose ten, twelve pounds.'
'You look fine.'
'You think so?'
'Absolutely.'
Together, the detectives looked like Tweedledum and Tweedledee. But Monroe didn't seem to realize this.
'Anyway, that ain't the point of the story,' Monoghan said. 'I told him I wanted two non-alcoholic beers, and he told me I'd have to get those at the bar. So I go over to the bar, and the bartender — this blonde with nice tits, which was strange for a Chinese joint. . .'
'Her having nice tits?'
'No, her being blonde . . . can you please pay attention here? She asks me, 'Can I help you, sir?' And I tell her I'd like two non-alcoholic beers, please.'
'When you say 'nice tits,' is that what you really mean? 'Nice tits'?' 'What?'
'Is that a truly accurate description? 'Nice tits'?' 'Can you please tell me what that has to do with my story?'
'For the sake of accuracy,' Monroe said, and shrugged.
'Forget it, then,' Monoghan said.
'Because there's an escalation of language when a person is discussing breast sizes,' Monroe said.
'I'm not interested,' Monoghan said, and looked down again at the breasts of the dead woman.
'The smallest breasts,' Monroe said, undeterred, 'are what you'd call 'cute boobs.' Then the next largest breasts are 'nice tits' . . .'
'I told you I'm not. . .'
'. . . and then we get to 'great jugs,' and finally we arrive at 'major hooters.' That's the proper escalation. So when you say this blonde bartender had nice tits, do you really mean . . . ?'
'I really mean she had 'nice tits,' yes, and that has nothing to do with my story.'
'I know. Your story has to do with ordering nonalcoholic beer when you don't even need to lose weight.'
'Forget it,' Monoghan said.
'No, tell it. I'm listening.'
You're sure you're not still distracted by the bartender with the great tits or the cute hooters or whatever the hell she had?'
'You're mixing them up.'
'Forgive me, I didn't know this was an exact science.'
'There's no need for sarcasm. I'm tryin'a help your story, is all.'
'So let me tell it then.'
'So tell it already,' Monroe said, sounding miffed.
'I ask the bartender for two non-alcoholic beers, and a Chinese manager or whatever he was, standing there at the service bar says, 'We can't sell you beer to take home, sir.' So I said, 'Why not?' So he says, 'I would lose my liquor license.' So I said, 'This isn't alcohol, this is nonalcoholic beer. It would be the same as my taking home
a Diet Coke.' So he says, 'I order my non-alcoholic beer from my liquor supplier. And I can't sell it to customers to take home.' So I said, 'Who can you sell it to if not customers?' He says, 'What?' So I say, 'If you can't sell it to customers, who can you sell it to? Employees?' So he says, 'I can't sell it to anyone. I would lose my liquor license.' So I say, 'This is not liquor! This is nonalcoholic!' And he says, 'I'm sorry, sir.''
'So did you get the beer or not?'
'I did not get it. And it wasn't beer. It was non-alcoholic beer.'
'Which you don't need, anyway, a diet.'
'Forget it,' Monoghan said, sighing, and a voice from the entrance door said, 'Good morning, people. Who's in charge here?'
The ME had arrived.
Detectives Meyer and Carella were just a heartbeat behind him.
YOU COULDN'T MISTAKE them for anything but cops.
Monoghan and Monroe might have been confused with portly pallbearers at a gangland funeral, but Meyer and Carella — although they didn't look at all alike -could be nothing but cops.
Detective Meyer Meyer was some six feet tall, a broad-shouldered man with china-blue eyes and a completely bald head. Even without the Isola PD shield hanging around his neck and dangling onto his chest, even with his sometimes GQ look — on this bright May morning, he was wearing brown corduroy slacks, brown socks and loafers, and a brown leather jacket zipped up over a tan linen shirt — his walk, his stance, his very air of confident command warned the
criminal world at large that here stood the bona fide Man.
Like his partner, Detective Stephen Louis Carella exuded the same sense of offhand authority. About the same height as Meyer, give or take an inch or so, dark-haired and dark-eyed, wearing on this late spring day gray slacks, blue socks, black loafers, and a blue blazer over a lime-green Tommy Hilfiger shirt, he came striding into the room like an athlete, which he was not — unless you counted stickball as a kid growing up in Riverhead. He was already looking around as he came in just a step behind both Meyer and the Medical Examiner, who was either Carl Blaney or Paul Blaney, Carella didn't know which just yet; the men were twins, and they both worked for the Coroner's Office.
In answer to Blaney's question, Monroe said, 'We were in charge until this very instant, Paul, but now that the super sleuths of the Eight-Seven
'It's Carl,' Blaney said.
'Oh, I beg your parmigiana,' Monroe said, and made a slight bow from the waist. 'In any event, the case is now in the capable hands of Detectives Meyer and Carella, of whose company I am sure you already have had the pleasure.'
'Hello, Steve,' Blaney said. 'Meyer.'
Carella nodded. He had just looked down at the body of the dead woman. As always, a short sharp stab, almost of pain, knifed him between the eyes. He was looking death in the face yet another time. And the only word that accompanied the recognition was senseless,
'Nice jugs, huh, Doc?' Monoghan remarked.
'Great jugs,' Monroe corrected.
'Either way, a zaftig woman,' Monoghan said.
