The McBain Brief (12 page)

So she went into the water. As instructed.

Yes. She was supposed to swim a short distance underwater,
and then surface. That was the way I'd planned the scene. She went into the water, the cameras were rolling, we . . . none of us quite realized at first that she was taking an uncommonly long time to surface. By the time it dawned upon us, it was too late.
He,
of course, immediately jumped into the water after her . . .

He?

Her leading man, his heroic move, his hairy-chested
star
gesture. She was dead when he reached her.

What caused her to drown? A cramp? Undertow? What?

I haven't the foggiest idea. Accidents happen. What more can I say? This was a particularly unfortunate one, and I regret it. But the past is the past, and if one continues to dwell upon it, one can easily lose sight of the present. I tend not to ruminate. Rumination is only stagnation. I plan ahead, and in that way the future never comes as a shock. It's comforting to know, for example, that by the time this appears in print, I will be editing and scoring a film I have not yet begun to shoot. There is verity and substance to routine that varies only slightly. It provides a reality that is all too often lacking in the motion picture industry.

This new film, sir
. . .

I thought you'd never ask.

What is it about?

I never discuss the plot or theme of a movie. If I were able to do justice to a story by capsulizing it into three or four paragraphs, why would I then have to spend long months filming it? The synopsis, as such, was invented by Hollywood executives who need so-called “story analysts” to provide simple translations because they themselves are incapable of reading anything more difficult than “Run, Spot, Run.”

What can you tell us about your new film, sir?

I can tell you that it is set in Yugoslavia, and that I will take full
cinematic advantage of the rugged coastal terrain there. I can tell you that it is a love story of unsurpassing beauty, and that I have found an unusually talented girl to play the lead. She has never made a film before, she was working with a little theatre group on La Cienega when I discovered her, quite by chance. A friend of mine asked me to look in on an original the group was doing, thought there might be film possibilities in it, and so forth. The play was a hopeless botch, but the girl was a revelation. I had her tested immediately, and the results were staggering. What happens before the cameras is all that matters, you know, which is why some of our important stage personalities have never been able to make a successful transition to films. This girl has a vibrancy that causes one to forget completely that there are mechanical appliances such as projectors or screens involved. It is incredible, it is almost uncanny. It is as though her life force transcends the medium itself, sidesteps it so to speak; she achieves direct uninvolved communication at a response level I would never have thought existed. I've been working with her for, oh, easily six months now, and she's remarkably receptive, a rare combination of intelligence and incandescent beauty. I would be foolish to make any sort of prediction about the future, considering the present climate of Hollywood, and the uncertain footing of the entire industry. But if this girl continues to listen and to learn, if she is willing to work as hard in the months ahead as she has already worked, then given the proper vehicle and the proper guidance—both of which I fully intend to supply—I cannot but foresee a brilliant career for her.

Is there anything you would care to say, sir, about the future of the industry in general?

I never deal in generalities, only specifics. I feel that so long as there are men dedicated to the art of making good motion
pictures—and I'm not talking now about pornography posing as art, or pathological disorders posing as humor—as long as there are men willing to make the sacrifices necessary to bring quality films to the public, the industry will survive. I intend to survive along with it. In fact, to be more specific, I intend to endure.

Thank you, sir.

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 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.

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

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.

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 back seat. 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 holster. “Come on.”

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, sonny?” 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.”

“All right, what do you want?”

“Were you home this afternoon?” I said.

“Yeah.”

“All afternoon?”

“Yeah.”

“You hear any noise out here in 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, son.”

“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, son?”

“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. “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, sonny.”

“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?”

“That'll be all, son,” I said. “Thanks.”

“For what?” the kid asked, and slammed the door.

“Lousy little snot-nose,” Andy said.

There were thirty-nine
cars stolen in New York City that day. Of the bigger cars, two were Buicks, four were Chryslers, and one was a 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'm?” I asked.

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

“What year, ma'm?”

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

“I know, ma'm. We're just checking it again.”

“It's brand new.”

“The color?”

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

“Licence 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'm?”

“77T8458.”

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'm.”

“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'm.”

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 damages 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 ticket for the car. The M.O. sounded professional, whereas the car 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.

In the meantime, we'd begun checking all auto body and fender repair shops in the city. We had just about ruled out a stolen car by this time, and if the car was privately owned, the person who'd run down Benson would undoubtedly try to have the damage to his car repaired.

The lab had reported finding glass slivers from a sealed beam imbedded in Benson's shirt, together with chips of black paint. From the position of the skid marks, they estimated that he'd been hit by the right side of the car, and they figured the broken light would be on that side, together with the heaviest damage to the grille.