Ed McBain (23 page)

We stopped outside room 305, flattening ourselves against the walls on either side of the door. Johnny reached out and rapped the butt of his gun against the door.

"Who is it?" a voice asked.

"Open up!"

"Who is it?"

"Police officers. Open up!"

"Wha..."

There was a short silence inside, and then we heard the frantic slap of leather on the floor. "Hit it, Johnny!" I shouted.

Johnny backed off against the opposite wall, put the sole of his shoe against it, and shoved off toward the door. His shoulder hit the wood, and the door splintered inward.

Adams was in his undershirt and trousers and he had one leg over the windowsill, heading for the fire escape, when we came in. I swung my .38 in his direction and yelled, "You better hold it, Adams."

He looked at the gun, and then slowly lowered his leg to the floor.

"Sure," he said. "I wasn't going anyplace."

We found piles of pictures in the room, all bundled neatly. Some of them were of Jean Ferroni. But there were other girls and other men. We found an expensive camera in the closet, and a darkroom setup in the bathroom. We also found a switch knife with a six-inch blade in the top drawer of his dresser.

"I don't know anything about it," Adams insisted.

He kept insisting that for a long time, even after we showed him the pictures we'd taken from Jean Ferroni's safe-deposit box. He kept insisting until we told him his knife would go down to the lab and they'd sure as hell find some trace of the dead girl on it, no matter how careful he'd been. We were stretching the truth a little, because a knife can be washed as clean as anything else. But Adams took the hook and told us everything.

He'd given the kid a come-on, getting her to pose alone at first, in the nude. From there, it had been simple to get her to pose for the big stuff, the stuff that paid off.

"She was getting classy," Adams said. "A cheap tramp like that getting classy. Wanted a percentage of the net. I gave her a percentage, all right. I arranged a nice little party right in my hotel room. Six guys. They fixed her good, one after the other. Then I drove her up to her own neighborhood and left her the way you found her—so it would look like a rape kill."

He paused and shifted in his chair, making himself comfortable.

"Imagine that broad," he continued. "Wanting to share. Wanting to share with me. I showed her."

"You showed her, all right," Johnny said tightly.

That was when I swung out with my closed fist, catching Adams on the side of his jaw. He fell backward, knocking the chair over, sprawling onto the floor.

He scrambled to his feet, crouched low, and said, "Hey, what the hell? Are you crazy?"

I didn't answer him. I left the interrogation room, walking past the patrolman at the door. Johnny caught up with me in the corridor, clamped his hand onto my shoulder.

"Why'd you hit him, Mike?" he asked.

"I wanted to. I just wanted to."

Johnny's eyes met mine for a moment, held them. His hand tightened on my shoulder, and his head nodded almost imperceptibly.

We walked down the corridor together, our heels clicking noisily on the hard floor.

T
HERE WAS A BLANKET THROWN OVER THE PATROLMAN
by the time we got there. The ambulance was waiting, and a white-clad intern was standing near the step of the ambulance, puffing on a cigarette. He looked up as I walked over to him, and then flicked his cigarette away.

"Detective-Sergeant Jonas," I said.

"How do you do?" the intern answered. "Dr. Mallaby."

"What's the story?"

"Broken neck. It must have been a big car. His chest is caved in where he was first hit. I figure he was knocked down, and then run over. The bumper probably broke his neck. That's the cause of death, anyway."

Andy Larson walked over to where we were standing. He shook his head and said, "A real bloody one, Mike."

"Yeah." I turned to the intern. "When was he hit?"

"Hard to say. No more than a half hour ago, I'd guess offhand. An autopsy will tell."

"That checks, Mike," Andy said. "Patrolman on the beat called it in about twenty-five minutes ago."

"A big car, huh?"

"I'd say so," the intern answered.

"I wonder how many big cars there are in this city?"

Andy nodded. "You can cart him away, Doc," he said. "The boys are through with their pictures."

The intern fired another cigarette, and we watched while he and an attendant put the dead patrolman on a stretcher and then into the ambulance. The intern and the attendant climbed aboard, and the ambulance pulled off down the street. They didn't use the siren. There was no rush now.

A cop gets it, and you say, "Well, gee, that's tough. But that was his trade." Sure. Except that being a cop doesn't mean you don't have a wife, and maybe a few kids. It doesn't hurt any less, being a cop. You're just as dead.

I went over the accident report with Andy.

ACCIDENT NUMBER: 46A-3
SURNAME: Benson
FIRST NAME AND INITIALS: James C.
PRECINCT NO.: 032
AIDED NUMBER: 67-4
ADDRESS: 1812 Crescent Ave.
SEX: M AGE: 28

My eyes skipped down the length of the card, noting the date, time, place of occurrence. Then

NATURE OF ILLNESS OR INJURY:
Hit and run
FATAL ✓
SERIOUS

SLIGHT
UNKNOWN

I kept reading, down to the circled items on the card that told me the body had been taken to the morgue and claimed already. The rest would have been routine in any other case, but it was slightly ironic here:

TRAFFIC CONTROLLED BY OFFICER? ✓
NAME: Ptm. James C. Benson
SHIELD NO: 3685

TRAFFIC CONTROLLED BY LIGHTS? ✓
COMMAND: Traffic Division
LIGHTS IN OPERATION? ✓

I read the rest of the technical information about the direction of the traffic moving on the lights, the police action taken, the city involved, and then flipped the card over.

Under NAMES AND ADDRESSES OF WITNESSES (IF NONE, SO STATE) the single word "None" was scribbled. The officer who'd reported the hit and run was Patrolman P. Margolis. He'd been making the rounds, stopped for his usual afternoon chat with Benson, and had found the traffic cop dead in the gutter. There were skid marks on the asphalt street, but there hadn't been a soul in sight.

"How do you figure it, Andy?" I asked.

"A few ideas."

"Let's hear them."

"The guy may have done something wrong. Benson may have hailed him for something entirely different. The guy panicked and cut him down."

"Something wrong like what?"

"Who knows? Hot furs in the trunk. Dead man in the backseat. You know."

"And you figure Benson hailed him because he was speeding, or his windshield wiper was crooked? Something like that?"

"Yeah, you know."

"I don't buy it, Andy."

"Well, I got another idea."

"What's that? Drunk?"

Andy nodded.

"That's what I was thinking. Where do we start?"

"I've already had a check put in on stolen cars, and the lab boys are going over the skid marks. Why don't we go back and see if we can scare up any witnesses?"

I picked my jacket off the back of the chair, buttoned it on, and then adjusted my shoulder clip.

"Come on," I said.

The scene of the accident was at the intersection of two narrow streets. There was a two-family stucco house on one corner, and empty lots on the other three corners. It was a quiet intersection, and the only reason it warranted a light was the high school two blocks away. A traffic cop was used to supplement the light in the morning and afternoon when the kids were going to and coming from school. Benson had been hit about ten minutes before classes broke. It was a shame, because a bunch of homebound kids might have saved his life—or at least provided some witnesses.

"There's not much choice," Andy said.

I looked at the stucco house. "No, I guess not. Let's go."

We climbed the flat, brick steps at the front of the house, and Andy pushed the bell button. We waited for a few moments, and then the door opened a crack, and a voice asked, "Yes?"

I flashed my buzzer. "Police officers," I said. "We'd like to ask a few questions."

The door stayed closed, with the voice coming from behind the small crack. "What about?"

"Accident here yesterday. Won't you open the door?"

The door swung wide, and a thin young kid in his undershirt peered out at us. His brows pulled together in a hostile frown.

"You got a search warrant?" he asked.

"What have you got to hide, kid?" Andy asked.

"Nothing. I just don't like cops barging in like storm troopers."

"Nobody's barging in on you," Andy said. "We want to ask a few questions, that's all. You want to get snotty about it, we'll go get a goddamn search warrant, and then you'd better hold on to your head."

"All right, what do you want?"

"You changed your song, huh, kid?"

"Leave it be, Andy," I said.

"Were you home this afternoon?"

"Yeah."

"All afternoon?"

"Yeah."

"You hear any noise out here on the street?"

"What kind of noise?"

"You tell me."

"I didn't hear any noise."

"A car skidding, maybe? Something like that?"

"No."

"Did you
see
anything unusual?"

"I didn't see anything. You're here about the cop who was run over, ain't you?"

"That's right."

"Well, I didn't see anything."

"You live here alone?"

"No. With my mother."

"Where is she?"

"She ain't feeling too good. That's why I've been staying home from school. She's been sick in bed. She didn't hear anything, either. She's in a fog."

"Have you had the doctor?"

"Yeah, she'll be all right."

"Where's your mother's room?"

"In the back of the house. She couldn't have seen anything out here even if she was able to. You're barking up the wrong tree."

"How long you been out of school, kid?"

"Why?"

"How long?"

"A month."

"Your mother been sick that long?"

"Yeah."

"How old are you?"

"Fifteen."

"You better get back to school," Andy said. "Damn fast. Tell the city about your mother, and they'll do something for her. You hear that?"

"I hear it."

"We'll send someone around to check tomorrow. Remember that, kid."

"I'll remember it," the kid said, a surly look on his face.

"Anybody else live here with you?"

"Yeah. My dog. You want to ask him some questions, maybe?"

I saw Andy clench his fists, so I said, "That'll be all, son. Thanks."

"For what?" the kid asked, and then he slammed the door.

"That lousy snot nose," Andy said. "That little son of a..."

"Come on," I said.

We started down, and I looked at the empty lots on the other corners. Then I turned back to take a last look at the house. "There's nothing more here," I said. "We better get back."

There were thirty-nine cars stolen in New York City that day. Of the bigger cars, two were Buicks, four Chryslers, and one Cadillac. One of the Chryslers was stolen from a neighborhood about two miles from the scene of the accident.

"How about that?" Andy asked.

"How about it?"

"The guy stole the buggy and when Benson hailed him he knew he was in hot water. He cut him down."

"
If
Benson hailed him."

"Maybe Benson only stuck up his hand to stop traffic. The guy misunderstood, and crashed through."

"We'll see," I said.

We checked with the owner of the Chrysler. She was a fluttery woman who was obviously impressed with the fact that two policemen were calling on her personally about her missing car.

"Well, I never expected such quick action," she said. "I mean, really."

"The car was a Chrysler, ma'am?" I asked.

"Oh, yes," she said, nodding her head emphatically. "We've never owned anything but a Chrysler."

"What was the year, ma'am?"

"I gave all this information on the phone," she said.

"I know, ma'am. We're just checking it again."

"A new car. 1953."

"The color?"

"Blue. A sort of robin's egg blue, do you know? I told that to the man who answered the phone."

"License number?"

"Oh, again? Well, just a moment." She stood up and walked to the kitchen, returning with her purse. She fished into the purse, came up with a wallet, and then rummaged through that for her registration. "Here it is," she said.

"What, ma'am?"

"7T8458."

Andy looked up. "That's a Nassau County plate, ma'am."

"Yes, yes, I know."

"In the Bronx? How come?"

"Well ... oh, you'll think this is silly."

"Let's hear it, ma'am."

"Well, a Long Island plate is so much more impressive. I mean, well, we plan on moving there soon anyway."

"And you went all the way to Nassau to get a plate?"

"Yes."

Andy coughed politely. "Well, maybe that'll make it easier."

"Do you think you'll find the car?"

"We certainly hope so, ma'am."

We found the car that afternoon. It was parked on a side street in Brooklyn. It was in perfect condition, no damage to the front end, no blood anywhere on the grille or bumper. The lab checked the tires against the skid marks. Negative. This, coupled with the fact that the murder car would undoubtedly have sustained injuries after such a violent smash, told us we'd drawn a blank. We returned the car to the owner.

She was very happy.

By the end of the week, we'd recovered all but one of the stolen cars. None of them checked with what we had. The only missing car was the Cadillac. It had been swiped from a parking lot in Queens, with the thief presenting the attendant with a claim ticket for the car. The m.o. sounded professional, whereas the kill looked like a fool stunt. When another Caddy was stolen from a lot in Jamaica, with the thief using the same modus operandi, we figured it for a ring, and left it to the Automobile Squad.