“Mrs. Lambeth,” he said, out of breath himself, “I’m not particularly interested in how you and Daniel Corbett passed the time of day. But he was murdered tonight, and a neighbor intimated—look, would you do me a favor, please? Would you tie that dog to a lamppost so we can stand still for a minute and talk?”

“He hasn’t pooped yet,” she said.

Carella looked at her.

“Well, all right,” she said.

She yanked her gloves off, tucked them under her arm, and tied the leash around the stanchion of a no parking sign. The dog began howling at once, like Fang, Son of Claw. Carella led her to the sheltered doorway of a men’s clothing store, waited while she put on her gloves again, and then said, “Was Daniel Corbett a homosexual?”

She seemed genuinely startled. Her eyes opened wider. They were green, he now noticed. They searched his face as though eager for him to assure her he’d just told a bad joke.

“Was he?” Carella asked.

“He didn’t seem to be,” she said in the same tiny voice, almost a whisper now.

“Any indication at all that he might have been?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Mrs. Lambeth, you’ve been intimate with him for the past month or so, according to what he—”

“Yes, but not that often.”

“Two or three times, is that right?”

“Well, yes, I suppose.”

“What I want to know is if during any of your meetings…”

“He performed adequately, if that’s what you want to know.”

“No, that’s not what I want to know.”

“I find this embarrassing,” Priscilla said.

“So did Corbett. But murder is the biggest embarrassment of them all. During any of your meetings did he in any way indicate to you that he might also be interested in men?”

“No.”

“Did he ever bring a man along with him?”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m assuming you met someplace away from the office…”

“Yes.”

“Was there ever a man with him?”

“Once.”

“Who?”

“Alex Harrod.”

“Who’s that?”

“A paperback editor. At Absalom Books.”

“Is he a homosexual?”

“I’m not that familiar with homosexuals.”

“Why was he there?”

“Danny thought it would be…well…He thought we’d be less noticeable if someone else was there with us.”

“Where was this?”

“The Hotel Mandalay bar.”

“When?”

“Last month sometime.”

“What happened at that meeting, can you tell me?”

“Nothing. Alex had a few drinks, and then he left. Danny and I…went upstairs to a room he’d booked.”

“What’d you talk about?”

“Danny and I?”

“No, the three of you. While you were together in the bar.”

“Books. Danny had some books he thought Absalom might want to buy.”

“That’s all? Books?”

“Yes. Well…yes.”

“What else, Mrs. Lambeth?”

“Nothing. Not then. Not in the bar.”

“Where then?”

“Really, I do find this…”

“Where, Mrs. Lambeth? In the room? What did you talk about in the room?”

The dog was howling like a hungry wolf waiting for an Eskimo to come out of his igloo. Together the dog and the wind created a veritable Antarctic symphony. Priscilla glanced at the dog and said, “I have to untie him.”

“No, you don’t have to,” Carella said. “I want to know what Corbett said to you after that meeting with Harrod.”

“It was pillow talk,” Priscilla said. “People say things in bed…”

“Yes, what did he say?”

“He asked me if I’d…if I’d ever had a two-on-one.”

“What did you think he meant by that?”

“He meant…me and two men.”

“Did he have any particular man in mind?”

“He asked me what I thought of Alex Harrod.”

“Was that the man he had in mind?”

“I…guess so. Yes. He asked me if I found Alex attractive. And he…he suggested that it might be…be fun to try it together with him sometime.”

“What was your reaction to that?”

“I said I thought Alex was attractive.”

Her voice was so low now that he almost could not hear her. The dog and the wind refused to end their collaboration. Carella could do nothing about the wind, but he wanted to shoot the dog.

“Did you agree to such an arrangement?”

“I said I’d…think about it.”

“Did the suggestion ever come up again?”

There was a long silence, broken only by the howling of the dog and the wind.

“Did it?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“At the Christmas party.”

“Corbett again suggested that the three of you…”

“Yes.”

“And what was your response?”

Priscilla looked at the dog. Her arms were crossed over her breasts, her gloved hands tucked into her armpits. She kept watching the dog.

“What was your response?” Carella said.

“I told him I…I might like to try it. We had both had a little too much to drink, this was the annual Christmas party…”

“Did you set up a date?”

“Yes, we…we did.”

“For when?”

“My husband is going to Wisconsin this week. His mother lives in Wisconsin, she’s very sick, he’s going out there to see her. We planned to…to go to Danny’s place in the country over the New Year’s Eve weekend. My husband won’t be back till…till the second.”

“By the country, do you mean Gracelands?”

“Yes, Danny has a house up there.”

“Is it his house?”

“I think so.”

“Or does he share it with Alex Harrod?”

“I don’t know.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Lambeth,” Carella said. “You can untie the dog now.”

The Isola directory listing for Alexander Harrod gave his address as 511 Jacaranda, downtown in the Quarter. Carella called first to say that he was investigating a homicide and wanted to talk to Harrod. He did not mention that the homicide victim was Daniel Corbett; he wanted to save that for the face-to-face. Harrod protested that it was already after 11:00 and wanted to know if this couldn’t wait till morning. Carella went into his long song and dance about the first twenty-four hours in a homicide being most important to the investigating detective and finally prevailed upon Harrod to give him a half hour of his time.

The building in which Harrod lived was a three-story brick walk-up painted white. Carella rang the downstairs bell, got an answering buzz, and climbed the stairs to the third floor. The apartment was at the end of the hall. He knocked on the door, and it opened at once, almost as if Harrod had been waiting impatiently behind it. Carella was surprised to find himself looking into the face of a tall, slender black man. Priscilla had not mentioned to him that the third man in the proposed ménage à trois was black.

“Mr. Harrod?” he said.

“Yes, please come in.”

He was wearing blue jeans and a tight-fitting white T-shirt under a blue cardigan sweater with a shawl collar. He was barefooted, and he padded now into a living room decorated in what Carella termed “tchotchke-potchke,” an expression he’d picked up from Meyer. The walls were lined with shelves and shelves of objets d’art and trinkets, small vases with dried flowers, photographs in miniature oval frames, keys picked up in antique shops, the letter A in various sizes, some in brass, others of wood painted gold, enough books to fill a good-sized bookstore, little framed notes that were obviously of sentimental value to Harrod. The sofa was done in soft black leather and heaped with pillows of various sizes, some of them mirrored, some of them tasseled, that spilled over onto the floor to form yet another seating area. A painting of two men wrestling was on the wall over the couch. The floor was covered with a white shag rug. The heat was turned up very high; Carella wondered if Harrod grew orchids in his spare time.

“Is this about Gregory Craig?” Harrod asked.

“What makes you think so?”

“I know he was killed, and Absalom published the paperback of Shades.”

“It’s about Daniel Corbett,” Carella said.

“Danny? What about him?”