by Ed McBain
'Why?'
'Because I knew exactly what you'd be thinking.'
'And what was that?'
Slopping himself before he added, 'My son?'
'That I'd done it,' Scott said. 'Because she bounced me.'
'Do you want to tell me where you were on New Year's Eve?'
* * * *
'He was with me,' Lorraine said.
She was on her feet, facing both Carella and the mirror behind which the Police Commissioner and the Chief of Detectives and all the high-ranking departmental brass were undoubtedly standing, watching her performance. She had changed out of the waitressing costume and into her street clothes before leaving the Steamboat Cafe. Short denim skirt, red sweater, red tights, short black boots with a cuff turned down above the ankle. She was strutting for Carella and everybody behind the mirror. Carella knew that she knew she possessed long and spectacularly beautiful legs.
'From what time to what time?' he asked.
He was sitting on the opposite side of the long table that ran the vertical length of the room. The mirror was behind him.
'He got to the party at around twelve-thirty,' Lorraine said.
Strothers had said a quarter to one.
'Was he there all night?' Carella asked.
* * * *
'All night, yes,' Scott said.
'Until when?'
'Well, I spent the night there. I mean, I slept over. With Lorraine.'
That'll be another fifty Hail Marys, Meyer thought.
'I've been staying there,' Scott said. 'With Lorraine. When I found out about the murder . . .'
'How'd you find out?'
'On television.'
Nobody reads the newspapers anymore, Meyer thought.
'I figured I'd ... I knew you'd think I did it. Because her parents would've mentioned the argument we had. And what I said. And I knew . . .'
'What was it you said?'
* * * *
'That he was going to kill her,' Lorraine said.
'Uh-huh,' Carella said.
'Her and her new boyfriend both.'
'Uh-huh. And this is what he told you that day he came to your apartment?'
'No, no. This was later. When he came to the apartment, she'd just broken up with him. A few days earlier.'
'This was ...?'
'Three days after Christmas. When he came to me. Because I used to be his baby-sitter. And he could tell me anything.'
'And he told you Annie Flynn had broken up with him.'
'Yes.'
'But he didn't mention the death threats.'
'Well, I wouldn't call them death threats.'
'What would you call them, Miss Greer?'
'Well, would you call them death threats?' she said, looking directly into the mirror behind Carella and above his head.
'Yes, I would call them death threats,' Carella said. 'When a person threatens to kill someone, we call that a death threat.'
'Well, he didn't mean he'd actually kill them.'
* * * *
'That was just an expression,' Scott said.
'That you'd kill her and her new boyfriend.'
'Yes. I was angry, I just ... I was just saying anything that came to my mind. Because I was angry, and hurt and ... do you understand what I'm telling you?'
Yes, my son.
'Yes, I understand,' Meyer said. 'What I don't understand is why you thought it was better to hide instead of . . .'
* * * *
'He was scared,' Lorraine said. 'He figured her parents would tell you what he'd said, and you'd get him up here and wring a confession out of him. I don't mean beat a confession out of him. I mean outsmart him, get him to say things he didn't really want to say. Don't you go to the movies?'
'Sometimes,' Carella said. 'When did he tell you all this?'
'Last Friday. I advised him to turn himself in.'
'Uh-huh.'
'Otherwise you'd think he killed her.'
'And what'd he say?'
'He said he didn't kill her.'
'Then why wouldn't he come in?'
'I told you. He was scared.'
'I don't see why. He had a perfect alibi.'
'Sure, alibis,' she said to the mirror, dismissing the possibility of an innocent man being able to protect himself from a roomful of clever, aggressive cops. Like the ones behind the mirror.
'Well, he does have an alibi, doesn't he?' Carella said.
She looked at him. Was he starting to get clever?
'You said he was with you all night . . .'
'That's right.'
Flatly. Challengingly. You don't like the idea of my sleeping with a nineteen-year-old kid? Tough. Rock stars can do whatever they want to do.
'Didn't leave the apartment at any time, is that right?'
'He was there all night long. We had breakfast around five, five-thirty. Then everyone left, and we went to bed.'
'So there you are,' Carella said.
* * * *
'. . . scrambled eggs and bacon, coffee, hot rolls. I guess everybody cleared out by seven, seven-thirty. Then Lorraine and I went to bed.'
Meyer nodded.
"Tell me about this new boyfriend,' he said.
'Huh?'
'Annie's new boyfriend. The one you said you were going to kill'
'I told you, that was just an ex . . .'
'Yes, I know. But did she say who he was?'
'She said I was crazy.'
'Meaning what?'
'I guess . . . well, meaning there wasn't anyone else.'
'And did you believe that?'
'No.'
His eyes met Meyer's.
'I think she dropped me because of another guy.'
* * * *
New apartment building and all, he'd had to present himself in the sales office as somebody looking to buy. So he could get floor plans. He knew which apartment the Hoddings were in, he'd got that from the directory in the lobby the first time he'd gone to the building. Doorman said Yes, sir, can I help you? Told him he was looking for the sales office, which it turned out was on the third floor in an apartment that had been furnished as a model. One of the bigger apartments, the salesperson said it was going for $850,000, because of the parkside view. Same apartment higher up in the building - there were eighteen stories in all - went for a million-six. There were less expensive apartments without a view of the park, all of them facing the side street, and these started at five and a quarter, it wasn't cheap living in this part of the city, the salesperson told him.
He'd asked for floor plans of the different apartments being sold. Each apartment had a name. Like ordering from a menu. There was the Cosmopolitan and the Urbanite and the Excel and the Luxor and the most expensive of them all, the Tower Suite, which shared the entire eighteenth floor of the building with an identical apartment flipflopped. The building on the right was also only eighteen stories high, and there were height restrictions built into the zoning, so there was no question of ever being overshadowed. And, of course, on the left there was the side street.
He'd gathered up the floor plans for all the different apartments and then asked for a plan showing the location of the apartments on each floor. He knew the Hoddings were in apartment 4A. All of the A apartments were Urbanites.
So he had the floor plan right there in his hand.
Knew exactly where the fire escapes were.
Knew exactly how to get in.
Exactly how to get to her.
The salesperson thought she had a live one.
* * * *
8
Danny Gimp was offended.
'How come you went to Donner?' he asked.
The two men were sitting on a bench facing the ice-skating rink that had been named after Louis Weiss, the noted mountain climber. In this city, it was common knowledge that no mountain in the world was too high for Weiss to assail. With the help of his faithful shleppers - faithful sherpas - and with a god-given sense of humor and a ready smile, We
iss continued climbing to ever loftier heights, suffering frostbite of the nose only once. It was perhaps in memory of this single mishap in the Himalayas that an ice-skating rather than a roller-skating rink had been named after him. On occasional Saturdays, Weiss himself could be seen gliding over the ice, cheerfully asking children not to scatter candy bar wrappers on his rink. He was not there this Saturday.
It was already the fourteenth day of January.
Exactly two weeks since the murders were committed.
Eight days since Hal Willis had first contacted Fats Donner.
Now Danny Gimp wanted to know why.
Carella said, 'How do you know we went to Donner?'
'My job is listening,' Danny said, even more offended. 'I really am upset, Steve. Truly.'
'He has a short-eyes history,' Carella said.
'That is no reason to have gone to him.'
'If a baby and a sixteen-year-old are the victims, it's a very good reason.'
'This is a very big case, Steve, it's all over the papers, you can't turn on your TV without seeing something about it.'
'I know,' Carella said wearily.
'So instead of giving me a shot at a whammer, you give it to Donner. I can't understand that, Steve, I really can't.'
'Also,' Carella said lamely, 'it may be linked to a burglary Willis is working. So he went to Donner. Because he's worked with him before. Willis.'
Danny looked at him.
'Okay,' Carella said.
'I mean, you know, Steve . . .'
'I said okay.'
Both men fell silent. On the rink, children of all ages flashed by in a rainbow of color. A young girl who thought she was Katarina Witt leaped into the air, did a triple jump, beamed happily in mid-air, and fell on her ass. Without embarrassment, she got up, skated off, and tried another jump - a double this time.
'Does it hurt when it's cold like this?' Danny asked.
Carella knew instantly what he was talking about.
''Cause the leg does,' Danny said. 'From when I got shot.'
This was a lie. Danny had never been shot. He limped because he'd had polio as a child. But pretending he'd been wounded in a big gang shootout gave him a certain cachet he considered essential to the business of informing. Carella was willing to forgive the lie. The first time he himself got shot, Danny came to the hospital to see him. This was unusual for an informer. Carella guessed he actually liked Danny. Gray and grizzled and looking chubbier than he actually was because of the layers of clothing he was wearing, Danny sat on the bench and watched the skaters. He and Carella might have been old friends sitting in the park on a wintry day, remembering good times they had shared, complaining about small physical ailments like a leg that hurt when the temperature dropped.
''Cause I heard you got shot again,' Danny said.
'Yeah,' Carella said.
'On Halloween, I heard.'
'That's right.'
'So I was wondering if it hurts when it gets cold like this.'
'A little.'
'You got to stop getting shot,' Danny said.
'I know.'
'That can be a bad failing for a cop.'
'I know.'
'So be more careful.'
'I will.'
'And give me a call every now and then when you got a whammer. Instead of I have to call you and beg for a meeting here in the park where I'm freezing my ass off.'
'The park was your idea,' Carella said.
'Sure, all I need is to get spotted in a bar someplace, talking to a cop. Especially one who gets himself shot every other weekend. You're starting to be like that other guy you got up there, what's his name?'
'O'Brien.'
'O'Brien, right. He's got a reputation for that, ain't he? Getting himself hot every time he gets out of bed in the morning.'
'He's been shot a fair amount of times,' Carella said drily.
'So what're you trying to do? Break his record?'
Carella suddenly realized that Danny was truly concerned.
'I'll be careful,' he said gently.
'Please do,' Danny said. 'Now tell me who you're looking for.'
'A man named Proctor.'
'The Doctor?'
'You know him?'
'I know the name. He ain't into murder, Steve. He's a two-bit burglar and a sometime-dealer.'
'We're thinking maybe a felony murder.'
'Well, maybe,' Danny said dubiously.
'Because we know he did a burglary in the same building on the night of the murders. If he was doing another one, and the sitter surprised him . . .'
'Well, sure, then you got your felony murder.'
'Because he used a knife.'
'Yeah, I saw that on television.'
'A weapon of convenience.'
'Yeah.'
'Which could happen if a person is surprised. He grabs a knife from the rack . . .'
'He don't have to be surprised to do that.'
'Well, nobody goes in planning to use what he finds on the spot.'
'I suppose,' Danny said, and shrugged. 'Proctor, Proctor, where did I hear something about him lately? Did he just get out?'
'Two years ago.'
'Did he break parole or something?'
'Yes. Where'd you hear that?'
'Shmuck breaks parole it's all over the street. Captain Invincible, right? Nobody can touch him. But that's not it. I mean, this was something new. Where the hell did I hear it?'
The men fell silent again.
Danny was thinking furiously.
Carella was waiting.
There were two figure skaters out on the ice now. They floated like sugar plum fairies among the children churning furiously around them. An ice hockey game, strictly against the rules, was in its formative stages, two rosy-cheeked boys choosing up sides while half a dozen others circled them.
'They always picked me last,' Danny said.
He never misses a trick, Carella thought.
'Because of the leg.'
'They picked me last, too,' Carella said.
This was a lie. He'd always been a fairly good athlete.
'Who you think has the better legs? The one in blue or the one in red?'
Carella looked out over the ice.
'The one in red,' he said.
'Really. You know what I call those kind of legs? I call them Chinese legs.'
'Why?'
'I don't know why. It's the kind of legs Chinese girls have. Did you ever make it with a Chinese girl?'
'Never.'
'That's the kind of legs they got. My money's on the one in blue.'
'Okay,' Carella said.
'Salzeech his own, huh?' Danny said, and smiled.
Carella smiled, too.
'That's a pun,' Danny explained.
'I know.'
'You know the expression "To each his own"?'
'Yes.'
'That's the pun,' Danny explained. 'The Italians say salsiccia, which means sausage. Salzeech for short. I ain't Italian, but you ought to know that.'
'I do know it.'
'So that's the pun. Salzeech his own.'
'I got it already, Danny.'
'So how come you didn't bust out laughing?' he said, and smiled again.
Carella smiled with him.
They fell silent again.
Danny was still thinking.
'It'll come to me,' he said at last.
* * * *
The man sitting at Kling's desk was obviously Jamaican.
One of the Jakies, as Herrera had labeled them. As if this city needed more ethnic labels than it already had.
His speech rolled from his tongue like the sea nudging the shores of his native island.