Ed McBain - Downtown

DOWNTOWN

A Novel

by

ED McBAIN

BOOK JACKET INFORMATION

Ed McBain, author of the best-selling 87th Precinct novels, now takes you _Downtown in a bold, new departure of a novel that will make you laugh, cry, and tingle with the special brand of electrifying suspense that only McBain knows how to generate. _Downtown you'll meet Michael Barnes, a lone out-of-town businessman in New York City on Christmas Eve with a couple of hours to kill before his plane leaves. It promises to be a sweet interlude when he meets a lovely blonde in a bar. But first his identification and all his money are stolen, and next his rental car--only to resurface on the other side of town with an unexpected passenger: a corpse. Here are every reader's brightest, glittering fantasies and blackest nightmares about the Big Apple: big-shot movie producers, muggers with the instincts of Vietnamese guerillas, cops who arrest the _victims, mobsters who embrace you, thugs who tie you up, beautiful women who take you into their limousines, beautiful women who try to drive their stiletto heels through your skull, warehouses full of furs, jewels, and other valuables, smoky gambling dens in Chinatown, ritzy penthouse apartments, miserable dives ...

Michael Barnes has only twenty-four hours to survive the wildest ride in his life. It's going to take every last ounce of his cunning and guts, and it's going to be the fastest, funniest twenty-four hours ever packed into one novel. Just published in England to an ovation from the critics, _Downtown has "a plot to match Hitchcock in its bizarre twists and sneaky deceptions" (_The _Daily _Telegraph). It's "superbly written, terse yet terrifically funny," said prominent politician and critic Gerald Kaufman. "In other words, _Downtown has it all" (_The _Daily _Mail). Ed McBain has won the Grand Master Award of the Mystery Writers of America. His last two books, _Vespers (Morrow, 1990) and _Widows (Morrow, 1991), were

national best sellers. He lives in

v Connecticut. William Morrow and Company, Inc. 1350 Avenue of the Americas New York, N.Y. 10019

ALSO BY ED McBAIN

THE 87TH PRECINCT NOVELS 1956 _Cop _Hater 1956 _The _Mugger 1956 _The _Pusher 1957 _The _Con _Man 1957 _Killer's _Choice 1958 _Killer's _Payoff 1958 _Killer's _Wedge 1958 _Lady _Killer 1959 _'Til _Death 1959 _King's _Ransom 1960 __Give the Boys a Great Big _Hand 1960 _The _Heckler 1960 _See _Them _Die 1961 __Lady, Lady, I Did _It! 1962 _The _Empty _Hours 1962 _Like _Love 1963 _Ten _Plus _One 1964 _Ax 1965 _He _Who _Hesitates 1965 _Doll 1966 _Eighty _Million _Eyes 1968 _Fuzz 1969 _Shotgun 1970 _Jigsaw 1971 __Hail, Hail, the Gang's All _Here 1972 __Sadie When She _Died

1972 __Let's Hear It for the Deaf _Man 1973 __Hail to the _Chief 1974 _Bread 1975 _Blood _Relatives 1976 __So Long as You Both Shall _Live 1977 __Long Time No _See 1979 _Calypso 1980 _Ghosts 1981 _Heat 1983 _Ice 1984 _Lightning 1985 _Eight _Black _Horses

1987 _Poison

vii 1987 _Tricks 1989 _Lullaby 1990 _Vespers 1991 _Widows

THE MATTHEW HOPE NOVELS 1978 _Goldilocks 1981 _Rumpelstiltskin 1982 __Beauty and the _Beast 1984 __Jack and the _Beanstalk 1985 __Snow White and Rose _Red 1986 _Cinderella 1987 _Puss _in _Boots 1988 __The House That Jack _Built 1990 _Three _Blind _Mice

OTHER NOVELS 1965 _The _Sentries 1975 _Where _There's _Smoke 1975 _Doors 1976 _Guns 1986 __Another Part of the _City

This is for

JAN AND ROY DEAN

DOWNTOWN

1

1

Michael was telling the blonde he'd never been in this part of the city. In fact, he'd been to New York only twice before in his entire life. Hadn't strayed out of the midtown area either time. "But here you are now," the blonde said, and smiled. "All the way downtown." She was wearing a smart tailored suit, gray, a white silk blouse with a stock tie. Briefcase sitting on the empty stool to her right. He figured her for someone who worked on Wall Street. Late business meeting--it was now seven o'clock--she'd stopped off at the bar here before heading home. That's what he figured. She was drinking Corona and lime. He was drinking scotch with a splash.

The place looked like an old saloon, but it probably wasn't. Etched mirrors, polished mahogany and burnished brass, large green-shaded lamps over the bar, smaller versions on all the tables. There was a warm, cozy feel to the place. Nice buzz of conversation, too. Through the big plate-glass window facing the street, he could see gently falling snowflakes. This was Christmas Eve, a Tuesday night. It would be a white Christmas.

"What brings you to New York this time?" the blonde asked. "Same thing that brought me here the last two times," he said. "And what's that?" "My ad agency's here." "You're in advertising, is that it?" "No, I'm in oranges." The blonde nodded. "Golden Oranges?" Michael said, and looked at her expectantly. "Uh-huh," she said. "You've heard of them?" "No," she said.

"That's my brand name. Golden Oranges." "Sorry, I don't know them." "But you know Sunkist, right?" "Sure." "Well, I'm just a small independent trying to get big. Which is why I've got a New

York agency handling my advertising."

3 The blonde nodded again.

"So what do you do?" she asked. "_Grow the oranges and everything?" "Yep. Grow them and everything." "Where?" "In Florida." "Ask a stupid question," she said, and smiled, and extended her hand. "I'm Helen Parrish," she said.

"Michael Barnes," he said, and took her hand. "Nice to meet you." "So when do you go back to Florida?" she asked. "Well, not till the fourth of January, actually. I'm flying up to Boston tonight. Spend the holidays with my mother." "Your mother's up there in Boston, huh?" "Yeah. Be good seeing her again." "Business all finished here?" "Finished it this afternoon."

He realized that her hand was still in his. To the casual passerby, they must have looked like a man and a woman holding hands. Good-looking blonde woman with flashing blue eyes, suntanned man wearing rimless eyeglasses. Dark brown hair. Brown eyes. Average height, he guessed. Well, five-ten, he guessed that was average these days. In the army, he'd felt short. The army had a way of making you feel short. Come to think of it, he felt short nowadays, too. Jenny had done that to him. Made him feel short all over again.

"Do you work down here in this area?" he asked. "I do," she said. Still holding his hand. "I figured you were with one of the brokerage firms," he said. "No, I'm a lawyer." "Really? What kind of law?" "Criminal." "No kidding?"

"Everybody says that. No kidding, or wow, or gee, or how about that, or words to that effect." "Because it's so unusual. A woman, I mean. Being a criminal lawyer."

"Actually, there are three in our office." "That many." "Yes." "Criminal lawyers. Women."

"Yes. Trial lawyers, in fact."

5 "Then you're a trial lawyer." "Yes." "Do you like the work?" "Oh, sure."

She retrieved her hand gently, drained her glass, looked at the clock over the bar, smiled, and said, "Well, I think I'll ..." "No, don't go yet," he said. She looked at him.

"Have another drink," he said. "Then maybe we can go someplace for dinner together," he said. "I've got a rented car outside, we can go anyplace in the city you like. I don't have to start for the airport till nine-thirty or so. Unless you've got other plans."

"I don't have any _plans as such, but ..." "Then what's the hurry?"

"Well, I'll have another drink, but ..."

"Good," he said, and signaled to the bartender for another round. The bartender nodded. "This doesn't mean we're having dinner together," she said. "I hardly know you." "Ask me anything," he said. "Well ... are you married?" "Divorced." "How long?" "Nine months. More or less." "And on the loose in the big, bad city, huh?" "Well, my plane leaves at eleven-oh-five. It's the last one out tonight. I was lucky to get anything at _all. It's Christmas Eve, you know." "Yes, I know," she said. She was looking at him steadily now. Penetrating blue eyes. "How long were you married?" she asked. "Thirteen years." "Unlucky number." "Yes." "Do you have any children?" "No." "How old are you?"

"Forty-one," he said. "How old are you?" "Thirty-two," she said at once.

He liked that. No coy nonsense like Gee, a woman's not supposed to tell her age. Just straight out thirty-two. "Are _you married?" he asked.

"Corona and lime, Dewar's with a splash,"

the bartender said, and put the drinks down in

7 front of them. "Shall I keep this tab running?" "Please," Michael said.

He lifted his glass. She lifted hers.

"To a nice evening together," he said. "Till plane time." She seemed to be looking through him, or at least past him, toward the other end of the bar, almost dreamily. She nodded at last, as if in response to a secret decision she had made, and smiled, and said, "That sounds safe enough," and clinked her glass against his and began sipping at her beer.

"But you didn't answer my question," he said. "What was your question?" she said. "Are _you married?" "Would it matter?" "Yes." She waggled the fingers on her left hand. "See any wedding band?" "That doesn't mean anything." "I'm not married," she said. "Divorced?" he said. "Nope. Just single." "Beautiful woman like you?" "Ha." "I mean it." "Thank you."

"So what I'd like to do," he said, "you must know a lot of good restaurants ..."

"Slow down," she said smiling. "You didn't ask me if I'm engaged, or involved with anyone, or ..." "Are you?" "No, but ..." "Good. Do you like Italian food?" "Uh-huh," she said, and put down her glass, and slid her handbag over in front of her, and reached into it for a package of cigarettes. "Well, if you know a good Italian restaurant, I'd like to ..."

"All right," she said suddenly and coldly and somewhat harshly, "you want to give it back to me?" He looked at her.

Her eyes had turned hard, there was no longer a smile on her face. "The ring," she said. She was whispering now. "Just give it back to me, okay?"

She held out her right hand. Nothing on

9 any of the fingers.

"The ring," she said. "Please, I don't want any trouble." "What ring?" he said. "The ring that was right here on this finger before we started holding hands. A star sapphire ring that was a gift from my father. I want it back, mister. Right now." "But I don't have it," he said. He realized there was a foolish grin on his face. As if she were in the middle of a joke and he was smiling in anticipation of the punch line.

She looked at him. Eyes as blue and as hard as the star sapphire she claimed was missing from her hand. Eyes somewhat incredulous, too. She'd told him she was a lawyer, a _criminal lawyer, no less; was he some kind of idiot to have stolen her ring? This was in her eyes.

"Listen," she said, her voice rising, "just give me the goddamn ring, and we'll forget ..." "I don't _have your ..." "What's going on here?" Michael turned on the stool. Big, burly guy standing there at his right shoulder, between the two stools. Tweed overcoat. Shoulders looked damp. Crew-cut hair looked damp, too. As if he'd just come in from outside. Beard stubble on his face. Hard blue eyes. Tonight was a night for hard blue eyes. If you had brown eyes tonight, you were out of luck. "Detective Daniel Cahill," he said, and opened a small leather case and flashed a blue-enameled gold shield. He snapped the case shut. "This man bothering you?" he asked Helen. "It's all right, officer," she said. "I'd like to know what's happening here," Cahill said. "I don't want to make any trouble for him," she said. "Why? What'd he do?"

It occurred to Michael that they were both talking about him as if he were no longer there. Somehow this sounded ominous. "If he'll just give it back to me," Helen said. "Give _what back, miss?"

"Look, officer," Michael said.

11 "Shut up, please," Cahill said. "Give _what back?" "The ring." "What ring?" "Officer ..."

"I asked you please to shut up," Cahill said, and suddenly looked around, as if aware for the first time that there were other people in the bar. "Let's step outside a minute, please," he said. "You, too, miss." "Really, I don't want to make any trouble for him," Helen said. "Please," Cahill said, and gestured slightly with his chin and his raised eyebrows, which seemed to indicate he had some concern for the owner of the place and did not want to make trouble for him, either. Which Michael considered a good sign. Helen got off her stool and put on her overcoat and picked up her briefcase, and Michael followed her and Cahill to where he'd hung his coat on the rack to the left of the entrance door. He was digging for the coat under the pile of other coats on top of it, when Cahill said, "You won't need it, this won't take a minute."

Together the three of them went outside, Helen first, then Michael, and then Cahill. It was still snowing. Bigger flakes now. Floating gently and lazily out of the sky. The temperature was in the low thirties, Michael guessed, perhaps the high twenties. He hoped this little conference out here in front of the bar really would be a short one.

"Okay, now what is it?" Cahill said. Sounding very reasonable. "He has my ring," Helen said. Also sounding very reasonable.

"Officer," Michael said, "I never even _saw this woman's ..."

"Over here," Cahill said, and indicated the brick wall to the right of the bar's plate-glass front window. "Hands flat against the wall, lean on 'em," Cahill said. "Hey, listen," Michael said. "No, _you listen," Cahill said. "The lady says you've got her ring ... what kind of ring, lady?" "A star sapphire."