The walls of the room began to close in on him, and he didn't hear the phone ringing in the other room. When his mother appeared at the doorway, phone in her hand, she had to call his name twice.
"Lee!" she said, holding out the phone. "It's Chuck Morton. They need you right away. There's been"-she hesitated, looking at the girls-"a development."
Miguel Rodriguez, the man on the front security desk at 545 Sixth Avenue, really did want to help. It was clear from his body language that he had nothing to hide. Sitting in the lobby chairs opposite Lee and Butts, he leaned into them, his face expressing a willingness-even eagerness-to cooperate. He was fidgety, but Lee knew no one is completely at ease when being questioned by the police, no matter how innocent they are.
Butts had already asked him who came into the building around the time of the crime, and so far, he hadn't come up with much. After all, most of the offices were closed, though he did say people came and went even on the weekends.
"Now, Mr. Rodriguez, can you think of anyone unusual who came into the building in the past twenty-four hours?"
Rodriguez clenched his hands tightly and leaned forward even more, rocking a little in his chair. He was young-maybe late twenties, with an earnest, open manner and a light Puerto Rican accent. He wore a gold wedding ring and a tiny gold cross around his suntanned neck.
"Wait! We did get a UPS delivery around six on Saturday."
He seemed pleased to have thought of this, and looked at Butts like a schoolboy who has done well. "Is that unusual?" Butts asked.
"Not really. We usually get a few UPS deliveries on weekends-it's easier to find parking, for one thing. Sometimes they even come twice a day-once in the morning and once in the late afternoon."
"Was the delivery guy someone you'd seen before?"
He pursued his lips and twisted the gold wedding band around his finger. "No, I don't think so."
"Did you get a look at him?"
"No, not really. He wasn't the usual guy, though-I know that."
"How come?"
"Most often it's Jimmy-he's from Jamaica," he said, with a glance at Lee.
"Yeah?"
"Jimmy's black. This was a white guy."
Butts looked at Lee and raised his left eyebrow just a bit.
"You sure about that?"
"Oh, yeah-definitely." Again Rodriguez looked pleased with himself, and glanced at them for signs of approval. "Can you describe him at all?"
"Well, it's kind of hard, because he's not the kind of guy who would stand out in a crowd. I didn't really study him or nothin', you know?"
"Height, weight?"
"Average. Maybe five-ten, not built big, but not skinny either. Just average."
"Can you tell me anything else about him?"
He chewed on his lower lip, his face set in concentration. Finally he shook his head. "Naw, sorry, man. Oh, wait, yeah: he had a real soft voice-that was kind of unusual, I thought."
"Unusual how?"
"Breathy, like… well, this is silly, but-"
"But what?"
"Well, it kinda reminded me of Marilyn Monroe. I mean, it was definitely a dude, no question about that, but the voice… it was kinda weird, now that I think of it."
"Do you think you'd recognize it if you heard it again?"
"I don't know-maybe."
"Okay, thank you, Mr. Rodriguez-you've been very helpful," Butts said, closing his notebook and standing up.
Rodriguez looked at them. "If there's anything I can do," he said, lowering his voice, "anything at all, just let me know, okay?"
"We will," Lee replied. "Thanks again."
He leapt up and accompanied them out, shaking both their hands before they headed through the revolving glass doors.
"Man, I wish every interview was like that one," Butts said when they were outside on the street.
"As the song says, wouldn't it be nice?" Lee agreed.
"What song's that?" Butts said, starting to walk down Sixth Avenue toward the subway entrance.
"The Beach Boys."
"You like that stuff?"
"Some people think Brian Wilson is a genius." "I don't know about genius, but I do know those guys sing like girls." "What's wrong with that?"
Butts looked at him, frowning. "C'mon, Doc, you pullin' my leg?"
"I'm just asking."
Butts stopped walking and pointed to a street vendor selling Middle Eastern specialties. "I'm starving-want a sandwich?"
"Sure." He followed Butts over to the vendor's cart, which had a sign that read HALAL FOOD. That was the Islamic version of kosher-it meant there was no pork and the food was prepared according to religious standards, though exactly what those were he wasn't sure.
The vendor was Middle Eastern, slight, and very dark-skinned, and wore a white smock and a simple white turban. Not all the vendors of halal food were orthodox, or even religious, Lee suspected, but in the wake of 9/11 he worried about anyone who looked as though he might be an Arab, or-God forbid-a Muslim. He hadn't seen any ugly instances of racism directed against them in New York, but he had heard of it elsewhere. Although the city was a place where most people got along with people from other cultures, there was no predicting the emotional fallout from something like this. It had shaken them all deeply, though in different ways.
The vendor gave them a shy but friendly smile, and Lee smiled broadly back at him. Maybe he was overreacting to the political tension in the air, but he felt protective of these people. They too were citizens of this city, and probably as horrified by the events of that terrible day as everyone else-or so he liked to think.
They ordered chicken sandwiches on pita bread, and sat down in front of the fountain at 666 Sixth Avenue to eat them. People dressed in summer clothes strolled past them in the mild August evening. The sidewalks still held the heat of the day, but the air blowing in from the river was cooler now. Yellow cabs rattled uptown, their transmissions taking a beating from potholes that pockmarked the broad avenue.
"Oh, man, this is good, isn't it?" Butts slurped, his mouth half stuffed with food.
The sandwich was delicious-hot, spicy, with grilled onions, a suggestion of cardamon, and some kind of curry powder.
"Oh, man," Butts said, wiping sauce from his mouth. "What do they put on these things? It's amazing. I gotta get the wife to try and make somethin' like this sometime." "What does she usually make?" Lee asked. "Corned beef, potatoes, and cabbage-that kinda thing. She's Irish," he said apologetically.
"I like a good Irish breakfast," Lee said. "Yeah, but it's all downhill after that." Butts looked at his sandwich and sighed. "Man, sometimes I think she's allergic to spices, you know?"
"Hey, listen, my family is Scottish, and that's even worse." Butts stared at him, a piece of grilled onion clinging to his chin. "Really?"
"They say that all Scottish cuisine is based on a dare." "'Zat so?" Butts murmured, plunging his face deeper into his sandwich.
Lee thought the detective's unself-conscious enjoyment of food was a way of keeping his sanity amid the constant barrage of death and destruction he dealt with in his line of work.
"We're meeting first thing tomorrow in Chuck Morton's office to report on what we have."
"Okay," Butts said, licking sauce from his fingers. "Shall I call Krieger and tell her, or do you want to?" Butts snorted. "Oh, be my guest, by all means. I got a few leads of my own to track down tonight." "Great," Lee said. "Thanks a lot. "You asked," Butts said, wolfing down the rest of his sandwich. He got up stiffly, stretched his pudgy body, and brushed crumbs from his clothes. "Okay, I'm off-see you tomorrow."
"Right," Lee said, and watched the detective shoulder his way through the crowd of people swarming up Sixth Avenue. But his mind was not on them, nor on the unfinished sandwich in his hand. He kept turning the words over and over in his brain:
Ask about the red dress.
If only there was someone to ask, he thought. Of course his unconscious mind must have been controlling the pointer-that was the obvious explanation for what happened. But he was so tormented by the idea that he found himself wishing the answer were somehow buried in the wistful promise of a children's game.