Long Time No See Read Online Free PDF Page A

hands and identify him as positively as could a sighted person. But identifying a corpse was a trying experience for anyone, and he could only imagine how emotionally unsettling it would be for someone who had to touch the body. He thought he might call Jimmy’s mother instead, ask her to meet him at the morgue in the morning. Sophie Harris in Diamondback. He’d written her name in his book, he’d give her a call later tonight. But then he wondered whether he wasn’t denying Isabel Harris a right that was exclusively hers—and denying it only because she was blind. He decided to play it straight. He had learned over the years that playing it straight was the best way—and maybe the only way.
    “Mrs. Harris,” he said, “when a murder victim is married, it’s usually the husband or wife who identifies the body.” He hesitated. “I don’t know whether you want to do that or not.”
    “I’ll do it, yes,” she said. “Did you mean now?”
    “The morning will be fine.”
    “What time?”
    “I’ll pick you up at ten.”
    “Ten o’clock, yes,” she said, and nodded.
    He walked to the door, turned toward her again. Behind her, the snow was still falling silently.
    “Mrs. Harris?” he said.
    “Yes?”
    “Will you be all right? Is there anything I can do?”
    “I’ll be fine,” she said.
     
     
    When the knock sounded on the door, she was already in bed.
    She lifted the cover on her watch and felt for the raised Braille dots. The time was twenty minutes to 12:00. She thought immediately that it was the detective coming back; he had probably sensed that she was lying. He had heard something in her voice or seen something flicker on her face. She had lied to him deliberately, had given him a flat “no” answer to the question he’d asked. And now he was back, of course; now he would want to know why she had lied. It made no difference any more. Jimmy was dead, she might just as well have told him the truth from the beginning. She would tell him now.
    She was wearing a long flannel nightgown, she always wore a gown in the winter months, slept naked the minute it got to be spring; Jimmy said he liked to find her boobs without going through a yard of dry goods. She got out of bed now, her feet touching the cold wooden floor. They turned off the heat at 11:00, and by midnight it was fiercely cold in the apartment. She put on a robe and walked toward the bedroom doorway, avoiding the chair on the right, her hand outstretched; she did not need her cane in the apartment. She went through the doorway into the parlor, the sill between the rooms squeaking, past the piano Jimmy loved to play, played by ear, said he was the Art Tatum of his time, fat chance. It was funny the way she’d cried. She had stopped loving him a year ago—but her tears had been genuine enough.
    She was in the kitchen now. She stopped just inside the door. Whoever was out there was still knocking. The knocking stopped the moment she spoke.
    “Who is it?” she said.
    “Mrs. Harris?”
    “Yes?”
    “Police department,” the voice said.
    “Detective Carella?”
    “No, ma’am.”
    “Who is it, then?”
    “Sergeant Romney. Would you open the door, please? We think we’ve found your husband’s murderer.”
    “Just a minute,” she said, and took off the night chain.
    He came into the apartment and closed the door behind him. She heard the door whispering into the jamb, and then she heard the lock being turned, the tumblers falling. Movement. Floorboards creaking. He was standing just in front of her now.
    “Where is it?”
    She did not understand him.
    “Where did he put it?”
    “Put what? Who…who are you?”
    “Tell me where it is,” he said, “and you won’t get hurt.”
    “I don’t know what you…I don’t…”
    She was about to scream. Trembling, she backed away from him and collided with the wall behind her. She heard the sound of metal scraping against metal, sensed the sudden motion he took toward her, and then