Tricks (87th Precinct), page 3
“Artie, you better come over here,” Genero said. “The Burgundy on Culver and Sixth.”
“What is it you found in—”
But Genero had already hung up.
Brown slipped into his shoulder holster.
Hawes clipped his holster to his belt.
Parker picked up the telephone receiver.
“Peaches Muldoon, here I come,” he said.
5:40 P.M. on Halloween night, the streets dark for almost an hour now, the city off daylight savings time since the twenty-sixth of the month. All the little monsters and goblins and devils and bats out in force, carrying their shopping bags full of candy from door to door, yelling “Trick or treat!” and praying no one would give them a treat with a double-edged razor blade in it.
Brown looked at his watch.
Along about now, his wife, Caroline, would be taking Connie around. His eight-year-old daughter had previewed her costume for him last night. She’d looked like the most angelic witch he’d ever seen in his life. All next week, there’d be sweets to eat. The only people who profited from Halloween were the candy makers and the dentists. Brown was in the wrong profession.
He had chosen to walk to the Burgundy Restaurant on Culver and Sixth. It wasn’t too far from the station house, and a cop—if Genero could be considered one—was already on the scene.
The night was balmy.
God, what an October this had been.
Leaves still on the trees in the park, dazzling yellows and reds and oranges and browns, daytime skies a piercing blue, nighttime skies pitch-black and sprinkled with stars. In a city where itchy citizens took off their overcoats far too early each spring, it now seemed proper and fitting that there was no need to put them on again quite yet. He walked swiftly toward Culver, turning to glance at ET hurrying by with Frankenstein’s monster on one side and Dracula on the other. Smiling, he turned the corner onto Culver and began walking toward Sixth.
Genero was waiting on the sidewalk outside the restaurant.
He looked pale.
“What is it?” Brown asked.
“Come on back,” Genero said. “I didn’t touch it.”
“Touch what?” Brown asked. But Genero was already walking up the alleyway on the right-hand side of the restaurant.
Garbage cans flanked either side of the restaurant’s back door, illuminated by an overhead floodlight.
“That one,” Genero said.
Brown lifted the lid on the can Genero was pointing to.
The bloody upper torso of a human body was stuffed into the can, on top of a green plastic garbage bag.
The torso had been severed at the waist from the rest of the body.
The torso had no arms.
And no head.
“Why does this always happen to me?” Genero asked God.
“I once found a hand in an airlines bag,” Genero said.
“No shit?” Monoghan asked without interest.
Monoghan was a Homicide cop. He usually worked in tandem with his partner Monroe, but there had been two homicides in the Eight-Seven tonight, a few blocks apart from each other, and Monoghan was here behind the restaurant on Culver and Sixth, and Monroe was over at the liquor store on Culver and Ninth. It was a shame; Monoghan without Monroe was like a bagel without lox.
“Cut off at the wrist,” Genero said. “I almost puked.”
“Yeah, a person could puke, all right,” Monoghan said.
He was looking down into the garbage can where the bloody torso still rested on the green plastic bag.
“Nothing but a piece of fresh meat here,” he said to Brown.
Brown had a pained look in his eyes. He merely nodded.
“ME on the way?” Monoghan asked.
“Called him ten minutes ago.”
“You won’t need an ambulance for this one,” Monoghan said. “All you’ll need is a shopping bag.”
He laughed at his own little witticism.
He sorely missed Monroe.
“Looks like a man, don’t it?” he said. “I mean, no knockers, all that hair on the chest.”
“This hand I found,” Genero said, “it was a man’s, too. A great big hand. I nearly puked.”
There were several uniformed cops in the alley now, and a couple of technicians sniffing around the back door of the restaurant, and a plainclothes lady cop from Photo taking her Polaroids. Crime Scene signs already up, even though this wasn’t a crime scene in the strictest sense of the word, in that the crime had almost certainly taken place elsewhere. All they had here was the detritus of a crime, a piece of fresh meat—as Monoghan had called it—lying in a garbage can, the partial remains of what had once been a human being. That and whatever clues may have been left by the person who’d transported the torso to this particular spot.
“It’s amazing the number of dismembered stiffs you get in this city,” Monoghan said.
“Oh, boy, you’re telling me?” Genero said.
Monoghan was wearing a black homburg, a black suit, a white shirt, and a black tie. His hands were in his jacket pockets, only the thumbs showing. He looked like a sad, neat undertaker. Genero was trying to look like a hip big-city detective disguised as a college boy. He was wearing blue slacks and a reindeer-patterned sweater over a sports shirt open at the throat. Brown penny loafers. No hat. Curly black hair, brown eyes. He resembled a somewhat stupid poodle.
Monoghan looked at him.
“You the one found this thing here?” he asked.
“Well, yes,” Genero said, wondering if he should have admitted this.
“Any other parts in these other garbage cans?”
“I didn’t look,” Genero said, thinking one part had been plenty.
“Want to look now?”
“Don’t get prints on any of those garbage-can lids,” one of the techs warned.
Genero tented a handkerchief over his hand and began lifting lids.
There were no other parts.
“So all we got here is this chest here,” Monoghan said.
“Hello, boys,” the ME said, coming up the alley. “What’ve we got here?”
“Just this chest here,” Monoghan said, indicating the torso.
The ME peeked into the garbage can.
“Very nice,” he said, and put down his satchel. “Did you want me to pronounce it dead, or what?”
“You could give us a postmortem interval, that’d be helpful,” Monoghan said.
“Autopsy’ll give you that,” the ME said.
“Looks of this one,” Monoghan said, “somebody already done the autopsy. What’d he use, can you tell?”
“Who?” the ME said.
“Whoever cut him up in pieces.”
“He wasn’t a brilliant brain surgeon, I can tell you that,” the ME said, looking at the torn and jagged flesh where the head, arms, and lower torso had been.
“So what was it? A cleaver? A hacksaw?”
“I’m not a magician,” the ME said.
“Any marks, scars, tattoos?” Brown asked quietly.
“None that I can see. Let me roll it over.”
Genero noticed that the ME kept referring to it as “it.”
The ME rolled it over.
“None here, either,” he said.
“Nothing but a piece of fresh meat,” Monoghan said.
Hawes was wearing only a lightweight sports jacket over a shirt open at the throat, no tie, no hat. A mild breeze riffled his red hair; October this year was like springtime in the Rockies. Marie Sebastiani seemed uncomfortable talking to a cop. Most honest citizens did; it was the thieves of the world who felt perfectly at home with law-enforcement officers.
Fidgeting nervously, she told him how she’d changed out of her costume and into the clothes she was now wearing—a tweed jacket and skirt, a lavender blouse, and high-heeled pumps—while her husband, Sebastian the Great, a.k.a. Frank Sebastiani, had gone out behind the high school to load the car with all the little tricks he used in the act. And then she’d gone out back to where she was supposed to meet him, and the car was gone, and he was gone, and his tricks were scattered all over the driveway.
“By little tricks…” Hawes said.
“Oh, you know, the rings, and the scarves, and the balls, and the birdcage…well, all this stuff all over the place here. Jimmy comes with the van to pick up the boxes and the bigger stuff.”
“Jimmy?”
“Frank’s apprentice. He’s a jack of all trades, drives the van to wherever we’re performing, helps us load and unload, paints the boxes when they need it, makes sure all the spring catches are working properly…like that.”
“He dropped you both off today, did he?”
“Oh, yes.”
“And helped you unload and all?”
“Same as always.”
“And stayed for the performance?”
“No, I don’t know where he went during the performance. Probably out for a bite to eat. He knew we’d be done here around five, five-thirty.”
“So where is he now? Jimmy?”
“Well, I don’t know. What time do you have?”
Hawes looked at his watch.
“Five after six,” he said.
“Gee, I don’t know where he is,” Marie said. “He’s usually very punctual.”
“What time did you get done here?” Hawes asked.
“Like I said, around five-fifteen or so.”
“And you changed your clothes…”
“Yes. Well, so did Frank.”
“What does he wear on stage?”
“Black tie and tails. And a top hat.”
“And he changed into?”
“Is this important?”
“Very,” Hawes said.
“Then let me get it absolutely correct,” Marie said. “He put on a pair of blue slacks, and a blue sports shirt, no pattern on it, just the solid blue, and blue socks, and black shoes, and a…what do you call it? Houndstooth, is that the weave? A sort of jagged little black and blue weave. A houndstooth sports jacket. No tie.”
Hawes was writing now.
“How old is your husband?” he asked.
“Thirty-four.”
“How tall is he?”
“Five-eleven.”
“Weight?”
“One-seventy.”
“Color of his hair?”
“Black.”
“Eyes?”
“Blue.”
“Does he wear glasses?”
“No.”
“Is he white?”
“Well, of course,” Marie said.
“Any identifying marks, scars, or tattoos?”
“Yes, he has an appendectomy scar. And also a meniscectomy scar.”
“What’s that?” Hawes asked.
“He had a skiing accident. Tore the cartilage in his left knee. They removed the cartilage—what they call the meniscus. There’s a scar there. On his left knee.”
“How do you spell that?” Hawes asked. “Meniscectomy?”
“I don’t know,” Marie said.
“On the phone, you told me you live in the next state…”
“Yes, I do.”
“Where?”
“Collinsworth.”
“The address?”
“604 Eden Lane.”
“Apartment number?”
“It’s a private house.”
“Telephone number, area code first?”
“Well, I’ll give you Frank’s card,” she said, and dug into her shoulder bag and came up with a sheaf of cards. She took one from the stack and handed it to Hawes. He scanned it quickly, wrote both the home and office phone numbers onto his pad, and then tucked the card into the pad’s flap.
“Did you try calling home?” he asked.
“No. Why would I do that?”
“Are you sure he didn’t go home without you? Maybe he figured this Jimmy would pick you up.”
“No, we were planning on eating dinner here in the city.”
“So he wouldn’t have gone home without you.”
“He never has.”
“This Jimmy…what’s his last name?”
“Brayne.”
“Brain? Like in somebody’s head?”
“Yes, but with a Y.”
“B-R-A-Y-N?”
“With an E on the end.”
“B-R-A-Y-N-E?”
“Yes.”
“James Brayne.”
“Yes.”
“And his address?”
“He lives with us.”
“Same house?”
“A little apartment over the garage.”
“And his phone number?”
“Oh, gee,” she said, “I’m not sure I remember it.”
“Well, try to remember,” Hawes said, “because I think we ought to call back home, see if either of them maybe went back there.”
“They wouldn’t do that,” Marie said.
“Maybe they got their signals crossed,” Hawes said. “Maybe Jimmy thought your husband was going to take the stuff in the car…”
“No, the big stuff won’t fit in the car. That’s why we have the van.”
“Or maybe your husband thought you were getting a ride back with Jimmy…”
“I’m sure he didn’t.”
“What kind of a car was your husband driving?”
“A 1984 Citation. A two-door coupe.”
“Color?”
“Blue.”
“License-plate number?”
“DL 74-3681.”
“And the van?”
“A ’79 Ford Econoline.”
“Color?”
“Tan, sort of.”
“Would you know the license-plate number on that one?”
“RL 68-7210.”
“In whose name are the vehicles registered?
“My husband’s.”
“Both registered across the river?”
“Yes.”
“Let’s find a phone, okay?” Hawes said.
“There’s one inside,” she said, “but calling them won’t do any good.”
“How do you know?”
“Because Frank wouldn’t have dumped his tricks all over the driveway this way. These tricks cost money.”
“Let’s try calling them, anyway.”
“It won’t do any good,” Marie said. “I’m telling you.”
He dialed Sebastiani’s home and office numbers, and got no answer at either. Marie at last remembered the number in the room over the garage, and he dialed that one, too. Nothing.
“Well,” he said, “let me get to work on this. I’ll call you as soon as—”
“How am I going to get home?” Marie asked.
They always asked how they were going to get home.
“There are trains running out to Collinsworth, aren’t there?”
“Yes, but—”
“I’ll drop you off at the station.”
“What about all those tricks outside in the driveway?”
“Maybe we can get the school custodian to lock them up someplace. Till your husband shows up.”
“What makes you think he’ll show up?”
“Well, I’m sure he’s okay. Just some crossed signals, that’s all.”
“I’m not sure I want to go home tonight,” Marie said.
“Well, ma’am…”
“I think I may want to…could I come to the police station with you? Could I wait there till you hear anything about Frank?”
“That’s entirely up to you, ma’am. But it may take a while before we—”
“And can you lend me some money?” she asked.
He looked at her.
“For dinner?”
He kept looking at her.
“I’ll pay you back as soon as…as soon as we find Frank. I’m sorry, but I’ve only got a few dollars on me. Frank was the one they paid, he’s the one who’s got all the money.”
“How much money, ma’am?”
“Well, just enough for a hamburger or something.”
“I meant how much money does your husband have on him?”
“Oh. Well, we got a hundred for the job. And he probably had a little something in his wallet, I don’t know how much.”
Which lets out robbery, Hawes thought. Although in this city, there were people who’d slit your throat for a nickel. He suddenly wondered how much money he himself was carrying. This was the first time in his entire life that a victim had asked him for a loan.
“I’m sort of hungry myself,” he said. “Let’s find the custodian and then go get something to eat.”
Monroe looked bereft without Monoghan.
The clock on the liquor-store wall read 6:10 P.M.
He was standing behind the cash register, where the owner of the store had been shot dead a bit more than an hour earlier. The body was already gone. There was only blood and a chalked outline on the floor behind the counter. The cash register was empty.
“There was four of them,” the man talking to Meyer said.
Meyer had been cruising the area when Sergeant Murchison raised him on the radio. He had got here maybe ten minutes after it was all over, and had immediately radioed back with a confirmed DOA. Murchison had informed Homicide, so here was Monroe, all alone, and looking as if he’d lost his twin brother. He was wearing a black homburg, a black suit, a white shirt, and a black tie. His hands were in his jacket pockets, only the thumbs showing. He looked like a sad, neat undertaker. Meyer wondered where Monoghan was. Wherever he was, Meyer figured he’d be dressed exactly like Monroe. Even if he was home sick in bed, he’d be dressed like Monroe.
Meyer himself was wearing brown slacks, a brown cotton turtleneck, and a tan sports jacket. He thought he looked very dapper tonight. With his bald head and his burly build, he figured he looked like Kojak, except more handsome. He was sorry Kojak was off the air now. He’d always felt Kojak gave bald cops a good name.
“Little kids,” the man said.
This was the third time he’d told Meyer that four little kids had held up the liquor store and shot the owner.
“What do you mean, little kids?” Monroe asked from behind the cash register.
“Eleven, twelve years old,” the man said.
His name was Henry Kirby, and he lived in a building up the street. He was perhaps sixty, sixty-five years old, a thin, graying man wearing a short-sleeved sports shirt and wrinkled polyester slacks. He’d told first Meyer and then Monroe that he was coming to the store to buy a bottle of wine when he saw these little kids running out with shopping bags and guns. Monroe still couldn’t believe it.
“What is it you found in—”
But Genero had already hung up.
Brown slipped into his shoulder holster.
Hawes clipped his holster to his belt.
Parker picked up the telephone receiver.
“Peaches Muldoon, here I come,” he said.
5:40 P.M. on Halloween night, the streets dark for almost an hour now, the city off daylight savings time since the twenty-sixth of the month. All the little monsters and goblins and devils and bats out in force, carrying their shopping bags full of candy from door to door, yelling “Trick or treat!” and praying no one would give them a treat with a double-edged razor blade in it.
Brown looked at his watch.
Along about now, his wife, Caroline, would be taking Connie around. His eight-year-old daughter had previewed her costume for him last night. She’d looked like the most angelic witch he’d ever seen in his life. All next week, there’d be sweets to eat. The only people who profited from Halloween were the candy makers and the dentists. Brown was in the wrong profession.
He had chosen to walk to the Burgundy Restaurant on Culver and Sixth. It wasn’t too far from the station house, and a cop—if Genero could be considered one—was already on the scene.
The night was balmy.
God, what an October this had been.
Leaves still on the trees in the park, dazzling yellows and reds and oranges and browns, daytime skies a piercing blue, nighttime skies pitch-black and sprinkled with stars. In a city where itchy citizens took off their overcoats far too early each spring, it now seemed proper and fitting that there was no need to put them on again quite yet. He walked swiftly toward Culver, turning to glance at ET hurrying by with Frankenstein’s monster on one side and Dracula on the other. Smiling, he turned the corner onto Culver and began walking toward Sixth.
Genero was waiting on the sidewalk outside the restaurant.
He looked pale.
“What is it?” Brown asked.
“Come on back,” Genero said. “I didn’t touch it.”
“Touch what?” Brown asked. But Genero was already walking up the alleyway on the right-hand side of the restaurant.
Garbage cans flanked either side of the restaurant’s back door, illuminated by an overhead floodlight.
“That one,” Genero said.
Brown lifted the lid on the can Genero was pointing to.
The bloody upper torso of a human body was stuffed into the can, on top of a green plastic garbage bag.
The torso had been severed at the waist from the rest of the body.
The torso had no arms.
And no head.
“Why does this always happen to me?” Genero asked God.
“I once found a hand in an airlines bag,” Genero said.
“No shit?” Monoghan asked without interest.
Monoghan was a Homicide cop. He usually worked in tandem with his partner Monroe, but there had been two homicides in the Eight-Seven tonight, a few blocks apart from each other, and Monoghan was here behind the restaurant on Culver and Sixth, and Monroe was over at the liquor store on Culver and Ninth. It was a shame; Monoghan without Monroe was like a bagel without lox.
“Cut off at the wrist,” Genero said. “I almost puked.”
“Yeah, a person could puke, all right,” Monoghan said.
He was looking down into the garbage can where the bloody torso still rested on the green plastic bag.
“Nothing but a piece of fresh meat here,” he said to Brown.
Brown had a pained look in his eyes. He merely nodded.
“ME on the way?” Monoghan asked.
“Called him ten minutes ago.”
“You won’t need an ambulance for this one,” Monoghan said. “All you’ll need is a shopping bag.”
He laughed at his own little witticism.
He sorely missed Monroe.
“Looks like a man, don’t it?” he said. “I mean, no knockers, all that hair on the chest.”
“This hand I found,” Genero said, “it was a man’s, too. A great big hand. I nearly puked.”
There were several uniformed cops in the alley now, and a couple of technicians sniffing around the back door of the restaurant, and a plainclothes lady cop from Photo taking her Polaroids. Crime Scene signs already up, even though this wasn’t a crime scene in the strictest sense of the word, in that the crime had almost certainly taken place elsewhere. All they had here was the detritus of a crime, a piece of fresh meat—as Monoghan had called it—lying in a garbage can, the partial remains of what had once been a human being. That and whatever clues may have been left by the person who’d transported the torso to this particular spot.
“It’s amazing the number of dismembered stiffs you get in this city,” Monoghan said.
“Oh, boy, you’re telling me?” Genero said.
Monoghan was wearing a black homburg, a black suit, a white shirt, and a black tie. His hands were in his jacket pockets, only the thumbs showing. He looked like a sad, neat undertaker. Genero was trying to look like a hip big-city detective disguised as a college boy. He was wearing blue slacks and a reindeer-patterned sweater over a sports shirt open at the throat. Brown penny loafers. No hat. Curly black hair, brown eyes. He resembled a somewhat stupid poodle.
Monoghan looked at him.
“You the one found this thing here?” he asked.
“Well, yes,” Genero said, wondering if he should have admitted this.
“Any other parts in these other garbage cans?”
“I didn’t look,” Genero said, thinking one part had been plenty.
“Want to look now?”
“Don’t get prints on any of those garbage-can lids,” one of the techs warned.
Genero tented a handkerchief over his hand and began lifting lids.
There were no other parts.
“So all we got here is this chest here,” Monoghan said.
“Hello, boys,” the ME said, coming up the alley. “What’ve we got here?”
“Just this chest here,” Monoghan said, indicating the torso.
The ME peeked into the garbage can.
“Very nice,” he said, and put down his satchel. “Did you want me to pronounce it dead, or what?”
“You could give us a postmortem interval, that’d be helpful,” Monoghan said.
“Autopsy’ll give you that,” the ME said.
“Looks of this one,” Monoghan said, “somebody already done the autopsy. What’d he use, can you tell?”
“Who?” the ME said.
“Whoever cut him up in pieces.”
“He wasn’t a brilliant brain surgeon, I can tell you that,” the ME said, looking at the torn and jagged flesh where the head, arms, and lower torso had been.
“So what was it? A cleaver? A hacksaw?”
“I’m not a magician,” the ME said.
“Any marks, scars, tattoos?” Brown asked quietly.
“None that I can see. Let me roll it over.”
Genero noticed that the ME kept referring to it as “it.”
The ME rolled it over.
“None here, either,” he said.
“Nothing but a piece of fresh meat,” Monoghan said.
Hawes was wearing only a lightweight sports jacket over a shirt open at the throat, no tie, no hat. A mild breeze riffled his red hair; October this year was like springtime in the Rockies. Marie Sebastiani seemed uncomfortable talking to a cop. Most honest citizens did; it was the thieves of the world who felt perfectly at home with law-enforcement officers.
Fidgeting nervously, she told him how she’d changed out of her costume and into the clothes she was now wearing—a tweed jacket and skirt, a lavender blouse, and high-heeled pumps—while her husband, Sebastian the Great, a.k.a. Frank Sebastiani, had gone out behind the high school to load the car with all the little tricks he used in the act. And then she’d gone out back to where she was supposed to meet him, and the car was gone, and he was gone, and his tricks were scattered all over the driveway.
“By little tricks…” Hawes said.
“Oh, you know, the rings, and the scarves, and the balls, and the birdcage…well, all this stuff all over the place here. Jimmy comes with the van to pick up the boxes and the bigger stuff.”
“Jimmy?”
“Frank’s apprentice. He’s a jack of all trades, drives the van to wherever we’re performing, helps us load and unload, paints the boxes when they need it, makes sure all the spring catches are working properly…like that.”
“He dropped you both off today, did he?”
“Oh, yes.”
“And helped you unload and all?”
“Same as always.”
“And stayed for the performance?”
“No, I don’t know where he went during the performance. Probably out for a bite to eat. He knew we’d be done here around five, five-thirty.”
“So where is he now? Jimmy?”
“Well, I don’t know. What time do you have?”
Hawes looked at his watch.
“Five after six,” he said.
“Gee, I don’t know where he is,” Marie said. “He’s usually very punctual.”
“What time did you get done here?” Hawes asked.
“Like I said, around five-fifteen or so.”
“And you changed your clothes…”
“Yes. Well, so did Frank.”
“What does he wear on stage?”
“Black tie and tails. And a top hat.”
“And he changed into?”
“Is this important?”
“Very,” Hawes said.
“Then let me get it absolutely correct,” Marie said. “He put on a pair of blue slacks, and a blue sports shirt, no pattern on it, just the solid blue, and blue socks, and black shoes, and a…what do you call it? Houndstooth, is that the weave? A sort of jagged little black and blue weave. A houndstooth sports jacket. No tie.”
Hawes was writing now.
“How old is your husband?” he asked.
“Thirty-four.”
“How tall is he?”
“Five-eleven.”
“Weight?”
“One-seventy.”
“Color of his hair?”
“Black.”
“Eyes?”
“Blue.”
“Does he wear glasses?”
“No.”
“Is he white?”
“Well, of course,” Marie said.
“Any identifying marks, scars, or tattoos?”
“Yes, he has an appendectomy scar. And also a meniscectomy scar.”
“What’s that?” Hawes asked.
“He had a skiing accident. Tore the cartilage in his left knee. They removed the cartilage—what they call the meniscus. There’s a scar there. On his left knee.”
“How do you spell that?” Hawes asked. “Meniscectomy?”
“I don’t know,” Marie said.
“On the phone, you told me you live in the next state…”
“Yes, I do.”
“Where?”
“Collinsworth.”
“The address?”
“604 Eden Lane.”
“Apartment number?”
“It’s a private house.”
“Telephone number, area code first?”
“Well, I’ll give you Frank’s card,” she said, and dug into her shoulder bag and came up with a sheaf of cards. She took one from the stack and handed it to Hawes. He scanned it quickly, wrote both the home and office phone numbers onto his pad, and then tucked the card into the pad’s flap.
“Did you try calling home?” he asked.
“No. Why would I do that?”
“Are you sure he didn’t go home without you? Maybe he figured this Jimmy would pick you up.”
“No, we were planning on eating dinner here in the city.”
“So he wouldn’t have gone home without you.”
“He never has.”
“This Jimmy…what’s his last name?”
“Brayne.”
“Brain? Like in somebody’s head?”
“Yes, but with a Y.”
“B-R-A-Y-N?”
“With an E on the end.”
“B-R-A-Y-N-E?”
“Yes.”
“James Brayne.”
“Yes.”
“And his address?”
“He lives with us.”
“Same house?”
“A little apartment over the garage.”
“And his phone number?”
“Oh, gee,” she said, “I’m not sure I remember it.”
“Well, try to remember,” Hawes said, “because I think we ought to call back home, see if either of them maybe went back there.”
“They wouldn’t do that,” Marie said.
“Maybe they got their signals crossed,” Hawes said. “Maybe Jimmy thought your husband was going to take the stuff in the car…”
“No, the big stuff won’t fit in the car. That’s why we have the van.”
“Or maybe your husband thought you were getting a ride back with Jimmy…”
“I’m sure he didn’t.”
“What kind of a car was your husband driving?”
“A 1984 Citation. A two-door coupe.”
“Color?”
“Blue.”
“License-plate number?”
“DL 74-3681.”
“And the van?”
“A ’79 Ford Econoline.”
“Color?”
“Tan, sort of.”
“Would you know the license-plate number on that one?”
“RL 68-7210.”
“In whose name are the vehicles registered?
“My husband’s.”
“Both registered across the river?”
“Yes.”
“Let’s find a phone, okay?” Hawes said.
“There’s one inside,” she said, “but calling them won’t do any good.”
“How do you know?”
“Because Frank wouldn’t have dumped his tricks all over the driveway this way. These tricks cost money.”
“Let’s try calling them, anyway.”
“It won’t do any good,” Marie said. “I’m telling you.”
He dialed Sebastiani’s home and office numbers, and got no answer at either. Marie at last remembered the number in the room over the garage, and he dialed that one, too. Nothing.
“Well,” he said, “let me get to work on this. I’ll call you as soon as—”
“How am I going to get home?” Marie asked.
They always asked how they were going to get home.
“There are trains running out to Collinsworth, aren’t there?”
“Yes, but—”
“I’ll drop you off at the station.”
“What about all those tricks outside in the driveway?”
“Maybe we can get the school custodian to lock them up someplace. Till your husband shows up.”
“What makes you think he’ll show up?”
“Well, I’m sure he’s okay. Just some crossed signals, that’s all.”
“I’m not sure I want to go home tonight,” Marie said.
“Well, ma’am…”
“I think I may want to…could I come to the police station with you? Could I wait there till you hear anything about Frank?”
“That’s entirely up to you, ma’am. But it may take a while before we—”
“And can you lend me some money?” she asked.
He looked at her.
“For dinner?”
He kept looking at her.
“I’ll pay you back as soon as…as soon as we find Frank. I’m sorry, but I’ve only got a few dollars on me. Frank was the one they paid, he’s the one who’s got all the money.”
“How much money, ma’am?”
“Well, just enough for a hamburger or something.”
“I meant how much money does your husband have on him?”
“Oh. Well, we got a hundred for the job. And he probably had a little something in his wallet, I don’t know how much.”
Which lets out robbery, Hawes thought. Although in this city, there were people who’d slit your throat for a nickel. He suddenly wondered how much money he himself was carrying. This was the first time in his entire life that a victim had asked him for a loan.
“I’m sort of hungry myself,” he said. “Let’s find the custodian and then go get something to eat.”
Monroe looked bereft without Monoghan.
The clock on the liquor-store wall read 6:10 P.M.
He was standing behind the cash register, where the owner of the store had been shot dead a bit more than an hour earlier. The body was already gone. There was only blood and a chalked outline on the floor behind the counter. The cash register was empty.
“There was four of them,” the man talking to Meyer said.
Meyer had been cruising the area when Sergeant Murchison raised him on the radio. He had got here maybe ten minutes after it was all over, and had immediately radioed back with a confirmed DOA. Murchison had informed Homicide, so here was Monroe, all alone, and looking as if he’d lost his twin brother. He was wearing a black homburg, a black suit, a white shirt, and a black tie. His hands were in his jacket pockets, only the thumbs showing. He looked like a sad, neat undertaker. Meyer wondered where Monoghan was. Wherever he was, Meyer figured he’d be dressed exactly like Monroe. Even if he was home sick in bed, he’d be dressed like Monroe.
Meyer himself was wearing brown slacks, a brown cotton turtleneck, and a tan sports jacket. He thought he looked very dapper tonight. With his bald head and his burly build, he figured he looked like Kojak, except more handsome. He was sorry Kojak was off the air now. He’d always felt Kojak gave bald cops a good name.
“Little kids,” the man said.
This was the third time he’d told Meyer that four little kids had held up the liquor store and shot the owner.
“What do you mean, little kids?” Monroe asked from behind the cash register.
“Eleven, twelve years old,” the man said.
His name was Henry Kirby, and he lived in a building up the street. He was perhaps sixty, sixty-five years old, a thin, graying man wearing a short-sleeved sports shirt and wrinkled polyester slacks. He’d told first Meyer and then Monroe that he was coming to the store to buy a bottle of wine when he saw these little kids running out with shopping bags and guns. Monroe still couldn’t believe it.
