Ice

by Ed McBain

  “I think the Loot is right,” Meyer said. “We should scratch the Quadrado girl.”

  “Except she was looking to inherit Lopez’s trade,” Kling said.

  “That can’t be why Lopez was killed,” Carella said. “For his trade? We’re not dealing with Colombian hotshots here, we’re—”

  “How do you know we’re not?” Brown asked.

  “Because none of that crowd would even spit on a two-bit gram dealer like Lopez.”

  “Please, not while I’m eating,” Meyer said.

  “Sorry,” Carella said, and bit into his sausage-and-peppers sandwich.

  (It was funny how things broke down ethnically in this squadroom: Meyer was eating the pastrami on rye, Kling was eating the tuna on white, and Brown was eating the ham on toasted whole wheat.) “So okay, let’s scratch the Quadrado girl for the time being,” Kling said.

  “And start with the Anderson girl,” Meyer said. “We know more about her than any of the other victims—”

  “Well, that isn’t true,” Brown said.

  “Relatively more,” Meyer said.

  “Relatively, okay,” Brown conceded. “But don’t forget that three hundred G’s in Edelman’s safe.”

  “You done good work, okay, Sonny?” Meyer said. “What do you want, a medal?”

  “I want detective/first,” Brown said, and grinned.

  “Give him detective/first,” Meyer said to Carella.

  “You got it,” Carella said.

  “So here’s this girl—” Meyer started.

  “Who are we talking about?” Kling asked. “The Quadrado girl, or the Anderson girl?”

  “The Anderson girl. She comes up here every Sunday after she buys her deli at Cohen’s, and she hops in the sack with Lopez—”

  “Well, we don’t know that for sure,” Carella said.

  “That’s not important, whether she was still sleeping with him or not,” Kling said. “What’s important—”

  “What’s important is that she came up here to sell him coke,” Meyer said. “You think I don’t know that’s the important thing?”

  “Which her boyfriend knew nothing about,” Carella said.

  “Her boyfriend doesn’t know his ass from his elbow,” Brown said. “He’s the one who thought she was into ice full time, isn’t he?”

  “Yeah,” Carella said.

  “Sent you on a wild goose chase,” Brown said.

  “It doesn’t matter what he knew or what he didn’t know,” Kling said. “We know she was coming up here to sell dope.”

  “A little shtup in the hay,” Meyer said, “move an ounce of cocaine at the same time, nice way to spend a Sunday afternoon.”

  “It’s funny he didn’t know anything about it,” Carella said.

  “Who’re we talking about now?” Kling asked.

  “Moore. Her boyfriend.”

  “That she was shtupping Lopez?”

  “Or coming up here with coke. That’s something she’d have told him, don’t you think?”

  “Yeah, but she didn’t.”

  “Unless he was lying to us.”

  “For that matter, why’d he lie about the ice?” Kling asked.

  “Who says he lied?” Brown asked. “Maybe he thought she really was running those tickets on a regular basis.”

  “Yeah, but it was a one-shot deal,” Carella said. “Wouldn’t he have known that? He was practically living with the girl.”

  “That makes two things he didn’t know,” Meyer said.

  “That she was coming uptown with coke,” Kling said, “and that she only ran the ice tickets once.”

  “Three things, if you count the hanky-panky with Lopez.”

  “Plus he didn’t even know she herself was tooting.”

  “Said she only smoked a little grass.”

  “Practically living with the girl, but didn’t know she was snorting coke.”

  “Or moving it.”

  “I keep remembering that a guy with three hundred thousand bucks in his safe was one of the victims,” Brown said.

  “Here he goes with the safe again,” Meyer said.

  “You’re thinking cocaine numbers, am I right?” Kling asked.

  “I’m thinking somebody had that kind of money to hand over to Edelman. And I’m thinking, yes, there’s cocaine in this damn case, and those are the kind of numbers cocaine brings.”

  “Not in the small-time trade the Anderson girl had,” Meyer said.

  “Which is what we know about,” Carella said.

  “We have no reason to believe there was anything more,” Meyer said. “Unless—”

  “Yeah?”

  “No, skip it. I just remembered—”

  “Yeah, what?”

  “He said they rarely spent Sundays together, didn’t he? During the day, I mean. He said she was always busy on Sundays.”

  “Who’s this?” Brown asked.

  “Moore. The boyfriend.”

  “So what does that mean?”

  “Busy doing what?” Meyer asked.

  “Running to the deli,” Kling said.

  “And making it with Lopez.”

  “And selling him a little pile of nose candy.”

  “And that’s what kept her busy all day long, huh?” Meyer said.

  “It could keep a girl busy,” Brown said. “Lopez alone could’ve kept a girl busy.”

  “The thing is,” Meyer said, “If she was so damn busy all day Sunday—”

  “Yeah, that,” Carella said.

  “What?”

  “What the hell was she doing all that time? She writes Del on her calendar each and every Sunday, is that something important to write on your calendar? That she’s coming uptown to get delicatessen? Cohen’s is terrific, I admit it, but does she have to list that on her calendar?”

  “Steve, she listed everything on her calendar. Visits to her shrink, calls to Moore’s mother in Miami, dance classes, meetings with her agent—so why not deli?”

  “Then why didn’t she just write deli? Do you know anybody who would write del for deli? We’re talking about a single letter here, the letter i, the difference between del and deli. Why’d she write del instead of deli?”

  “Why?” Brown asked.

  “I don’t know why, I’m just asking.”

  “Moore said it stood for ‘deli.’ “

  “But Moore hasn’t turned out to be so reliable, has he?” Kling said.

  “First he tells us she only smoked grass, then he tells us she was involved in Carter’s ice scam, then he tells us she went uptown for deli every Sunday—”

  “Too busy to check up on her.”

  “Too busy with his schoolwork.”

  “Too busy weighing hearts and livers.”

  “Busy, busy.”

  “Everybody busy.”

  “Doing what?” Brown said.

  “On Sundays, you mean?”

  “The girl, yeah. On Sundays.”

  “Deli and coke,” Kling said, and shrugged.

  “And Lopez in the sack.”

  “Moore had no reason to be lying to us,” Meyer said. “He was probably just mistaken.”

  “Still,” Carella said, “they were close.”

  “Very close.”

  “The girl even called his mother every week.”

  “Nice rich widow lady in Miami.”

  “So if they were that close, how come he was mistaken about all these things?”

  “You’d think he’d have known.”

  “Miami, did you say?” Brown asked.

  “What?”

  “Is that where his mother lives?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Miami,” Brown said again.

  “What about it?”

  “I keep thinking of that three hundred grand in Edelman’s—”

  “Forget the safe for a minute, will you?”

  “But just suppose,” Brown said.

  “Suppose what?”

  “That the three hundred was coke mon
ey.”

  “That’s a long suppose.”

  “Not when we’re dealing with two victims who were moving coke.”

  “Okay, so suppose the money was coke money?”

  “Well, what do you think of when you think of Miami?”

  The other detectives looked at him.

  “Well, sure,” Meyer said.

  “But that’s a long stretch,” Kiing said.

  “No, wait a minute,” Carella said.

  “Just because a guy’s mother lives in Miami—”

  “That doesn’t mean—”

  “He isn’t even Hispanic,” Meyer said. “If he went down there looking to buy cocaine—”

  “Anyway, what with?” Kiing asked. “We’re talking three hundred grand in the safe. To realize that kind of money here, he’d have needed at least half that to make his buy in Miami.”

  “His father just died,” Carella said.

  “When?” Brown asked.

  “Last June. He told us he inherited some money, enough to set him up in practice when he gets out of school.”

  “How much did he inherit?” Kiing asked. “Remember the numbers we’re dealing with. There was three hundred grand in cash in that safe.”

  “What we’re saying,” Meyer said, and shook his head. “Just because Moore’s mother lives in Miami, we’re saying he went down there and spent whatever his father left him—”

  “What’s wrong with that?” Brown said. “That sounds pretty damn good to me, you want to know.”

  “Bought however much coke,” Carella said, nodding.

  “A lot of coke,” Brown said. “Enough to turn over for three hundred G’s.”

  “Which ended up in Edelman’s safe.”

  “Bought diamonds from Edelman, or whatever.”

  “No record of the transaction.”

  “They both come out clean. Moore launders his dope money by trading it for diamonds, and Edelman launders his cash by buying real estate in Europe.”

  “Very nice,” Meyer said. “If you believe in Peter Rabbit.”

  “What’s wrong with it?” Carella said.

  “First, we don’t even know how much the guy inherited. It could’ve been ten, twenty thousand dollars. If that much. Next, we’re saying a medical student could find his way around those Colombian heavies down there in Miami, and make a big buy without having his head handed to him on a platter.”

  “It’s possible,” Carella said.

  “Anything’s possible,” Meyer said. “The sun could shine at midnight, why not? We’re also saying he made contact with a guy dealing diamonds under the table—”

  “Come on,” Brown said, “that’s the easiest part. There must be hundreds of guys like Edelman in this city.”

  “Maybe so. But even assuming all of it’s possible—Moore inherited a lot of money, made contact somehow in Miami, doubled his money buying pure there and selling it cut here, laundered the money buying diamonds or rubies or whatever—let’s accept all of that for the moment, okay?”

  “It doesn’t sound bad,” Carella said.

  “No, and it would explain why he was mistaken about so many things,” Kling said.

  “Fine,” Meyer said. “Then maybe you can tell me how a man can be in two places at the same time.”

  “What do you mean?” Carella said.

  “How could he have been outside the Anderson girl’s apartment, shooting her dead, and be in his own apartment at the same time, studying and listening to the radio? You talked to this Loeb guy yourself, Steve, he confirmed that there were calls going back and forth all night long, he told you Moore’s radio was on, he told you—”

  And just then, Detective Richard Genero walked into the squadroom with his little Japanese radio in his hand. The detectives looked at him. Genero walked to his desk, set the radio down, glanced toward the lieutenant’s open door—a certain sign that Byrnes was still out to lunch—and turned on the radio full blast.

  “Okay,” Meyer said. “Let’s go.”

  There was very loud music coming from inside the apartment. Brother Anthony knocked on the door again, not certain his first several knocks had been heard.

  “Who is it?” a voice inside called.

  “Mr. Moore?” Brother Anthony said.

  “Just a second,” the voice called.

  The music became softer, the guy inside had lowered the volume. Brother Anthony heard footsteps approaching the door.

  “Who is it?” the voice said again, just inside the door this time.

  He knew that in this city people did not open the door for strangers. Brother Anthony hesitated. He did not want to have to break down the door. “Police,” he said.

  “Oh.”

  He waited.

  “Hold on a second, will you?” the voice said.

  He heard the footsteps retreating. He put his ear to the wooden door. A lot of moving around in there. He debated breaking down the door, after all. He decided to wait it out. The footsteps were approaching the door again. He heard the lock being turned, the tumblers falling. The door opened.

  “Mr. Moore?” he said.

  Moore took one look and started closing the door. Brother Anthony heaved his full weight against it, knocking it open, the imploding door forcing Moore away from it and back into the room. Brother Anthony followed the door into the room, slammed it shut behind him, and locked it. Moore was standing several feet back from the door now, nursing his shoulder where the door had hit him, staring at Brother Anthony. Behind him, the radio was sitting on an end table, still playing softly. Brother Anthony decided he would steal it when he left.

  “Anybody here with you?” he asked.

  “Who the hell are you?” Moore said.

  “I have a letter you wrote,” Brother Anthony said.

  “What letter? What are you talking about?”

  “From Miami. To a girl named Sally Anderson. Who is now dead,” Brother Anthony said, “may God rest her soul.”

  Moore said nothing.

  “Sally was getting cocaine from you,” Brother Anthony said.

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “She was getting cocaine from you and selling it uptown,” Brother Anthony said. “To Paco Lopez.”

  “I don’t know anybody named Paco Lopez.”

  “But you do know Sally Anderson, don’t you? You wrote to her in August saying you’d made a big cocaine buy in Miami. Where’s that cocaine now, Mr. Moore? The cocaine Sally was dealing uptown.”

  “I don’t know anything about any cocaine Sally was—”

  “Mr. Moore,” Brother Anthony said quietly, “I don’t want to hurt you. We got Sally’s name from a lady named Judite Quadrado, who got hurt because she wasn’t quick enough to tell us what we wanted to know.”

  “Who’s we?” Moore asked.

  “That’s none of your business,” Brother Anthony said. “Your business is telling me where the coke is. That’s the only business you have to worry about right now.”

  Moore looked at him.

  “Yes, Mr. Moore,” Brother Anthony said, and nodded.

  “It’s all gone,” Moore said.

  “You bought eight keys—”

  “Where’d you find that letter?” Moore said. “She told me she’d burned it!”

  “Then she was lying. And so are you, Mr. Moore. If all eight keys are gone, where was she getting the stuff she sold uptown?”

  “Not all of them,” Moore said. “I sold off six.”

  “And the other two?”

  “I gave them to Sally. She took them out of here, I don’t know where they are.”

  “You gave away two kilos of cocaine? For which you paid a hundred thousand bucks? Mr. Moore, you are full of shit.”

  “I’m telling you the truth. She was my girlfriend, I gave her—”

  “No,” Brother Anthony said.

  “Whatever she did with it—”

  “No, you didn’t give away no two keys of coke, Mr. Moore. Nobody loves nobo
dy that much. So where are they?”

  “Sally took them out of here, they’re probably still in her apartment. Unless the police confiscated them.”

  “That’s a possibility,” Brother Anthony said. “I can tell you for sure they’re not in her apartment, so maybe the police did take them, who knows with those thieves?” Brother Anthony smiled. “But I don’t think so. I don’t think you’d have let a hundred thousand bucks worth of coke out of your sight, Mr. Moore. Not when it would’ve already been worth twice what you paid for it in Miami, nossir. So where is it?”

  “I told you—”

  Brother Anthony reached out suddenly. He grabbed Moore’s hand in his own right hand, pulled Moore toward him, and then joined his left hand over Moore’s so that the three hands together made a sort of hand sandwich, with Moore’s hand caught between both Brother Anthony’s. Brother Anthony began squeezing. Moore began yelling. “Shhh,” Brother Anthony cautioned, and began squeezing harder. “I don’t want no yelling, I don’t want no people coming up here,” he said, still squeezing. “All I’m going to do is break your hand if you don’t tell me where the coke is. That’s for starters. After that, I’ll figure out what to break next.”

  “Please,” Moore whispered. “P…please…let go.”

  “The coke,” Brother Anthony said.

  “The bed…the bedroom,” Moore said, and Brother Anthony released his hand.

  “Show me,” he said. “How’s your hand?” he asked pleasantly, and shoved Moore toward the open door to the bedroom. A suitcase was on the bed.

  “Were you going someplace?” Brother Anthony asked.

  Moore said nothing.

  “Where is it?”

  “In the bag,” Moore said.