Cop Hater

by Ed McBain

  "Yes?" he said, and then she shook her head, changing her mind, wanting him to sit first. She fluffed a pillow for him, and he sat in the easy chair, and she perched herself on the arm of the chair and cocked her head to one side, repeating the extended index finger gesture.

  "Go ahead," he said, "I'm listening."

  She watched his lips carefully, and then she smiled. Her index finger dropped. There was a white tag sewed onto the prisoner pajama top close to the mound of her left breast. She ran the extended finger across the tag. He looked at it closely.

  "I'm not examining your feminine attributes," he said, smiling, and she shook her head, understanding. She had inked numbers onto the tag, carrying out the prison garb motif. He studied the numbers closely.

  "My shield numbers," he said, and the smile flowered on her mouth. "You deserve a kiss for that," he told her.

  She shook her head.

  "No kiss?"

  She shook her head again.

  "Why not?"

  She opened and closed the fingers on her right hand.

  "You want to talk?" he asked.

  She nodded.

  "What about?"

  She left the arm of the chair suddenly. He watched her walking across the room, his eyes inadvertently following the swing of her small, rounded backside. She went to an end-table and picked up a newspaper. She carried it back to him and then pointed to the picture of Mike Reardon on page one, his brains spilling out onto the sidewalk.

  "Yeah," he said dully.

  There was sadness on her face now, an exaggerated sadness because Teddy could not give tongue to words, Teddy could neither hear words, and so her face was her speaking tool, and she spoke in exaggerated syllables, even to Carella, who understood the slightest nuance of expression hi her eyes or on her mouth. But the exaggeration did not lie, for there was genuineness to the grief she felt. She had never met Mike Reardon, but Carella had talked of him often, and she felt that she knew him well.

  She raised her eyebrows and spread her hands simultaneously, asking Carella "Who?" and Carella, understanding instantly, said, "We don't know yet. That's why I haven't been around. We've been working on it." He saw puzzlement in her eyes. "Am I going too fast for you?" he asked.

  She shook her head.

  "What then? What's the matter?"

  She threw herself into his arms and she was weeping suddenly and fiercely, and he said, "Hey, hey, come on, now," and then realized she could not read his lips because her head was buried in his shoulder. He lifted her chin.

  "You're getting my shirt wet," he said.

  She nodded, trying to hold back the tears.

  "What's the matter?"

  She lifted her hand slowly, and she touched his cheek gently, so gently that it felt like the passing of a mild breeze, and then her fingers touched his lips and lingered there, caressing them.

  "You're worried about me?"

  She nodded.

  "There's nothing to worry about."

  She tossed her hair at the first page of the newspaper again.

  "That was probably some crackpot," Carella said.

  She lifted her face, and her eyes met his fully, wide and brown, still moist from the tears.

  "I'll be careful," he said. "Do you love me?"

  She nodded, and then ducked her head.

  "What's the matter?"

  She shrugged and smiled, an embarrassed, shy smile.

  "You missed me?"

  She nodded again.

  "I missed you, too."

  She lifted her head again, and there was something else in her eyes this time, a challenge to him to read her eyes correctly this time, because she had truly missed him but he had not uncovered the subtlety of her meaning as yet. He studied her eyes, and then he knew what she was saying, and he said only, "Oh."

  She knew that he knew then, and she cocked one eyebrow saucily and slowly gave one exaggerated nod of her head, repeating his "oh," soundlessly rounding her lips.

  "You're just a fleshpot," he said jokingly.

  She nodded.

  "You only love me because I have a clean, strong, young body."

  She nodded.

  "Will you marry me?"

  She nodded.

  "I've only asked you about a dozen times so far."

  She shrugged and nodded, enjoying herself immensely.

  "When?"

  She pointed at him.

  "All right, I'll set the date. I'm getting my vacation in August. I'll marry you then, okay?"

  She sat perfectly still, staring at him.

  "I mean it."

  She seemed ready to cry again. He took her in his arms and said, "I mean it, Teddy. Teddy, darling, I mean it. Don't be silly about this, Teddy, because I honestly, truly mean it. I love you, and I want to marry you, and I've wanted to marry you for a long, long time now, and if I have to keep asking you, I'll go nuts. I love you just the way you are, I wouldn't change any of you, darling, so

  don't get silly, please don't get silly again. It ... it doesn't matter to me, can you understand that? You're more than any other woman, so much more, so please marry me."

  She looked up at him, wishing she could speak because she could not trust her eyes now, wondering why someone as beautiful as Steve Carella, as wonderful as Steve Carella, as brave and as strong and as marvelous as Steve Carella would went to marry a girl like her, a girl who could never say, "I love you, darling. I adore you." But he had asked her again, and now, close in the circle of his arms, now she could believe that it didn't really matter to him, that to him she was as whole as any woman, "more than any other woman," he had said.

  "Okay?" he asked. "Will you let me make you honest?" She nodded. The nod was a very small one. "You mean it this time?"

  She did not nod again. She lifted her mouth, and she put her answer into her lips, and his arms tightened around her, and she knew that he understood her. She broke away from him, and he said, "Hey!" but she trotted away from his reach and went to the kitchen.

  When she brought back the champagne, he said, "I'll be damned!"

  She sighed, agreeing that he undoubtedly would be damned, and he slapped her playfully on the fanny.

  She handed him the bottle, did a deep curtsy which was ludicrous in the prisoner pajamas and then sat on the floor cross-legged while he struggled with the cork.

  The champagne exploded with an enormous pop, and though she did not hear the sound, she saw the cork leave the neck of the bottle and ricochet off the ceiling, and she saw the bubbly white fluid overspilling the lip and running over his hands.

  She began to clap, and then she got to her feet and went for glasses, and he poured first a little of the wine into his, saying, "That's the way it's done, you know. It's supposed to take off the skim and the bugs and everything," and then filling her glass, and then going back to pour his to the brim.

  "To us," he toasted.

  She opened her arms slowly, wider and wider and wider.

  "A long, long, happy love," he supplied.

  She nodded happily.

  "And our marriage in August" They clinked glasses, and then sipped at the wine, and she opened her eyes wide in pleasure and cocked her head appreciatively.

  "Did you mean what you said before?"

  "Are you happy?" he asked.

  Yes, her eyes said, yes, yes.

  She raised one brow inquisitively.

  "About... missing me?"

  Yes, yes, yes, yes, her eyes said.

  "You're beautiful."

  She curtsied again.

  "Everything about you. I love you, Teddy. Jesus, how I love you."

  She put down the wine glass and then took his hand. She kissed the palm of the hand, and the back, and then she led him into the bedroom, and she unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it out of his trousers, her hands moving gently. He lay down on the bed, and she turned off the light and then, unselfconsciously, unembarrassedly, she took off the pajamas and went to him.

  And while they
made gentle love in a small room in a big apartment house, a man named David Foster walked toward his own apartment, an apartment he shared with his mother.

  And while their love grew fierce and then gentle again, a man named David Foster thought about his partner Mike Reardon, and so immersed in his thoughts was he that he did not hear the footsteps behind him, and when he finally did hear them, it was too late.

  He started to turn, but a .45 automatic spat orange flame into the night, once, twice, again, again, and David Foster clutched at his chest, and the red blood burst through his brown fingers, and then he hit the concrete—dead.

  Chapter SEVEN

  there is not much you can say to a man's mother when the man is dead. There is not much you can say at all.

  Carella sat in the doilied easy chair and looked across at Mrs. Foster. The early afternoon sunlight seeped through the drawn blinds in the small, neat living room, narrow razor-edge bands of brilliance against the cool dimness. The heat in the streets was still insufferable, and he was thankful for the cool living room, but his topic was death, and he would have preferred the heat.

  Mrs. Foster was a small, dried-up woman. Her face was wrinkled and seamed, as brown as David's had been. She sat hunched hi the chair, a small withered woman with a withered face and withered hands, and he thought A strong wind would blow her away, poor woman, and he watched the grief that lay quietly contained behind the expressionless withered face.

  "David was a good boy," she said. Her voice was hollow, a narrow sepulchral voice. He had come to talk of death, and now he could smell death on this woman, could hear death in the creak of her voice, and he thought it strange that David Foster, her son, who was alive and strong and young several hours ago was now dead—and his mother, who had probably longed for the peaceful sleep of death many a time, was alive and talking to Carella.

  "Always a good boy. You raise 'em in a neighborhood like this one," Mrs. Foster said, "and you fear for how they'll turn out. My husband was a good worker, but he died young, and it wasn't always easy to see that David wasn't needing. But he was a good boy, always. He would come home and tell me what the other boys were doing, the stealing and all the things they were doing, and I knew he was all right."

  "Yes, Mrs. Foster," Carella said.

  "And they all liked him around here, too," Mrs. Foster went on, shaking her head. "All the boys he grew up with, and all the old folks, too. The people around here, Mr. Carella, they don't take much to cops. But they liked my David because he grew up among them, and he was a part of them, and I guess they were sort of proud of him, the way I was proud."

  "We were all proud of him, Mrs. Foster," Carella said.

  "He was a good cop, wasn't he?"

  "Yes, he was a fine cop."

  "Then why would anyone want to kill him?" Mrs. Foster asked. "Oh, I knew his job was a dangerous one, yes, but this is different, this is senseless. He wasn't even on duty. He was coming home. Who would want to shoot my boy, Mr. Carella. Who would want to shoot my boy?"

  "That's what I wanted to talk to you about, Mrs. Foster. I hope you don't mind if I ask a few questions."

  "If it'll help you find the man who killed David, I'll answer questions all day for you." "Did he ever talk about his work?"

  "Yes, he did. He always told me what happened around the precinct, what you were working on. He told me about his partner being killed, and he told me he was leafing through pictures in his mind, just waiting until he hit the right one."

  "Did he say anything else about the pictures? Did he say he suspected anyone?" "No."

  "Mrs. Foster, what about his friends?" "Everyone was his friend."

  "Did he have an address book or anything in which their names might be listed?"

  "I don't think he had an address book, but there's a pad near the telephone he always used." "May I have that before I leave?" "Certainly."

  "Did he have a sweetheart?"

  "No, not anyone steady. He went out with a lot of different girls."

  "Did he keep a diary?"

  "No."

  "Does he have a photograph collection?" "Yes, he liked music a lot. He was always playing his records whenever he..."

  "No, not phonograph. Photograph."

  "Oh. No. He carried a few pictures in his wallet, but that's all."

  "Did he ever tell you where he went on his free time?" "Oh, lots of different places. He liked the theatre a lot The stage, I mean. He went often."

  "These boyhood friends of his. Did he pal around with them much?"

  "No, I don't think so."

  "Did he drink?"

  "Not heavily."

  "I mean, would you know whether or not he frequented any of the bars in the neighborhood? Social drinking, of course."

  "I don't know."

  "Had he received any threatening letters or notes that you know of?"

  "He never mentioned any."

  "Ever behave peculiarly on the telephone?"

  "Peculiarly? What do you mean?"

  "Well, as if he were trying to hide something from you. Or as if he were worried . . . anything like that. I'm thinking of threatening calls, Mrs. Foster."

  "No, I don't ever remember him acting strange on the phone."

  "I see. Well . . ." Carella consulted his notes. "I guess that's about it. I want to get going, Mrs. Foster, because there's a lot of work to do. If you could get me that telephone pad..."

  "Yes, of course." She rose, and he watched her slight body as she moved out of the cool living room into one of the bedrooms. When she returned, she handed him the pad and said, "Keep it as long as you like."

  "Thank you. Mrs. Foster, please know that we all share your sorrow," he said lamely.

  "Find my boy's killer," Mrs. Foster said. She extended one of her withered hands and took his hand in a strong, firm grip, and he marvelled at the strength of the grip, and at the strength in her eyes and on her face. Only when he was in the hallway, with the door locked behind him, did he hear the gentle sobs that came from within the apartment.

  He went downstairs and out to the car. When he reached the car, he took off his jacket, wiped his face, and then sat behind the wheel to study his worksheet:

  statement of eyewitnesses: None.

  motive: Revenge? Con? Nut? Tie-in with Mike? Check Ballistics report.

  number of murderers: Two? One Mike, one David.

  Or tie-in? B.R. again.

  weapons: .45 automatic.

  route of murderer:?

  diaries, journals, letters, addresses, telephone

  numbers, photographs: Check with David's mthr.

  associates, relatives, sweethearts, enemies, etc: Ditto.

  places frequented, hang-outs: Ditto.

  habits: Ditto.

  traces and clues found on the scene: Heelprint in dog feces. At lab now. Four shells. Two bullets. Ditto.

  fingerprints found: None.

  Carella scratched his head, sighed against the heat, and then headed back for the precinct house to see if the new Ballistics report had come in yet.

  The widow of Michael Reardon was a full-breasted woman in her late thirties. She had dark hair and green eyes, and an Irish nose spattered with a clicheful of freckles. She had a face for merry-go-rounds and roller-coaster rides, a face that could split in laughter and girlish glee when water was splashed on her at the seashore. She was a girl who could get drunk sniffing the vermouth cork before it was passed over a martini. She was a girl who went to church on Sundays, a girl who'd belonged to the Newman Club when she was younger, a girl who was a virgin two days after Mike had taken her for his bride. She had good legs, very white, and a good body, and her name was May.

  She was dressed in black on the hot afternoon of July 25th, and her feet were planted firmly on the floor before her, and her hands were folded in her lap, and there was no laughter on the face made for roller-coaster rides.

  "I haven't told the children yet," she said to Bush. "The children don't know. How can I tell th
em? What can I say?" '

  "It's a rough thing," Bush said in his quiet voice. His scalp felt sticky and moist. He needed a haircut, and his wild red hair was shrieking against the heat.

  "Yes," May said. "Can I get you a beer or something? It's very hot. Mike used to take a beer when he got home. No matter what time it was, he always took a beer. He was a very well-ordered person. I mean, he did things carefully and on schedule. I think he wouldn't have been able to sleep if he didn't have that glass of beer when he got home."

  "Did he ever stop in the neighborhood bars?"

  "No. He always drank here, in the house. And never whiskey. Only one or two glasses of beer."

  Mike Reardon, Bush thought. He used to be a cop and a friend. Now he's a victim and a corpse, and I ask questions about him.

  "We were supposed to get an air-conditioning unit," May said. "At least, we talked about it. This apartment gets awfully hot. That's because we're so close to the building next door."

  "Yes," Bush said. "Mrs. Reardon, did Mike have any enemies that you know of? I mean, people he knew outside his line of duty?"

  "No, I don't think so. Mike was a very easy-going sort Well, you worked with him. You know."

  "Can you tell me what happened the night he was killed? Before he left the house?"

  "I was sleeping when he left. Whenever he had the twelve-to-eight tour, we argued about whether we should try to get any sleep before he went in."

  "Argued?"

  "Well, you know, we discussed it. Mike preferred staying up, but I have two children, and I'm beat when it hits ten o'clock. So he usually compromised on those nights, and we both got to bed early—at about nine, I suppose."

  "Were you asleep when he left?"

  "Yes. But I woke up just before he went out."

  "Did he say anything to you? Anything that might indicate he was worried about an ambush? Had he received a threat or anything?"

  "No." May Reardon glanced at her watch. "I have to be leaving soon, Detective Bush. I have an appointment at the funeral parlor. I wanted to ask you about that. I know you're doing tests on ... on the body and all ... but the family . . . Well, the family is kind of old-fashioned and we want to ... we want to make arrangements. Do you have any idea when . .. when you'll be finished with him?"