1353+3531=4884
'That number looks familiar,' Willis said.
'It's the . . .'
'Right. The box number I tried to track down.'
'Doesn't exist,' Meyer said.
'But why's he taking us back there?' Eileen asked.
'Because he's leading us back to the beginning again,' Hawes said.
'Also, the size of the numbers is very definitely getting smaller,' Carella said. 'Here, take another look.'
They took another look:
87
78
87+78=165 165+561=726
1353+3531=4884
'Backwards, and smaller and smaller,' Carella said.
'So what the hell does that mean?' Parker asked, and looked at the clock, trying to figure how much longer this goddamn June the ninth was going to last.
FOR A MAN, Emilio Herrera was a damn good-looking woman.
In fact, the detectives up at the Eight-Eight whistled
when Ollie marched him into the squadroom.
'Sit down, Emilio,' he said, and indicated the chair alongside his desk.
'It's Emma,' Emilio said, and sat, crossing his long splendid legs. Five feet seven inches tall in his high heels, weighing a hundred and ten in his padded bra, fingernails painted a glittery gold to match his frizzed blond wig, he tugged at his short blue skirt and then pouted a moist red look at Ollie, who indifferently pulled a pad toward him, and began writing.
Emilio watched.
If he wasn't higher than a hot-air balloon, he'd have at least recognized Ollie's name. But he happened to be floating on some very good Red Chicken and so he didn't know this phat phuck from any other detective up here.
'My book,' Ollie said.
'Pretty,' Emilio said, thinking he was referring to the pad he'd been writing in, which he now saw carried his hand-lettered name across the top of one page.
'The book you stole,' Ollie said.
Emilio looked at him blankly.
'Report to the Commissioner,' Ollie said. 'Which I myself wrote.'
'You did notV Emilio said indignantly.
Ollie looked at him blankly.
'Olivia Watts wrote that report,' Emilio said.
'I am . . .'
'Olivia Wesley Watts!' Emilio shouted.
'I am she,' Ollie said. Or even her, he thought. 'Where's my fucking book?'
'It is not your book! It is Livvie's book!'
'I am Livvie!' Ollie shouted.
'Sure! Same as I'm Emma!'
'Look, you little prick . . .'
'Oh, darling,' Emilio said.
'If you don't tell me what you did with that book
'I got nothing to say to you about Livvie's book.'
'There is no Liwie!'
'Ho ho.'
'I made her up. Liwie is me, I'm Liwie, but she doesn't exist! Olivia Watts is a synonym I. . .'
'Olivia Wesley Watts. And it's pseudonym, not . . .'
'Don't get smart with me, you little . . .'
'And anyway, it isn't. A pseudonym. Because I saw her after the drug bust, and I told her . . .'
'You saw who after what drug bust?'
'Liwie. Detective Watts. The drug bust in the basement at 3211 Culver Ave, whenever it was. I saw her outside the building. I told her I'd burned the report so . . .'
'It wasn't a report, it was a novelV
'It said Report to . . .'
'You what?
'What?'
'You burned it? You telling me you burned it? You burned my novel?'
'To protect Liwie
'I'll give you protect Liwie.'
'So the bad guys wouldn't get it.'
'I'll kill you. I swear to God, I'll kill you!'
Ollie was out of his chair now, coming around his desk, his hands actually reaching for Emilio's throat.
'Do you know how long it took me to write that book? Do you realize . . . ?'
'Relax,' Emilio said, 'I memorized it.'
Ollie looked at him.
'Was it really all fake?' Emilio asked.
'You memorized it?'
'Word for word,' Emilio said. 'Gee, it seemed so real.
You're a very good writer, did anyone ever tell you that?'
You think so?' Ollie said.
'You captured the thoughts and emotions of a woman magnificently.'
Ollie almost asked, 'How would you know?' But he recognized unadulterated praise when he heard it.
'Did the female viewpoint seem convincing?' he asked.
'Oh, man, did it' Emilio said, and rolled his eyes and began quoting. ''I am locked in a basement with $2,700,000 in so-called conflict diamonds and I just got a run in my pantyhose.''
'What comes next?' Ollie asked.
''/ am writing this in the hope that it will somehow reach you before they kill me. You will recall. . .''
'Emilio,' Ollie said, grinning, 'I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.'
STANDING ACROSS THE street from Sharyn's apartment building, Kling saw the taxi when it pulled up, and recognized the girl the moment she stepped out of it. Same white girl Sharyn and Hudson had met with yesterday. Early thirties, he guessed. Black hair and brown eyes. Slim and svelte, five feet six or seven inches tall. She looked up and down the street before she went into the building, as if she suspected someone was following her . . . well, she was half-right on that score.
Sharyn had told him she couldn't see him until later tonight because she had a meeting at the hospital. He'd known even on the phone that she was lying. Didn't have to look into her eyes to detect the lie. So he'd followed her from her office, and sure as he was white and Sharyn was black, she didn't go to any damn hospital, she went straight home to her apartment here in Calm's Point.
He'd half expected Dr. James Melvin Hudson to pull up ten minutes later, but instead it was the dark-haired, dark-eyed beauty they'd had coffee with yesterday. He watched as she went into the outer lobby, studied the bell panel, found what she was looking for - Sharyn's apartment, he guessed, bright detective — pressed a button, and waited for the answering buzz. When it came, he could hear it faintly from across the street. The girl let herself in, and walked toward the elevator bank.
He looked at his watch.
It was almost five-thirty.
OLLIE'S MANUSCRIPT WAS only thirty-six pages long, which he didn't realize was perhaps the length of a
