'Well,' Honey said, dismissing the notion and biting into another butterfly shrimp coated with coconut flakes.
'And next, he knew I'd be going to Jeff Ave. How'd he know that? How'd he know a limo would be dropping me off at Five-Seven-Four Jeff?'
'You're forgetting that I was in that limo, aren't you?'
'No, I'm not forgetting that at all. How could I? You broadcast it every night.'
Honey wondered if she was only imagining his sharp tone. She looked up from her plate.
'Who ordered that limo?' he asked.
'I did.'
'Personally?'
'No, my intern did. I asked her . . .'
'What intern?'
A girl from Ramsey U. She's been working with me since the semester began.'
'What's her name?'
'Polly Vandermeer.'
'I'd like to talk her,' Hawes said.
'Fine, Sherlock,' she said.
Hawes wondered if he was only imagining her sharp tone.
Look, sire, paper is kool!
Another palindrome,' Carella said. 'And it's Shakespeare again,' Parker said. Maybe he was right; the word sire certainly did sound like another sly reference to Shakespeare. At least he spelled kool right,' Genero said. 'Reads the same backwards and forwards,' Willis said.
'I love the way that works,' Eileen said.
'But why?' Meyer asked. 'Is he directing us backwards?'
'To where?' Brown asked.
He was scowling. He always looked as if he might be scowling, but this time he really was scowling. He remembered the last time the Deaf Man had graced them with his presence, causing a race riot in Grover Park. Brown did not like race riots, and he did not like the Deaf Man. However much these little messages seemed to promise fun and games, Brown was fearful the games would turn sour soon enough.
'To the early messages, that's where,' Kling said. 'The ones he used that box number on. 4884. The same backwards and forwards. He's saying go back.'
'To the anagrams.'
'To Gloria Stanford's murder.'
And the first of the Shakespeare poems.'
'I can't find that damn poem anywhere,' Carella said. 'I've Googled everywhere, I just can't find it.'
'Maybe he made it up, sire,' Genero suggested.
'It's too good for him to have made up,' Eileen said.
'Let's have another look at it,' Willis said.
We wondred that thou went'st so soon From the world's stage, to the grave's tiring
room. We thought thee dead, but this thy printed worth, Tells thy spectators that thou went'st but forth To enter with applause.
An Actor's Art,
Can die, and live, to act a second part.
'Sure as hell looks like Shakespeare,' Parker insisted. 'But why's he taking us back to 4884?' Carella said. 'Could it be a street address?' Eileen said. 'Must be thousands of 4884's in this city.' 'Let me see that new one again,' Willis said. They all looked at it:
Look, sire, paper is kool!
'Well, this is off the wall, I know
'Let's hear it,' Hawes said.
'In this first quote. The third line ...'
We thought thee dead, but this thy printed worth
'The last three words
thy printed worth
'What I'm thinking, Willis said, 'is . . . well... I know this is far out . . . but if you print something, you've got to have . . .'
'Paper!' Eileen said, and felt like kissing him, he was so smart.
Look, sire, paper is kool!
'Hey, kool!' Genero said. 'He's telling us to look at the newspapers, see what's playing around town.' 'Find the concert.' If it's a concert.' 'We've already done that,' Parker said sourly.
POLLY VANDERMEER WAS a cute little twenty-two-year-old blonde wearing a pleated plaid skirt and a white long-sleeved blouse with a tie that matched the skirt. Looking more like a preppie freshman than a senior in Communications at Ramsey University, she greeted Hawes with a wide smile and a warm handshake. Miss Blair, as she called her, had already told her that a detective investigating the shooting wanted to talk to her. She did not seem at all intimidated; she'd already spoken to two detectives from the Eight-Six Squad.
'It seems incredibly awesome,' she said, 'that anyone would want to kill Miss Blair. I mean, she's like so nice.'
'She is indeed,' Hawes said.
They were in a small room that served as a coffee-break area for members of the Channel Four staff. A coffee machine, a refrigerator, a four-burner stove top with a tea kettle on it, a soft-drinks machine. One other woman was in the room when they sat down, drinking coffee, absorbed in the morning paper. A white-faced clock on the wall, black hands, gave the time as 11:10.
'Miss Vandermeer,' he said, 'I wonder
'Oh, please, Polly,' she said.
'Polly, do you remember Miss Blair asking you to order a car for her last Friday morning?'
'Yes, sir, I do,' Polly said, blue eyes wide now, face all serious and attentive.
'Do you remember the exact request?'
'Yes, sir, she asked for a pickup at her apartment and a drop-off here at the studio.'
Hawes looked at her.
'No interim stops?' he asked.
'No, sir.'
'A stop at the 87th Precinct, for example? 711 Grover
Avenue? And another one on Jefferson Avenue?'
'No, sir, this was the same as every morning.'
'When did she make this request?'
'When she left for home Thursday evening.'
'For the next morning, correct?'
'Yes, sir. For Friday morning, the fourth of June.'
'Didn't mention my name, huh?'
'Your name, sir?'
'Cotton Hawes, yes. Did she say she'd be picking up and dropping off Detective Cotton Hawes? On her way to the studio?'
'No, sir, she certainly did not,' Polly said, sounding suddenly disapproving.
'So when Miss Blair gave you this request, what did you do with it?'
'Phoned it down to Transportation.'
'On Thursday evening.'
'Yes, for the next morning.'
'Who took your call there?'
'Rudy Mancuso.'
'Is Transportation in this building?'
