Death of a Doxy (Crime Line)

"Possibly, but he could have ordered me out and called a cop if he had to. It's just a comment; maybe it was because he likes problems, or maybe he thought it would be good for her. More than a comment, a conclusion: if they're out, they have no idea who is in. She said she couldn't even try to guess, and I believe her. She's no good at covering. When I pulled an obvious little dodge, saying that it might have been Orrie who was paying the rent, it wasn't only her expression, she actually shook her head. Later she said she didn't know who, but she does. What the hell, so do we."

"If Orrie was candid."

"He was. He had the lid off. For comments, I have saved the best for the last. Isabel's other life. The circle."

He grunted. "Yes."

"Yes what?"

"That expands it. That was to be expected, as soon as you learned that her relations with her sister were restricted. A woman who eats by sufferance, without a contract, would of course prefer not to eat alone. You laugh?"

"I do. Most men wouldn't put it all on eating. All right, so we have a circle too – as expected. Dozens, maybe hundreds. Godalmighty. I suggest again that we consider Avery Ballou."

"I am considering him. I wanted first – no matter. We'll discuss it in the morning after you see Orrie." He reached for the transcript.

Chapter 6

Where you go to see a man in custody in Manhattan depends partly on why he's there. It can be a precinct station, a room in the City Prison, a room in the District Attorney's office, or the paddock. I don't know how many cops call it the paddock, but Sergeant Purley Stebbins does. It is a bare, smelly room about twelve yards long, split along the center by a steel grill which extends from the middle of a wide wooden counter up to the ceiling, and there are a dozen or so wooden chairs strung along each side of the counter, the same kind of chairs for the visitors and visitees. Democracy.