Like Love (87th Precinct), page 16
“Maybe.”
“It’s worth checking,” Meyer told them.
He also told Carella and Hawes that Detective Andy Parker’s surveillance of a suspected shooting gallery would be paid off this evening at 7:00 P.M. The lieutenant needed five men for the raid, and the names of Carella and Hawes were on the list. “We’re mustering here at six-thirty,” Meyer said.
“I’d planned to go home at six,” Carella answered.
“The best-laid plans,” Meyer said, “aft get screwed up.”
“Yeah.” Carella scratched his head. “What do you want to do, Cotton? Go back to Fairview and talk to the landlady or somebody?”
“She ought to know who rented that apartment,” Hawes said.
“You had lunch yet?” Meyer asked.
“No.”
“Get something to eat first. The landlady’ll wait.”
They had lunch in a diner near the precinct. Carella was wondering whether the lab would come up with anything positive on that switchblade knife. He was also wondering why the killer had chosen to use a knife in the park when he obviously owned at least one gun.
“Do you think he saw us pulling up downstairs?” Carella asked.
“He must have. The way that stoop cleared, he’d have had to be an idiot not to know we were cops.”
“This doughnut is stale,” Carella said. “How’s yours?”
“It’s all right. Here, take half of it.”
“No, go ahead.”
“I won’t be able to finish it, anyway.”
“Thanks,” Carella said. He sliced Hawes’s doughnut in half and began munching on it. “That’s better,” he said. He looked at his watch. “We’d better get moving. He’s got a head start on us already. If we can at least find out whether Dumas is his real name…”
“Just let me finish my tea,” Hawes said.
The landlady at 1137 Fairview Street wasn’t happy to see cops, and she told them so immediately.
“There’s always cops here,” she said “I’m fed up to here with cops.”
“That’s too bad, lady,” Hawes said, “but we’ve got to ask you some questions, anyway.”
“You always come around shooting, and then you ask the questions later,” the landlady said angrily.
“Lady, the man in apartment 44 began shooting first,” Hawes said.
“That’s your story.”
“Who was he, do you know?”
“Who’s going to pay for all that damage to the hallway, can you tell me that?”
“Not us,” Hawes said flatly. “What’s the man’s name?”
“John Doe.”
“Come on, lady.”
“That’s his name. That’s the name he took the apartment under.”
“How long has he been living here?”
“Two months.”
“Did he pay his rent in cash or by check?”
“Cash.”
“Didn’t you suspect John Doe might not be his real name? Especially since the name Frank Dumas is on his mailbox?”
“I’m not a cop,” the landlady said. “It’s not my job to suspect somebody who comes here to rent an apartment. He paid me a month in advance, and he didn’t holler about the increase over the last tenant, or the four dollars for the television aerial, so why should I suspect him? I don’t care if his name’s John Doe or John D. Rockefeller, so long as he pays the rent and doesn’t cause trouble.”
“But he’s caused a little trouble, hasn’t he?”
“You’re the ones caused the trouble,” the landlady said. “Coming here with your guns and shooting up the hallway. Do you know there was a little girl sitting on the steps while you were shooting? Do you know that?”
“The little girl was on the second floor, ma’am,” Carella said. “And besides, we didn’t expect shooting.”
“Then you don’t know cops the way I do. The minute a cop arrives, there’s shooting.”
“We’d like to go through Mr. Doe’s apartment,” Carella said.
“Then you’d better go get yourself a search warrant.”
“Come on, lady, break your heart,” Hawes said. “You don’t want us to go all the way downtown, do you?”
“I don’t care where you go. If you want to search that apartment, you need a warrant. That’s the law.”
“You know, of course, that your garbage cans are still outside on the sidewalk, don’t you?” Carella said.
“Huh?”
“Your garbage cans. They’re supposed to be taken in by noon. It’s one-thirty now.”
“I’ll take them in right away,” the landlady said. “The damn trucks didn’t get here until noon.”
“That’s unfortunate,” Carella said, “but taking them in now won’t change the nature of the misdemeanor. There’s a stiff fine involved, you know.”
“What is this? A shakedown?”
“That’s exactly what it is, lady,” Hawes said. “You don’t really want us to go all the way downtown for a search warrant, do you?”
“Cops,” the landlady muttered, and she turned her back. “Go ahead, look through the apartment. Try not to steal anything while you’re up there.”
“We’ll try,” Carella said, “but it won’t be easy.”
They began climbing the steps to the fourth floor. The same little girl was sitting on the second-floor landing, still adjusting her skates with the skate key.
“Hello,” she said.
“Hello,” Carella answered.
“Are you coming to my house?”
“Apartment 21?” Carella asked.
“That’s right.”
“No, I’m sorry.”
“I thought you was the insurance,” the little girl said, and went back to work on the skate.
The door to apartment 44 was open when they reached the fourth-floor landing. Carella’s kick had sprung the lock, and the door stood ajar, knifing a wedge of sunlight into the otherwise dark hallway. They walked to the door and casually shoved it open.
A young woman turned swiftly from the dresser where she was going through the drawers. She was perhaps eighteen years old, her hair in curlers, wearing neither makeup nor lipstick, a faded pink robe thrown over her pajamas.
“Well, hello,” Carella said.
The girl pulled a face, as if she were four years old and had been caught doing something that was strictly forbidden by her parents.
“You’re cops, huh?” she said.
“That’s right,” Hawes answered. “What are you doing here, miss?”
“Looking around, that’s all.”
“Just browsing, huh?” Carella said.
“Well, sort of, yes.”
“What’s your name?”
“Cynthia.”
“Cynthia what?”
“I didn’t take anything, mister,” Cynthia said. “I just came in to look around, that’s all. I live right down the hall. You can ask anybody.”
“What do you want us to ask them?”
“If I don’t live right down the hall.”
Cynthia shrugged. Her face was getting more and more discouraged, crumbling slowly, the way a very little girl’s face will steadily dissolve under the questioning of adults.
“What’s your last name, Cynthia?”
“Reilly,” she said.
“What are you doing in here, Cynthia?”
Cynthia shrugged.
“Stealing?”
“No!” she said. “Hey, no! No, I swear to God.”
“Then what?”
“Just looking around.”
“Do you know the man who lives in this apartment?”
“No. I only saw him in the hall once or twice.”
“Do you know his name?”
“No.” Cynthia paused. “I’m sick,” she said. “I’ve got a bad cold. That’s why I’m in my bathrobe. I couldn’t go to work because I had a fever of a hundred and one point six.”
“So you decided to take a little walk, is that it?”
“Yes, that’s it,” Cynthia said. She smiled because she thought at last the detectives were beginning to understand what she was doing in this apartment, but the detectives didn’t smile back, and her face returned to its slow crumbling, as if she were ready to burst into tears at any moment.
“And you walked right in here, huh?”
“Only because I was curious.”
“About what?”
“The shooting.” She shrugged. “Are you going to arrest me? I didn’t take anything. I’ll die if you take me to prison.” She paused and then blurted, “I’ve got a fever.”
“Then you better get back to bed,” Carella said.
“You’re letting me go?”
“Go on, get out of here.”
“Thanks,” Cynthia said quickly, and then vanished before they had a chance to change their minds.
Carella sighed. “You want to take this room? I’ll get the other.”
“Okay,” Hawes said. Carella went into the other room. Hawes began looking through the dresser Cynthia had already inspected. He was working on the second drawer when he heard the sound of roller skates in the hallway outside. He looked up as the little girl from the second-floor landing skated into the room.
“Hello,” she said.
“Hello,” Hawes answered.
“Did you just move in?”
“No.”
“Are you going someplace?”
“No.”
“Then why are you taking all your clothes out of the bureau?”
“They’re not my clothes,” Hawes said.
“Then you shouldn’t be doing that.”
“I guess not.”
“Then why are you?”
“Because I’m trying to find something.”
“What are you trying to find?”
“I’m trying to find the name of the man who lives in this apartment.”
“Oh,” the little girl said. She skated to the other side of the room, skated back, and then asked, “Is his name in the bureau?”
“Not so far,” Hawes said.
“Do you think his name is in the bureau?”
“It might be. Here, do you see this?”
“It’s a shirt,” the little girl said.
“That’s right, but I mean here, inside the collar.”
“Those are numbers,” the little girl said. “I can count to a hundred by tens, would you like to hear me?”
“Not right now,” Hawes said. “Those numbers are a laundry mark,” Hawes said. “We may be able to get the man’s name by checking them out.”
“Gee,” the girl said and then immediately said, “Ten, twenty, thirty, fifty—”
“Forty,” Hawes corrected.
“…forty, fifty, sixty, thirty—”
“Seventy.”
“I better start all over again. Ten, twenty…” She stopped and studied Hawes carefully for a moment. Then she said, “You don’t live here, do you?”
“No.”
“I thought you did at first. I thought maybe you just moved in or something.”
“No.”
“I thought maybe Petie had moved out.”
“No,” Hawes said. He put a pile of shirts onto the dresser and then reached into his back pocket for a tag.
“Why do you need a laundry mark to tell you what Petie’s name is?” the little girl asked.
“Because that’s the only way we…” Hawes paused. “What did you say, honey?”
“I don’t know. What did I say?”
“Something about…Petie?”
“Oh, yeah, Petie.”
“Is that his name?”
“Whose name?”
“The man who lives here,” Hawes said.
“I don’t know. What does it say inside his shirts?”
“Well, never mind his shirts, honey. If you know his name, you can save us a lot of time.”
“Are you a bull?” the little girl asked.
“Now what makes you ask that?”
“My poppa says bulls stink.”
“Is Petie your poppa?”
The little girl began laughing. “Petie? My poppa is Dave, that’s who my poppa is.”
“Well…well, what about Petie?”
“What about Petie?”
“Is that his name?”
“I guess so. If that’s what it says inside the shirts, then that must be his name.”
“Petie what?”
“What Petie what?”
“His second name. Petie what?”
“Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers,” the girl said, and she began giggling. “Do you know how to skate?”
“Yes. Honey, what’s Petie’s second name?”
“I don’t know. My second name is Jane. Alice Jane Horowitz.”
“Did he ever tell you his second name?”
“Nooooo,” the girl said, drawing out the word cautiously.
“How do you know his first name?”
“Because he showed me how to use a skate key.”
“Yeah? Go ahead.”
“That’s all. I was sitting on the steps, and the skate wouldn’t open, and he was coming downstairs, and he said, ‘Here, Petie’ll fix that for you,’ and then he fixed it, so that’s how I know his name is Petie.”
“Thanks,” Hawes said.
The little girl studied him solemnly for a moment and then said, “You are a bull, aren’t you?”
The six bulls who met in the squadroom that night after dinner were not in the mood for a raid on a shooting gallery. Carella and Meyer wanted to be home with their wives and children. Andy Parker had been trying to get to a movie for the past week, but instead he’d been involved in this surveillance. Bert Kling wanted to finish a book he was reading. Cotton Hawes wanted to be with Christine Maxwell. Lieutenant Byrnes had promised his wife he’d take her to visit her cousin in Bethtown. But nonetheless, the six detectives met in the squadroom and were briefed by Parker on the location and setup of the apartment he’d had under surveillance for the past three weeks.
“They’re shooting up in there, that’s for sure,” Parker said. “But I think something unusual happened last night. A guy came with a suitcase for the first time since I’ve been on the plant. And he left without it. I think a big delivery was made, and if we hit them tonight, we may be able to nab them with the junk.”
“It’s worth a try,” Byrnes said. “The least we’ll net is a few hopheads.”
“Who’ll be out on the street again by tomorrow,” Carella said.
“Depending on how much they’re holding,” Hawes said.
“Someday, this city is going to get some realistic laws about narcotics,” Carella said.
“Aluvai,” Meyer put in.
“Let’s get moving,” Byrnes said.
They traveled in one sedan because they wanted to arrive together, wanted to get out of the car and hit the apartment before the telegraphing grapevine was able to warn of the presence of cops in the neighborhood. As it was, their margin was a close one. The instant they pulled up in front of the tenement, a man sitting on the front stoop ran inside. Parker ran after him into the hallway and collared the man as he was knocking on a ground-floor door. Parker hit him only once and without hesitation, a sharp rabbit punch at the base of the man’s neck.
“Who’s there?” somebody inside the apartment called.
“Me,” Parker said, and by that time the other five detectives were in the hallway.
“Who’s me?” the voice inside said, and Parker kicked in the door.
Nobody was shooting up that night. The apartment may have been filled with addicts on the other nights of Parker’s surveillance, but tonight there was only a fat old man in an undershirt, a fat old woman in a housedress, and a young kid in a T-shirt and dungarees. The trio was standing at the kitchen table, and they were working over what seemed to be eight million pounds of pure heroin. They were cutting it with sugar, diluting the junk for later sale to addicts from here to San Francisco and back again. The old man reached for a Luger in the drawer of the table the moment the door burst inward. He changed his mind about firing the gun because he was suddenly looking at an army of cops armed with everything from riot guns to Thompsons.
“Surprise!” Parker said, and the old man answered, “Drop dead, you cop bastard.”
Parker, naturally, hit him.
The men got back to the squadroom at about 8:30. They all had coffee together, and then Cotton Hawes drove uptown to Christine Maxwell’s apartment.
He loved to watch her strip. He told himself that all he was, after all, was a tired businessman who couldn’t afford the price of a musical comedy on his meager salary, who chose to watch Christine Maxwell rather than a stageful of chorus girls—but he knew he was not the ordinary voyeur, knew there was something rather more personal in his joy. He was tired, true, and perhaps he was only a businessman whose business happened to be crime and punishment. But sitting on the couch across the room from her, a glass of scotch in his big hands, his bare feet resting on a throw pillow, he watched Christine as she took off her blouse, and he felt something more than simple anticipation. He wanted to hold her naked in his arms, wanted to make love to her, but she was more to him than a promised bed partner; she provided for him a haven, she was someone to whom he returned at the end of a long and difficult day, someone he was always happy to see and who, in turn, always made him feel welcome and wanted.
She reached behind her now and unclasped her brassiere, releasing the full globes of her breasts, and then carrying the bra to the chair over whose back she had draped the blouse. She folded the bra in two over the blouse, unzipped her skirt and stepped out of it, folded that onto the seat of the chair, and then stepped out of her half slip and put that on top of the skirt. She took off her black, high-heeled pumps and put them to one side of the chair, and then ungartered her stockings, rolled them off her legs, and put those on the chair, too. She smiled unselfconsciously at him in the dimness of the room, removed her panties, threw them onto the chair, and then, wearing only her garter belt, walked to where he was stretched out on the couch.
“Take that off, too,” he said.
“No,” she said. “I like to leave something for you.”
