Ice

by Ed McBain

  It was funny the way her hands always started sweating whenever she found herself in a tight situation. She wondered if McCann’s hands were sweating. Three minutes behind her now, Abrahams equidistant at the other end of the park. She wondered if the transmitter was picking up the clicking of her boots on the asphalt path. The path was shoveled clear of snow, but there were still some patches of ice on it, and she skirted one of those now, and looked into the darkness ahead, her eyes accustomed to the dark, and thought she saw something under the trees ahead, and almost stopped dead in her tracks—but that was not what a good decoy was supposed to do. A good decoy marched right into it, a good decoy allowed her man to make his move, a good decoy—

  She thought at first she was hearing things.

  Her hand tightened on the butt of the gun.

  Somebody whistling?

  What?

  She kept walking, peering into the darkness ahead, past the midway point now, McCann a bit more than three and a half minutes behind her, Abrahams two and a half minutes away in the opposite direction, still too far away, and saw a boy on a skateboard coming up the path, whistling as he curved the board in graceful arcs back and forth across the path. He couldn’t have been older than thirteen or fourteen, a hatless youngster wearing a blue ski parka and jeans, sneakered feet expertly guiding the skateboard, arms akimbo as he balanced himself, a midnight whistler enjoying the dark silence of the empty park, closer, now, still whistling. She smiled, and her hand relaxed on the butt of the gun.

  And then, suddenly, he swerved the board into her, bending at the knees, leaning all his weight to one side so that the board slid out from under him, the wheels coming at her, the underside slamming her across the shins. She was pulling the gun from her bag when he punched her in the face. The gun went off while it was still inside the bag, blowing out leather and cigarettes and chewing gum and Kleenex tissues—but not the radio, she hoped, Jesus, not the radio!

  In the next thirty seconds, it couldn’t have been longer than that, her finger tightening in reflex on the trigger again, the gun’s explosion shattering the stillness of the night again, their breaths pluming brokenly from their mouths, merging, blowing away on the wind, she thought, remembered, Force part of psychological interplay, he punched her over the breast, Attendant danger of being severely beaten or killed, the gun went off a third time, his fist smashed into her mouth, But he’s just a kid. She tasted blood, felt herself going limp, he was grabbing her right arm, turning her, behind her now, forcing her to her knees, he was going to break her arm, “Let go of it!” yanking on the arm, pulling up on it, “Let go!” her hand opened, the gun clattered to the asphalt.

  She tried to get to her feet as he came around her, but he shoved her back onto the path, hard, knocking the wind out of her. As he started to straddle her, she kicked out at him with her booted left foot, white skirts flying, the black heel of the boot catching him on the thigh, a trifle too low for the money. She wondered how many seconds had gone by now, wondered where McCann and Abrahams were, she’d told them the setup was no good, she’d told them—he began slapping her. Straddling her, slapping her, both hands moving, the slaps somehow more painful than the punches had been, dizzying, big callused hands punishing her cheeks and her jaw, back and forth, her head flailing with each successive slap, his weight on her chest, pressing on her breasts—the gun. She remembered the gun in her bra.

  She tried to twist away from him, her arms pinioned by his thighs on either side of her, tried to turn her head to avoid the incessant slaps, and idiotically noticed the nurse’s cap lying white and still on the path where it had fallen. She could not free her arms or her hands, she could not get to the gun.

  The slapping stopped abruptly.

  There was only the darkness now, and the sound of his vaporized breath coming in short, ragged bursts from his mouth. His hands reached for the front of the uniform. He grasped the fabric. He tore open the front, buttons flying, reached for her bra and her breasts—and stopped again. He had seen the gun, he must have seen the gun. His silence now was more frightening than his earlier fury had been. One gun might have meant a streetwise lady who knew the city’s parks were dangerous. Another gun, this one hidden in a bra, could mean only one thing. The lady was a cop. He shifted his weight. She knew he was reaching for something in his pants pocket. She knew the something would be a weapon, and she thought, He’s going to blind me.

  In that moment, fear turned to ice. Cold, crystalline, hard. In that moment, she knew she couldn’t count on the cavalry or the marines getting here in time, there was nobody here but us chickens, boss, and nobody to look after little Eileen but little Eileen herself. She took advantage of the shift of his body weight to the left, his right hand going into his pocket, the balance an uneasy one for the barest fraction of a second, enough time for her to emulate the movement of his own body, her left shoulder rising in easy symmetry with his own cant, their bodies in motion together for only a fraction of a second, movement responding to movement as though they were true lovers, and suddenly she lurched, every ounce of strength concentrated in that left shoulder, adding her own weight and momentum to his already offcenter tilt—and he toppled over.

  His right hand was still in his pocket as she scrambled to her feet. He rolled over onto the path, his right hand coming free of his pocket, the switchblade knife snapping open just as she pulled the Llama out of her bra. She knew she would kill him if he moved. He saw the gun in her hand, steady, leveled at his head, and perhaps he saw the look in her eyes as well, though there was no moon. She liked to think later that what happened next had nothing to do with the sound of footsteps pounding on the path from north and south, nothing to do with the approach of either Abrahams or McCann.

  He dropped the knife.

  First he said, “Don’t hurt me.”

  Then he said, “Don’t tell on me.”

  “You okay?” Abrahams asked.

  She nodded. She couldn’t seem to catch her breath. The gun in her hand was trembling now.

  “I would’ve killed him,” she whispered.

  “What?” Abrahams said.

  “A kid,” she whispered.

  “We better call for a meat wagon,” McCann said. “It looks to me like she’s—”

  “I’m all right!” she said fiercely, and both men stared at her. “I’m all right,” she said more softly, and felt suddenly faint, and hoped against hope that she wouldn’t pass out in front of these two hairbags from the Chinatown Precinct, and stood there sucking in great gulps of air until the queasiness and the dizziness passed, and then she smiled weakly and said, “What kept you?”

  They had not finished with Moore until almost a quarter past one, and Kling did not get home until two in the morning. They had got from him essentially what they’d expected to get: only what he chose to admit. In approximately eight hours, Carella and Meyer would be accompanying Moore to the Complaint Room at Felony Court, where a clerk would draw up a short-form complaint listing the charges against him. This so-called yellow sheet would follow him later that morning to his arraignment—and indeed become a part of his permanent record. In the meantime, there was not much anyone could do until the wheels of justice began grinding, slowly.

  He was exhausted, but the first thing he did when he came into the apartment was dial Eileen’s number. There was no answer. He let the phone ring a dozen times, hung up, dialed it again, slowly and carefully this time, and let it ring another dozen times. Still no answer. He thumbed through the R‘s in his directory, and found the listing for Frank Riley, a man who’d gone through the Academy with him, and who was now a detective/2nd working out of the Chinatown Precinct. He dialed the precinct, told the desk sergeant who he was, and then asked if he had any information on the stakeout outside Worth Memorial earlier that night. The desk sergeant didn’t know anything about any stakeout. He put Kling through to the squadroom upstairs, where he talked to a weary detective on the graveyard shift. The detective told him he heard
it had gone down as scheduled, but he didn’t know all the details. When Kling asked him if Detective Burke was okay, he said there was nobody by that name on the Chinatown Squad.

  He was wondering who to try next when the knock sounded on his door. He went to the door.

  “Who is it?” he asked.

  “Me,” she answered. Her voice sounded very weary and very small.

  He took off the night chain, unlocked the deadbolt, and opened the door. She was wearing a navy pea jacket over blue jeans and black boots. Her long red hair was hanging loose around her face. In the dim illumination of the hallway lightbulb, he could see that her face was discolored and bruised, her lip swollen.

  “Okay to come in?” she asked.

  “Come in,” he said, and immediately, “Are you okay?”

  “Tired,” she said.

  He locked the door behind her, and put on the night chain. When he turned from the door, she was sitting on the edge of the bed.

  “How’d it go?” he asked.

  “We got him,” she said. “Fourteen years old,” she said. “I almost killed him,” she said.

  Their eyes met.

  “Would you mind very much making love to me?” she said.

  In some cities, it was called a “first appearance.” In this city, it was called an “arraignment.” However you sliced it and whatever you called it, it was the first time a person charged with a crime appeared in a courtroom before a judge.

  They had talked over their strategy beforehand with the assistant district attorney assigned to the case. They knew Moore’s attorney would advise him to plead not guilty to all the charges, and whereas they were certain the dope charge would stick, they were on more tenuous ground where it came to the murders. Their fear was that they’d come up against a lenient judge who might accept Moore’s contention that Brother Anthony’s murder was committed in self-defense, and might set what he thought to be a reasonable bail for the drug offense. Even though the ballistics tests on the Smith & Wesson would not be completed until the case was presented to a grand jury sometime next week, they decided to tack on to their complaint the three additional counts of Murder One, hoping a judge would be intimidated by quantity and weight when it came time to grant or deny bail. If the gun that had killed Brother Anthony turned out to be the same gun that had fired the fatal bullets into Paco Lopez, Sally Anderson, and Marvin Edelman, they felt there was a good chance the grand jury would hand down a true bill on all four murder counts. When the case later came to trial, it would then be Moore’s word alone that would keep him from spending more time in prison than there were days on an eternal calendar. The important thing now was to make sure he did not walk out of that courthouse. They felt certain that if bail was granted, they would never see him again.

  The judge hearing the case was Walking Wilbur Harris.

  The court attendant, who was called a bridge in this city, sat before Harris’s bench and read off the name of the defendant, and then the charges against him. Harris looked out over his rimless spectacles and said, “Are these charges correct, officer?”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” Carella said.

  The four of them were standing before the judge’s bench, Carella with the assistant DA, Moore with his attorney. Harris turned to Moore.

  “You may have a hearing in this court,” he said, “or an adjournment for purpose of obtaining a lawyer or witnesses, or waive that hearing and let the case go to a grand jury. Do you have a lawyer?”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” Moore said.

  “Is he here present?”

  “I am representing the defendant,” Moore’s attorney said.

  “Ah, yes, Mr. Wilcox,” Harris said. “Didn’t recognize you.”

  Wilcox smiled. “Your Honor,” he said, in recognition of the recognition.

  “How do you plead to these charges?” Harris asked. “First count, Criminal Possession of a controlled substance in the First Degree, contrary to penal law, Section 220.21.”

  “Not guilty, Your Honor,” Moore said.

  “Second, third, fourth, and fifth counts, Murder in the First Degree, contrary to penal law, Section 125.27.”

  “Not guilty, Your Honor,” Moore said.

  “Pending a grand jury hearing,” Wilcox said, going straight for the jugular, “may I at this time request bail for the defendant?”

  “The man’s been charged with four counts of First Degree Murder!” Harris said, looking surprised.

  “He acted in self-defense on the first count, Your Honor, and had nothing whatever to do with the other three murders charged.”

  “Mr. Delmonico?” Harris said, turning to the ADA.

  “We have good and reasonable cause to believe the same weapon was used in all four murders, Your Honor.”

  “What good and reasonable cause?” Harris asked.

  “Detective Carella here has ballistics reports indicating the same gun was used in the murders of Paco Lopez, Sally Anderson, and Marvin Edelman.”

  “What about this other one?” Harris said. “Anthony Scalzo.”

  “The man was killed—”

  “The gun is now with—”

  “One at a time,” Harris said.

  “The man was killed in self-defense, Your Honor,” Wilcox said. “He was armed when he broke into the defendant’s apartment. There was a struggle during which my client disarmed him and shot him. In self-defense.”

  “Mr. Delmonico?”

  “The gun is now with Ballistics Section, Your Honor. We should have a report sometime before the grand jury hearing next week.”

  “What makes you think it’s the same gun?” Harris asked.

  “It’s a .38-caliber Smith and Wesson, Your Honor. That’s the make and caliber of the gun used in the previous three murders. The same gun for all three murders.”

  “But you don’t know if it’s the same gun that was used in this fourth homicide.”

  “Not yet, Your Honor.”

  “Your Honor—,” Wilcox said.

  “Your Honor—,” Delmonico said.

  “Just a minute here,” Harris said. “Mr. Wilcox?”

  “Your Honor,” Wilcox said, “there is no ballistics evidence that would link the gun used in the previous murders with the shooting that took place in my client’s apartment yesterday. But even if there did exist such evidence, it’s our contention that the gun belonged to Anthony Scalzo and not my client.”

  “Mr. Delmonico?”

  “Your Honor,” Delmonico said, “we feel such evidence will be forthcoming. In any event, given the gravity of the charges before you, I respectfully submit that the granting of bail would be inadvisable in this case.”

  “Yes, well, that’s for me to decide, isn’t it?” Harris said.

  “Yes, Your Honor, of course.”

  “Bail is granted in the amount of one hundred thousand dollars,” Harris said.

  “We are prepared to meet that bail, Your Honor,” Wilcox said.

  “Very well, remand the defendant.”

  “May I have a few words with my client?” Wilcox asked.

  “Take him aside. Next case.”

  As the bridge read off the name of the next defendant and the charges against him, Carella watched Wilcox in whispered conversation with Moore. Wilcox was a good lawyer, Carella knew he’d have discussed with Moore beforehand the amount of bail he thought he could meet. All they had to come up with now was $10,000 in cash and collateral for the rest, easy enough when you owned twenty-five carats of diamonds worth a cool $300,000. Or would Wilcox simply phone Moore’s mother in Miami and ask her to wire him a mere $100,000? Either way, Moore would spend a relaxed day in custody at either the Municipal House of Detention crosstown on Daley Street, or else in the Parsons Island Jail in the middle of the river Dix. By nightfall, he’d be out on the street again. He watched as they led Moore out. He watched as Wilcox exchanged a few words with the bail bondsman. He rarely thought in Italian, but the words La comedia e finita crossed his mind. He wa
lked to the back of the courtroom, where Delmonico and Meyer were waiting.

  “I told you,” Meyer said. “There ain’t no justice in this world.”

  But maybe there was, after all.

  There was hardly any packing left to do.

  He had done most of his packing yesterday afternoon before he’d been interrupted by the man in the monk’s habit, whose name he now knew was Anthony Scalzo. Nothing had changed. He still planned to get out of here as soon as possible, out of the city and the state for sure, maybe out of the country as well. The only difference now was that his mother would be out the $100,000 she’d provided for his bail, a small enough price to pay for his freedom; anyway, he planned to pay her back as soon as he got settled someplace.

  As he took his toilet articles from the medicine cabinet in the bathroom, he replayed the little session with the mastermind sleuths of the 87th Precinct, four of them sitting there playing cat and mouse with him, each and every one of them knowing they didn’t have a chance in hell of getting him on those three murders unless he decided to fall to his knees in confession. He was tempted—almost, but not quite—to forget all about running, take his chances with a jury instead. They’d buy his plea of self-defense, and he’d end up spending a little time—maybe two years—in prison on the drug charge. But he supposed there was no such thing as a little time in prison; any time in prison was a lot of time. Better to do it this way. Jump bail, get out of the country, use the diamonds—but, ah, what a waste. Two years of medical school, what a waste. He wondered what his father would have said if he was still alive. Well, Dad, he thought, I saw my opportunity and I grabbed it. It would’ve all worked out fine, I’d have had the money and my medical degree besides, nobody the wiser, nobody hurt, Dad, if only…