The Big Book of Female Detectives

by The Big Book of Female Detectives (retail) (epub)

  “I know that, and you know that. As it turns out, the other guy doesn’t know that.”

  “Hell, Mary, how can you be sure?”

  “I guess I can’t be, but Vic told me not to ask questions. He just said that the thing he has on this drug dealer is a hell of a lot more dangerous to the guy than a few crooked cops.” I closed my eyes, as if that would erase my fears. “Harry, if I knew the things Vic learned under the tutelage of his father and his years in Jackson prison…well, it would scare me a damn sight more than his trying to buy drugs from a cop while you’re hiding in the wings.”

  Bittenbinder sighed heavily. “What if something goes wrong? If Vic gets hurt—”

  “You think I haven’t thought of that? If I didn’t think Vic could handle it, I’d nix the whole thing right now. But remember, Harry, you have no choice. You can’t use a cop on this one. We’ll just have to make sure we cover every base. You can position yourself so that Vic’s covered. Lee will be there, too.

  “You know how good Vic is with electronics,” I went on. “He’s rigged up a recorder in this huge gothic cross he wears on a chain around his neck—”

  “We’ll modify it,” Harry said, “make it a wire and put one of my men at the other end.”

  “Let’s get on it, then.” I’d said, glad to see that Harry was back in cop mode.

  * * *

  —

  I knew I wouldn’t make it past the metal detector, so I gave Harry a call like we’d planned earlier and he got me in by way of an old service entrance that most of the newcomers don’t know about. He stashed me in a supply closet and told me to stay put until it was all over. I said okay. The lie came easily. But I wasn’t about to hang back when my son might be in the cross fire.

  I’d learned the layout of police headquarters earlier from Lee, so I knew I wasn’t too far from the Property Room. I stepped into the hallway and moved close enough to hear what was going on inside.

  “You Rutledge?” It was Vic’s voice.

  “Who’s asking?” Cocky attitude.

  I could envision Vic pointing to his tee shirt, which was being used as the code. It had a picture of Curious George lying unconscious on the ground beside an open bottle of ether. “George needs something to wake him up.”

  “Then I’ll need to call the doctor for a prescription.” More code.

  I could hear the faint, high-pitched beeps as Rutledge punched buttons on a cellphone. “Yeah, Doc. I gotta sick monkey here.” A pause, then: “Ether. Yep. That’s the one.” Another pause. “Okay. Got it.” Another beep sounded as he ended the call. “Doc says you’re cool. I’ll go in back and get the stuff. Anybody comes down here, you play like you’re lost, got it?”

  “Got it,” Vic said.

  The time stretched on with the flesh-tingling tension of a Hitchcock film. I considered going in, but thought I heard some sort of movement so I stayed put. More time passed.

  The next thing I heard was Vic ask, “What’s goin’ on?”

  “Looks like the doctor is in.” That was Rutledge’s voice, sarcastic.

  There was a shuffling noise. I moved closer to the door. I wanted to peek inside, see how many there were, but decided not to take the chance. Not yet.

  “We’ve got a deal, Rutledge,” Vic said. “I gave Doc, here, fifty large this afternoon. Now, tell your goon to get the gun off me.” Goon. The guy from Lee’s house, the blue sedan.

  “Trouble down here?” It was Lee’s voice. Her coming out of hiding meant only one thing: The deal had turned sour.

  “Nothing that a little showdown won’t fix.” This was a new voice.

  “Don’t try it, Partello—” Lee’s voice—“I’ve got you covered.”

  “The only thing you’re covering is your boyfriend’s ass.”

  “Wrong, Partello. That would be Bittenbinder covering my ass.” I figured this had to be Lee’s friend. “He’s bearing down on you right now.”

  “You expect me to believe that?”

  I’m not sure why, but I took that as my cue. Maybe, if I could get in there in time, Partello wouldn’t check whether or not Harry was behind him. Maybe the wondering would slow him down. I pulled my gun and walked gingerly through the door.

  The only thing that registered when I got in there was the gun pointed at Vic.

  Words can’t describe what I felt, seeing that gun zeroed in on my son. In that instant, I saw Vic—the infant I had bonded with as only a mother can; the toddler who had come to me when he fell down; the schoolboy who had come to me when he was knocked down; the teenager who had gotten snared into white-collar crime by his own father; the man who had overcome it. I saw all the incarnations that were my son, and I knew that I would kill the man who was holding a gun on him now. I knew I was going to kill Joey Partello.

  I forced myself to concentrate. My heart pounded in my ears and I wasn’t sure if anyone was talking, but then someone spoke and the pounding subsided. My focus had never been keener. My aim had never been sharper.

  The Property Room was set up similar to an old bank, with teller windows framed in by glass partitions and a single door at one end providing access to the back where the loot was kept. Standing in that doorway was Joey Partello.

  In front of Vic, on the other side of the opening, was a young male officer I took for Rutledge, and behind him was another officer—the goon—with a massive forearm across the neck of a very thin man in dark, baggy clothes. Doc. Behind Vic, and off to the right, was Lee Khrisopoulis. To her right was a uniformed officer—the boyfriend.

  “Who’s that?” Partello’s tone told me he expected me to identify myself. He didn’t move his aim away from Vic.

  “You don’t need to know that,” Lee said.

  “Shut up, bitch.” Partello spoke through gritted teeth.

  “Watch your mouth.” This was Harry’s voice.

  Partello swung the gun away from Vic and toward the back, where Harry had been waiting silently.

  Partello had made his mistake. As he swiveled, I put a bullet behind his right ear. He fired as he crumpled, squeezing off three rounds before he hit the ground. Everyone opened fire.

  Vic lunged to the floor and slid on his stomach toward me like he was stealing home plate. Rutledge, who had fired at Vic and missed, readjusted and drew a bead on Lee and the uniformed cop opened a hole in Rutledge’s chest, but not before he’d squeezed off a shot. Lee fell.

  The goon, who was still holding Doc, swung around to fire on Harry and Lee’s friend capped him before he got off a round. Doc pulled free of the falling man, then rolled himself up in a ball in the corner.

  The gunfire stopped.

  Vic and I each made sure the other hadn’t been hit, then we both went to Lee. Her friend was already there, cradling her in his arms and stroking her face.

  Blood was seeping from her chest, but not enough to cause the dark red puddle quickly growing under her.

  I looked at the officer inquiringly.

  “Ricochet got her in the back.”

  “Mary?” Raspy coughs came from Lee’s throat.

  “Yes, Lee. I’m right here.” I grasped her hand.

  “That French woman—Beaubien? Was she injured?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “That’s good.” She coughed some more. “I’m a cop. I’m supposed to be ready to die.”

  “You’re not going to die. Don’t you know that?”

  Lee looked at the man holding her. She tried to swallow, made a choking noise. When she spoke again, her voice was congested with liquid. “No, I can tell. But it was worth it.”

  “What was?” I asked.

  “Saving the fort.”

  We left her alone with her friend.

  I looked around the room. It had filled with officers. Many I recognized from Harry’s birthday party, only now th
eir faces were behind guns.

  The paramedics arrived, counted fallen bodies, and called for some backup of their own.

  * * *

  —

  Vic and I picked up Harry around eleven on Sunday and headed to Comerica Park. Crappy name for a baseball stadium, if you ask me. I don’t care how many fountains and Ferris wheels they add, it’ll never replace Tiger Stadium. Apparently, though, they’ve got all us die-hard fans by the balls, because we were out in full force, shoving through the wide concrete ramps toward the seats like so many cattle in the chutes.

  After Harry and Vic and I had eaten our hot dogs and gotten a second round of brewskies from a vendor in an orange cap with peach fuzz on his face, Harry updated us on what he’d learned so far about the cop ring.

  Five officers were involved. The two still alive after last night’s shootout decided to stay that way by singing like Joe Valachi.

  In spite of our efforts when Vic picked me up in Lee’s alley, Goon had figured something out and tailed us. He had Polaroids of both of us on his person when he died.

  Harry wrapped up by telling us that Lee Khrisopoulis’s funeral would be Wednesday.

  We were silent for a while and then Vic asked Harry if he knew the meaning of the word Beaubien.

  “No. Do you?”

  “Sure. It means ‘beautiful and good.’ You need to teach that to your cops.”

  Harry sat quietly and drank his beer.

  DETECTIVE: LYDIA CHIN

  DOUBLE-CROSSING DELANCEY

  S. J. Rozan

  IT WAS ALWAYS THE DREAM of Shira Judith Rozan (1950– ) to become an architect, and when she succeeded, she decided she’d prefer to be a writer—and has succeeded at that, too. A native New Yorker (she was born in the Bronx), Rozan set her mystery novels and short stories mainly in various parts of the city.

  Although Rozan has written a couple of stand-alone novels—Absent Friends (2004) and In This Rain (2006), and cowritten (with Carlos Dews) two paranormal novels under the Sam Cabot pseudonym, Blood of the Lamb (2013) and Skin of the Wolf (2014)—it is her series about Lydia Chin and Bill Smith for which she is best known. Each takes turns being the central figure in alternate novels.

  Chin and Smith are partners in a private detective agency, and although they are quite different from each other, they do not make an outlandish “odd couple” pairing. Rozan has knowingly described them as based on herself. “Lydia is me as I was when I was her age,” she has explained. “She’s optimistic and full of energy. She believes that the world can be saved….Bill, on the other hand, is me as I am now—on a bad day. He’s been through enough bad stuff in his life that he knows what can’t be done.”

  Many of their cases take them to New York’s Chinatown, an area Lydia knows well, as she lives there with her mother. While she is a thoroughly modern young woman, she respects the traditions of her culture, which often conflict with her job and her life.

  Most of the books in the series have been nominated for or have won most of the major mystery awards; notably, Winter and Night (2002) won the Edgar for best novel of the year.

  “Double-Crossing Delancey” was originally published in The Private Eye Writers of America Presents: Mystery Street #2, edited by Robert J. Randisi (New York, Signet, 2001).

  Double-Crossing Delancey

  S. J. ROZAN

  I NEVER TRUSTED JOE DELANCEY, and I never wanted to get involved with him, and I wouldn’t have except, like most people where Joe’s concerned, I was drawn into something irresistible.

  It began on a bright June morning. I was ambling through Chinatown with Charlie Chung, an FOB—Fresh Off the Boat—immigrant from Hong Kong. We had just left the dojo after an early-morning workout. The air was clear, my blood was flowing and I was ready for action.

  “Good work this morning,” I told Charlie. I stopped to buy a couple of hot dough sticks from the lady on the corner, who was even fresher off the boat than Charlie. “You keep up that kind of thing, you’ll be a rank higher by next year.” I handed him a dough stick. “My treat.”

  Charlie bowed his head to acknowledge the compliment, and the gift; then he grinned.

  “Got big plans, next year, gaje,” he declared. “Going to college.” In Cantonese, “gaje” means “big sister.” I’m not related to Charlie; this was his Chinese way of acknowledging my role as his wise advisor, his guide on the path of life. I tried to straighten up and walk taller.

  “Really?” I asked.

  Charlie nodded. “By next year,” he told me with complete confidence, “my English gets better, also my pockets fills up.”

  In the dojo, Charlie and I practice kicks and punches on each other. Outside, Charlie practices his English on me. Sometimes it feels the same.

  Nevertheless, I said, “Your English is coming along, Charlie.”

  “Practice make perfect,” he grinned, confiding, “English saying.” His eyes took on a distant look. “Maybe, can put English saying in fortune cookie, sell to China. Make big money.”

  Fortune cookies are unknown in China; they were invented by a Japanese man in New Jersey. “Not likely, Charlie. Chinese people are too serious about food.”

  “You think this, gaje?” A bus full of tourists pulled around the corner. Heads hung out windows and cameras pressed against faces. Charlie smiled and waved. “Probably, right,” Charlie went on. “I go look for one other way, make big money. Maybe, import lychee nuts.”

  I munched on my dough stick. “Lychee nuts?”

  He nodded. “In USA, too much canned lychees. Too sweet, no taste, pah!”

  “You can get fresh lychees here.”

  “Saying fresh, but all old, dry, sour. Best lychees, can’t find. Import best fresh lychees, sell like crazy.”

  “You know, Charlie, that’s not a bad idea.”

  “Most idea of Charlie not bad idea! Plan also, import water buffalo. Pet for American children, better than dog.”

  Sometimes Charlie worries me. I mean, if I’m going to be the guy’s gaje, I have responsibilities. “The lychees may be a good idea, Charlie. The water buffalo is not.”

  Charlie, his mouth full of warm, sweet dough, mumbled, “Not?”

  “Not.”

  Charlie hasn’t learned to shrug yet. He did what Chinese people have always done: he jutted his chin forward. “If you say, gaje. Before invest big money, asking you.”

  “That’s smart.”

  “Maybe,” Charlie grinned wickedly, “brother-in-law also come asking you, now.”

  “Your sister’s husband? He needs advice?”

  “Too late, advice. Brother-in-law one stupid shit.”

  I winced. “Remember I told you there are some words you can learn but not say?”

  Charlie’s brow furrowed. “Stupid?”

  I shook my head.

  “Oh.” He grinned again, and blushed. “Okay. Brother-in-law one stupid jackass.”

  I guessed that was better. “What did he do that was stupid?”

  “Brother-in-law buying two big crates, cigarettes lighters from China. Red, picture both sides of Chairman Mao.” Charlie stopped on the sidewalk to bow elaborately. I wondered what both sides of Chairman Mao looked like. “Light cigarette, play ‘East is Red’ same time.”

  “Sounds great.”

  “Cost brother-in-law twelve hundreds of dollars. Thinks, sell to tourists on street, make big bucks. When crates come, all lighters don’t have fluid, don’t have wick.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “Brother-in-law complain to guy sold him. Guy saying, ‘Why you thinking so cheap? Come on, brother-in-law, I have fluid, I have wicks sell you.’ Now brother-in-law sitting home filling lighters all night after job, sticking wicks in. Don’t know how, so half doesn’t work. Now, sell cheap, lose money. Sell expensive, tourist don’t want. Also, brother-in-law lazy jackass.
By tomorrow, next day, give up. Many lighters, no wick, no fluid, no bucks for brother-in-law.”

  My eyes narrowed as I heard this story. Leaving aside Charlie’s clear sense that no bucks was about what his brother-in-law deserved, I asked, “Who was the guy your brother-in-law bought these things from, do you know? Was he Chinese?”

  “Not Chinese. Some lo faan, meet on Delancey Street. Say, have lighters, need cash, sell cheap. I tell brother-in-law, you stupid sh—” Charlie swallowed the word “—stupid jackass, how you trust lo faan guy with ruby in tooth?”

  “Lo faan” means, roughly, barbarian; more broadly, it means anyone not Chinese. For emphasis Charlie tapped a tooth at the center of his own grin.

  “Charlie,” I said, “I have to go. So do you, or you’ll be late.” Charlie works the eight-to-four shift in a Baxter Street noodle factory. “See you tomorrow morning.”

  “Sure, gaje. See you.”

  With another grin and a wave, Charlie was off to work. With shoulders set and purposeful stride, so was I.

  These clear June mornings in New York wilt fast. It wasn’t quite so bright or early, I had accomplished a number of things, and I was sweaty and flagging a little by the time I finally spotted Joe Delancey on Delancey Street.

  Delancey Street is the delta of New York, the place where the flood of new immigrants from Asia meets the river of them from the Caribbean and the tide from Latin America, and they all flow into the ocean of old-time New Yorkers, whose parents and grandparents were the last generation’s floods and rivers and tides. Joe Delancey could often be found cruising here, looking for money-making opportunities, and I had been cruising for awhile myself, looking for Joe.

  I stepped out in front of him, blocking his path on the wide sidewalk. “Joe,” I said. “We have to talk.”

  Joe rocked to a halt. His freckled face lit up and his green eyes glowed with delight, as though finding me standing in his way was a pleasure, and being summoned to talk with me was a joy he’d long wished for but never dared hope to have.