a man was in bed with all his clothes on except for his
shoes and socks.
'Maybe he felt something coming on,' Cynthia said
further.
'Something coming on?' Meyer said, encouraging
her.
'Yes. A heart attack. People know when they're coming.'
'I see. And you figure he might have gone to lie down.'
'Yes.'
'Didn't call an ambulance or anything,' Carella said.
'Just went to lie down.'
'Yes. Thinking it might pass. The heart attack.'
'Took off his shoes and socks and went to lie down.'
'Yes.'
'Was the door locked when you got here?' Carella
asked.
'I have a key.'
'Then it was locked.'
'Yes.'
'Did you knock?'
'I knocked, but there was no answer. So I let myself
in.'
'And found your father in bed.'
'Yes.'
'Were his shoes and socks where they are now?'
'Yes.'
'On the floor there? Near the easy chair?'
'Yes.'
'So you called the police,' Meyer said for the third
time.
'Yes,' Cynthia said, and looked at him.
'Did you suspect foul play of any sort?' Carella asked.
'No. Of course not.'
'But you called the police,' Meyer said.
'Why is that important?' she snapped, suddenly tip
ping to what was going on here, Good Cop becoming Bad Cop in the wink of an eye.
'He's merely asking,' Carella said.
'No, he's not merely asking, he seems to think it's
important. He keeps asking me over and over again did
I call the police, did I call the police, when you know I
called the police, otherwise you wouldn't be here!'
'We have to ask certain questions,' Carella said gently.
'But why that particular question?'
'Because some people wouldn't necessarily call the
police if they found someone dead from apparent natural
causes.'
'Who would they call? Necessarily?'
'Relatives, friends, even a lawyer. Not necessarily
the police, is all my partner's saying,' Carella explained
gently.
'Then why doesn't he say it?' Cynthia snapped. 'Instead of asking me all the time did I call the police!'
'I'm sorry, ma'am,' Meyer said in his most abject voice. 'I didn't mean to suggest there was anything peculiar about your calling the police.'
'Well, your partner here seems to think it was peculiar,' Cynthia said, thoroughly confused now. 'He seems
to think I should have called my husband or my girlfriend
or my priest or anybody but the police, what is it with
you two?'
'We simply have to investigate every possibility,'
Carella said, more convinced than ever that she was lying.
'By all appearances, your father died in bed, possibly
from a heart attack, possibly from some other cause, we
won't know that until the autopsy results are . . .'
'He was an old man who'd suffered two previous heart attacks,' Cynthia said. 'What do you think he died of?'
'I don't know, ma'am,' Carella said. 'Do you?'
Cynthia looked him dead in the eye.
'My husband's a lawyer, you know,' she said.
'Is your mother still alive?' Meyer asked, ducking the question and its implied threat.
'He's on the way here now,' she said, not turning to look at Meyer, her gaze still fastened on Carella, as if willing him to melt before her very eyes. Green, he noticed. A person could easily melt under a green-eyed laser beam.
'Is she?' Meyer asked.
'She's alive,' Cynthia said. 'But they're divorced.'
'Any other children besides you?'
She glared at Carella a moment longer, and then turned to Meyer, seemingly calmer now. 'Just me,' she said.
'How long have they been divorced?' Meyer asked.
'Five years.'
'What was his current situation?'
'What do you mean?'
'Your father. Was he living with anyone?'
'I have no idea.'
'Seeing anyone?'
'His private life was his own business.'
'How often did you see your father, Mrs Keating?'
'Around once a month.'
'Had he been complaining about his heart lately?' Carella asked.
'Not to me, no. But you know how old men are. They
don't take care of themselves.'
'Was he complaining about his heart to anyone at allT Meyer asked.
'Not that I know of.'
'Then what makes you think he died of a heart attack?' Carella asked.
Cynthia looked first at him, and then at Meyer, and then at Carella again.
'I don't think I like either one of you,' she said and walked out into the kitchen to stand alone by the window.
