conversationalists. The Red Sox and the weather usually covers it. Talking to Mooney was so much fun, I wouldnât even consider dating him. Lots of guys are good at sex, but conversationânow thereâs an art form.
Mooney, all six-foot-four, 240 linebacker pounds of him, gave me the glad eye when I waltzed in. He hasnât given up trying. Keeps telling me he talks even better in bed.
âNice hat,â was all he said, his big fingers pecking at the typewriter keys.
I took it off and shook out my hair. I wear an old slouch cap when I drive to keep people from saying the inevitable. One jerk even misquoted Yeats at me: âOnly God, my dear, could love you for yourself alone and not your long red hair.â Since Iâm seated when I drive, he missed the chance to ask me how the weather is up here. Iâm six-one in my stocking feet and skinny enough to make every inch count twice. Iâve got a wide forehead, green eyes, and a pointy chin. If you want to be nice about my nose, you say itâs got character.
Thirtyâs still hovering in my future. Itâs part of Mooneyâs past.
I told him I had a robbery to report and his dark eyes steered me to a chair. He leaned back and took a puff of one of his low-tar cigarettes. He canât quite give âem up, but he feels guilty as hell about âem.
When I got to the part about the bag in the trash, Mooney lost his sense of humor. He crushed a half-smoked butt in a crowded ashtray.
âKnow why you never made it as a cop?â he said.
âDidnât brown-nose enough.â
âYou got no sense of proportion! Always going after crackpot stuff!â
âChrist, Mooney, arenât you interested? Some guy heists a cab, at gunpoint, then tosses the money. Arenât you the least bit intrigued ?â
âIâm a cop, Ms. Carlyle. Iâve got to be more than intrigued. Iâve got murders, bank robberies, assaultsââ
âWell, excuse me. Iâm just a poor citizen reporting a crime. Trying to helpââ
âWant to help, Carlotta? Go away.â He stared at the sheet of paper in the typewriter and lit another cigarette. âOr dig me up something on the Thayler case.â
âYou working that sucker?â
âWish to hell I wasnât.â
I could see his point. Itâs tough enough trying to solve any murder, but when your victim is the Jennifer (Mrs. Justin) Thayler, wife of the famed Harvard Law prof, and the society reporters are breathing down your neck along with the usual crime-beat scribblers, you got a special kind of problem.
âSo who did it?â I asked.
Mooney put his size twelves up on his desk. âColonel Mustard in the library with the candlestick! How the hell do I know? Some scumbag housebreaker. The lady of the house interrupted his haul. Probably didnât mean to hit her that hard. He must have freaked when he saw all the blood, âcause he left some of the ritziest stereo equipment this side of heaven, plus enough silverware to blind your average hophead. He snatched most of old man Thaylerâs goddamn idiot artworks, collections, collectiblesâwhatever the hell you call âemâwhich ought to set him up for the next few hundred years, if heâs smart enough to get rid of them.â
âAlarm system?â
âYeah, they had one. Looks like Mrs. Thayler forgot to turn it on. According to the maid, she had a habit of forgetting just about anything after a martini or three.â
âThink the maidâs in on it?â
âChrist, Carlotta. There you go again. No witnesses. No fingerprints. Servants asleep. Husband asleep. Weâve got word out to all the fences here and in New York that we want this guy. The pawnbrokers know the stuffâs hot. Weâre checking out known art thieves and shady museumsââ
âWell, donât let me keep you from your serious business,â I said,