Ed McBain (21 page)

"If you find her," the vice president told me, "I'd like to know. She owes us money."

"I'll keep that in mind," I said.

The reports on the Dreisers were waiting for me back at the precinct. George had found a couple who claimed to be Carl's aunt and uncle. They knew he was married. They gave Alice's maiden name as Grant. They said she lived somewhere on Walton Avenue in the Bronx, or she had lived there when Carl first met her. No, they hadn't seen either Alice or Carl for months. Yes, they knew the Dreisers had had a daughter. They'd received an announcement card. They had never seen the baby.

Pat and I looked up the Grants on Walton Avenue, found a listing for Peter Grant, and went there together.

A bald man in his undershirt, his suspenders hanging over his trousers, opened the door.

"What is it?" he asked.

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

"What about? Let me see your badges."

Pat and I flashed our buzzers and the bald man studied them.

"What kind of questions do you want to ask?"

"Are you Peter Grant?"

"Yeah, that's right. What's this all about?"

"May we come in?"

"Sure, come on in." We followed him into the apartment, and he motioned us to chairs in the small living room. "Now, what is it?" he asked.

"Your daughter is Alice Dreiser?"

"Yes," he said, his face unchanged.

"Do you know where she lives?"

"No."

"Come on, mister," Pat said. "You know where your daughter lives."

"I don't," Grant said, "and I don't give a damn, either."

"Why? What's wrong, mister?"

"Nothing. Nothing's wrong. It's none of your business, anyway."

"Her daughter had her neck broken," I said. "It's our business."

"I don't give a..." he started to say. He stopped then and looked straight ahead of him, his brows pulled together into a tight frown. "I'm sorry. I still don't know where she lives."

"Did you know she was married?"

"To that sailor. Yes, I knew."

"And you knew she had a daughter?"

"Don't make me laugh," Grant said.

"What's funny, mister?" Pat said.

"Did I know she had a daughter? Why the hell do you think she married the sailor? Don't make me laugh!"

"When was your daughter married, Mr. Grant?"

"Last September." He saw the look on my face, and added, "Go ahead, you count it. The kid was born in November."

"Have you seen her since the marriage?"

"No."

"Have you ever seen the baby?"

"No."

"Do you have a picture of your daughter?"

"I think so. Is she in trouble? Do you think she did it?"

"We don't know who did it yet."

"Maybe she did," Grant said softly. "She just maybe did. I'll get you the picture."

He came back in a few minutes with the picture of a plain girl wearing a cap and gown. She had light eyes and straight hair, and her face was intently serious.

"She favors her mother," Grant said. "God rest her soul."

"Your wife is dead?"

"Yes. That picture was taken when Alice graduated from high school."

"May we have it?"

He hesitated and said, "It's the only one I've got. She ... she didn't take many pictures. She wasn't a very ... pretty girl."

"We'll return it."

"All right," he said. His eyes were troubled. "She ... if she's in trouble, you'll let me know, won't you?"

"We'll let you know."

"A girl ... makes mistakes sometimes." He stood up abruptly. "Let me know."

We had copies of the photo made, and then we staked out every church in the neighborhood where the baby was found. Pat and I covered the Church of the Holy Mother, because we figured the woman was most likely to come back there.

We didn't talk much. There is something about a church of any denomination that makes a man think rather than talk. Pat and I knocked off at about seven every night, and the night boys took over then. We were back on the job at seven in the morning.

It was a week before she came in.

She stopped at the font in the rear of the church, dipped her hand in the holy water, and crossed herself. Then she walked to the altar, stopping before a statue of the Virgin Mary, lit a candle, and kneeled down before it.

"That's her," I said.

"Let's go," Pat answered. "Not here. Outside."

Pat's eyes locked with mine for an instant. "Sure," he said.

She kneeled before the statue for a long time, and then got to her feet slowly, drying her eyes. She walked up the aisle, stopped at the font, crossed herself, and then walked outside.

We followed her out, catching up with her at the corner. I walked over on one side of her, and Pat on the other.

"Mrs. Dreiser?" I asked.

She stopped walking. "Yes?"

I showed my buzzer. "Police officers," I said. "We'd like to ask some questions."

She stared at my face for a long time. She drew a trembling breath then, and said, "I killed her. I ... Carl was dead, you see. I ... I guess that was it. It wasn't right ... his getting killed, I mean. And she was crying."

"Want to tell it downtown, ma'am?" I asked.

She nodded blankly. "Yes, that was it. She just cried all the time, not knowing that I was crying inside. You don't know how I cried inside. Carl ... he was all I had. I ... I couldn't stand it anymore. I told her to shut up and when she didn't, I ... I..."

"Come on along, ma'am," I said.

"I brought her to the church."

She nodded, remembering it all now.

"She was innocent, you know. So I brought her to the church. Did you find her there?"

"Yes, ma'am," I said. "That's where we found her."

She seemed pleased. A small smile covered her mouth and she said, "I'm glad you found her."

She told the story again to the lieutenant.

Pat and I checked out, and on the way to the subway, I asked him, "Do you still want to pull the switch, Pat?"

He didn't answer.

I
T WAS TWO IN THE MORNING, RAINING TO BEAT ALL HELL
outside, and it felt good to be sitting opposite Johnny Knowles sipping hot coffee. Johnny had his jacket off, with his sleeves rolled up and the .38 Police Special hanging in its shoulder clip. He had a deck of cards spread in front of him at the table, and he was looking for a black queen to put on his king of diamonds. I was sitting there looking past Johnny at the rain streaming down the barred window. It had been a dull night, and I was half dozing, the hot steam from the coffee cup haloing my head. When the phone began ringing, Johnny looked up from his solitaire.

Til get it," I said.

I put down the cup, swung my legs out from under the table, and picked up the receiver.

"Hannigan," I said.

Johnny watched me as I listened.

"Yep," I said, "I've got it, Barney. Right away."

I hung up and Johnny looked at me quizzically.

"Young girl," I said. "Gun Hill Road and Bronxwood Avenue. Looks bad, Johnny."

Johnny stood up quickly and began shrugging into his jacket.

"Some guy found her lying on the sidewalk, and he called in. Barney took it."

"Hurt bad?" Johnny asked.

"The guy who called in thinks she's dead."

We checked out a car and headed for Gun Hill Road. Johnny was quiet as he drove, and I listened to the
swick-swack
of the windshield wipers, staring through the rain-streaked glass at the glistening wet asphalt outside. When we turned off White Plains Avenue, Johnny said, "Hell of a night."

"Yeah."

He drove past the Catholic church, past the ball field belonging to the high school, and then slowed down as we cruised up to the school itself.

"There he is," Johnny said.

He motioned with his head, and I saw a thin man standing on the sidewalk, flagging us down. He stood hunched against the rain, his fedora pulled down over his ears. Johnny pulled up alongside him, and I opened the door on my side. A sheet of rain washed into the car and the guy stuck in his head.

"Right around the corner," he said.

"Get in," I told him. I moved over to make room, and he squeezed onto the seat, bringing the clinging wetness of the rain with him. Johnny turned the corner, and the old man pointed through the windshield. "There," he said. "Right there."

We pulled the car over to the curb, and Johnny got out from behind the wheel before the man next to me had moved. The man shrugged, sighed, and stepped out into the rain. I followed close behind him.

The girl was sprawled against the iron bar fence that surrounded the school. She'd been wearing a raincoat, but it had been forcibly ripped down the front, pulling all the buttons loose. Her blouse had been torn down the center, her bra cruelly ripped from her breasts. Johnny played his flash over her, and we saw the ugly welts covering her wet skin. Her skirt and underclothing had been shredded, too, and she lay grotesque in death, her legs twisted at a curious widespread angle.

"Better get a blanket, Mike," Johnny said.

I nodded and walked to the car. I took a blanket from the back, and when I walked over to the girl again, Johnny was getting the man's name and address.

"The ambulance should be along soon," I said.

"Yeah." Johnny closed his pad, took the blanket and draped it over the girl. The rain thudded at it, turning it into a sodden, black mass on the pavement.

"How'd you find her?" I asked the man.

"I been workin' the four to twelve at my plant," he said, "out on Long Island. I usually get home about this time when I got that shift. I live right off Bronxwood, get off the train at Gun Hill."

"You were walking home when you found the girl?"

"Yes, sir."

"What'd you do then?"

"I walked clear back to White Plains Avenue, found an open candy store, and called you fellows. Then I came back to wait for you."

"What'd you tell the man who answered the phone?"

"All about the girl. That I'd found her. That's all."

"Did you say she was dead?"

"Well, yes. Yes, I did." He stared down at the girl. "My guess is she was raped." He looked at me for confirmation, but I said nothing.

"I think you can go home now, sir," Johnny said. "Thanks a lot for reporting this. We'll call you if you're needed."

"Glad to help," the old man said. He nodded at us briefly, and then glanced down at the girl under the blanket again. He shook his head, and started off down Bronxwood Avenue. We watched him go, the rain slicing at the pavement around us. Johnny looked off down the street, watching for the ambulance.

"Might be rape at that," he said.

I pulled my collar up against the rain.

"Yeah."

We got the autopsy report at six that morning. We'd already found a wallet in the dead girl's coat pocket, asking anyone to call a Mrs. Iris Ferroni in case of accident. We called Mrs. Ferroni, assuming her to be the girl's mother, and she'd identified the body as that of her daughter, Jean Ferroni. She'd almost collapsed after that, and we were holding off questioning her until she pulled herself together.

Johnny brought the report in and put it next to my coffee cup on the table.

I scanned it quickly, my eyes skimming to the cause of death space. In neat typescript, it read:
SHARP INSTRUMENT ENTERING HEART FROM BELOW LEFT BREAST.

I flipped the page and looked at the attached detailed report. The girl had been raped, all right, consecutively, brutally.

I turned back to the first page and looked at it once more. My eyes lingered on one item.

Burial Permit No. 63-7501
-H

"Now she's just a number," I said. "Sixteen-year-old kid with a grave number."

"She was seventeen," Johnny said.

"That makes a big difference."

"I think we can talk to her mother now," Johnny said.

I rubbed my forehead and said, "Sure. Why don't you bring her in?"

Johnny nodded and went out, to return in a few minutes with a small, dark woman in a plain black coat. The woman's eyes were red, and her lips trembled with her grief. She still looked dazed from the shock of having seen her daughter with the life torn from her.

"This is Detective-Sergeant Hannigan," Johnny said, "and I'm his partner, Detective-Sergeant Knowles. We'd like to ask you a few questions, if you don't mind."

Mrs. Ferroni nodded, but said nothing.

"What time did your daughter leave the house last night, Mrs. Ferroni?" I asked.

The woman sighed and touched her forehead. "Eight o'clock, I think," she said. There was the faintest trace of an accent in her voice.

"Did she leave with anyone?"

"Yes."

"Who?"

"A boy. He takes her out sometimes. Ricky. Ricky Tocca."

"Do you know the boy well?"

"He's from the neighborhood. He's a good boy."

"Did they say where they were going?"

"To a movie. I think they go up to Mount Vernon a lot. That's where they were going."

"Does this Tocca have a car?"

"Yes."

"Would you know the year and make, Mrs. Ferroni?"

"A Plymouth," she said. "Or a Chevy, I think. I don't know. It's a new car." She paused and bit her lip. "He wouldn't hurt my daughter. He's a nice boy."

"We're not saying he would," Johnny said gently. "We're just trying to get some sort of a lead, Mrs. Ferroni."

"I understand."

"They left the house at eight, you say?"

"About that time."

"What time does your daughter usually come home?"

"One, two. On weekends. During the week ... well, I like her to come home early..."

"But she didn't, is that it?"

"You know how it is with a young girl. They think they know everything. She stayed out late every night. I told her to be careful ... I
told
her ... I
told
her..."

She bit her lip, and I expected tears again, but there were none. Johnny cleared his throat and asked, "Weren't you worried when she didn't show up this morning? I mean, we didn't call you until about four
A.M.
"

Mrs. Ferroni shook her head. "She comes in very late sometimes. I worry ... but she always comes home. This time..."