Carella wished with all his heart that this case would reveal itself as clearly to him as Lucy’s throat had been revealed to the count all those years back when Carella first saw the black-and-white film on television, the count’s head descending, his lips drawing back, the fangs bared, Carella had almost wet his pants.
The money in Jerry Hoskins’ wallet was real, too. No question about that, the Federal Reserve had run it through their machines, the hundred-dollar bills were genuine. But Jerry Hoskins had worked for Wadsworth and Dodds, and the man who’d set up the flying arrangement with Cass Ridley also worked for W&D, though there seemed to be some confusion about whether or not Randolph Biggs wasalso a Texas Ranger, which Carella sincerely doubted—but that, too, was a guess.
Lots of guesswork here, no hard facts.
He wondered what time it was in Texas.
He looked up at the wall clock, opened the bottom drawer of his desk, took out his massive directory of law enforcement agencies, found a listing for the Texas Department of Public Safety headquarters in Austin, figured somebody would be there no matterwhat time it was, and dialed the number. He told the woman who answered the phone what he was looking for, was connected to a sergeant named Dewayne Ralston, repeated everything again, and was asked to “Hang on, Detective.” He hung on. Some five minutes later, Ralston came back onto the line.
“Nobody in the Ranger Division named Randolph Biggs,” he said. “You landed yourself an imposter, Detective.”
“While I’ve got you on the line,” Carella said, “could you check for a criminal record?”
“Don’t go away,” Ralston said.
Carella didn’t go away. Across the room, he could see Kling at his desk, hunched over a computer. Cotton Hawes was just coming through the railing that divided the squadroom from the corridor outside. Telephones were ringing. In one corner of the room, the squad’s meager Christmas tree blinked holiday cheer to the street outside. From the Clerical Office down the hall, he could smell the aroma of coffee brewing. This was a very familiar place to him. He felt suddenly sad and could not have explained why.
“You still there?” Ralston asked.
“Still here.”
“No record on a Randolph Biggs, B-I-G-G-S. But if this is the same dude, he turned up dead in Piedras Rosas two days ago. Found him floating in a tub of water with a plugged-in cattle prod. Death by electrocution. Apparent suicide.”
“That makes two,” Carella said.
“Pardon?”
“One of his colleagues was murdered up here on Christmas Eve.”
“Looks like you got your hands full,” Ralston said.
“Looks that way,” Carella said.
THE PHONE ON Ollie Weeks’s desk rang some five minutes later.
“Weeks,” he said.
“You handlin that murder happened last week?” a man’s voice asked.
“Which murder would that be?” Ollie asked.
Up here in the Eight-Eight, there were 10,247 murders every day of the year.
“The newspaper said he was Jerry Hoskins,” the man said. “To me, he was Frank Holt.”
“Who’s this?” Ollie asked at once.
“Nev’ mine who’s this,” the man said. “I know who killed him.”
Ollie pulled a pad into place.
“Tell me your name,” he said.
“Is they a reward?”
“Maybe. I can’t deal with you unless you tell me your name.”
“Tito Gomez,” the man said.
“Can you come up here in half an hour?”
“I rather meet you someplace else.”
“Sure. Where?”
“The Eight’ Street footpath into Grover. Fourth bench in.”
Ollie looked up at the wall clock.
“Make it a quarter to six,” he said.
“See you,” Tito said, and hung up.
Ollie hit the files.
IT DID NOT TAKE Wiggy and the two Mexicans long to discover that what they had in common was a hundred keys of cocaine. It also appeared they had each been stiffed by a company that purported to publish books, but which instead seemed to be involved in the transport and sale of controlled substances. They did not yet know they were fucking with something much bigger here. For the time being their shared grievances were
