Ed McBain_87th Precinct 22 (17 page)

“We’re trying to find out how he could have missed the bomb that was undoubtedly under the hood of that car, that’s what we’re trying to do.”

“It
wasn’t
, that’s your answer.”

“Mr. Coyle, our lab reported …”

“I don’t care what your lab reported or didn’t report. I’m telling you all these cars were gone over with a fine-tooth comb yesterday, and there couldn’t have been a bomb in the deputy mayor’s car when it left this garage. Now that’s
that,”
Coyle said, and spat on the floor again, emphatically.

“Mr. Coyle,” Kling said, “did you personally see the deputy mayor’s car being inspected?”

“I personally saw it being inspected.”

“You personally saw the hood being raised?”

“I did.”

“And you’d be willing to swear that a thorough inspection was made of the area under the hood?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did you actually
see
the inspector checking the area under the hood?”

“Well, I didn’t stand around looking over his shoulder, if that’s what you mean.”

“Where were you, actually, when the deputy mayor’s car was being inspected?”

“I was right here.”

“On this exact spot?”

“No, I was inside the office there. But I could see out into the garage. There’s a glass panel in there.”

“And you saw the inspector Lifting the hood of the deputy mayor’s car?”

“That’s right.”

“There are two dozen Caddys here. How’d you know that one was the deputy mayor’s car?”

“By the license plate. It has DMA on it, and then the number. Same as Mayor Vale’s car has MA on it for ‘mayor,’ and then the number. Same as the …”

“All right, it was clearly his car, and you definitely saw …”

“Look, that guy spent a good half-hour on each car, now don’t tell
me
it wasn’t a thorough inspection.”

“Did he spend a half-hour on the deputy mayor’s car?” “Easily.”

Meyer sighed. “I guess we’ll have to talk to him personally,” he said to Kling. He turned again to Coyle. “What was his name, Mr. Coyle?”

“Who?”

“The inspector. The man from Motor Vehicles.”

“I don’t know.”

“He didn’t give you his name?” Kling asked.

“He showed me his credentials, and he said he was here to inspect the cars, and that was that.”

“What kind of credentials?”

“Oh, printed papers. You know.”

“Mr. Coyle,” Kling asked, “when was the last time a man from Motor Vehicles came to inspect?”

“This was the first time,” Coyle said. “They’ve never sent an inspector down before?”

“Never.”

Slowly, wearily, Meyer said, “What did this man look like, Mr. Coyle?”

“He was a tall blond guy wearing a hearing aid,” Coyle answered.

Fats Dormer was a mountainous stool pigeon with a penchant for warm climates and the complexion of an Irish virgin. The complexion, in fact, overreached the boundaries of common definition to extend to every part of Dormer’s body; he was white all over, so sickly pale that sometimes Willis suspected him of being a junkie. Willis couldn’t have cared less. On any given Sunday, a conscientious cop could collar seventy-nine junkies in a
half-hour, seventy-eight of whom would be holding narcotics in some quantity. It was hard to come by a good informer, though, and Donner was one of the best around,
when
he was around. The difficulty with Donner was that he was likely to be found in Vegas or Miami Beach or Puerto Rico during the winter months, lying in the shade with his Buddha-like form protected against even a possible reflection of the sun’s rays, quivering with delight as the sweat poured from his body.

Willis was surprised to find him in the city during the coldest March on record. He was not surprised to find him in a room that was suffocatingly hot with three electric heaters adding their output to the two banging radiators. In the midst of this thermal onslaught. Donner sat in overcoat and gloves, wedged into a stuffed armchair. He was wearing two pairs of woolen socks, and his feet were propped up on the radiator. There was a girl in the room with him. She was perhaps fifteen years old, and she was wearing a flowered bra and bikini panties over which she had put on a silk wrapper. The wrapper was unbelted. The girl’s near-naked body showed whenever she moved, but she seemed not to mind the presence of a strange man. She barely glanced at Willis when he came in, and then went about the room straightening up, never looking at either of the men as they whispered together near the window streaming wintry sunlight.

“Who’s the girl?” Willis asked.

“My daughter.” Donner said, and grinned.

He was not a nice man, Fats Donner, but he was a good stoolie, and criminal detection sometimes made strange bedfellows. It was Willis’ guess that the girl was hooking for Donner, a respectable stoolie sometimes being in need of additional income which he can realize for example, by picking up a little girl straight from Ohio and teaching her what it’s all about and then putting her on the street, there are more things in heaven and earth. Horatio. Willis was not interested in Donner’s possible drug habit, nor was Willis interested in hanging a prostitution rap on the girl, nor in busting Donner as a “male person living on the proceeds of prostitution,” Section 1148 of the Penal Law. Willis was interested in taking off his coat and hat and finding out whether or not Donner could give him a line on a man named Dom.

“Dom who?” Donner asked.

“That’s all we’ve got.”

“How many Doms you suppose are in this city?” Donner
asked. He turned to the girl, who was puttering around rearranging food in the refrigerator, and said, “Mercy, how many Doms you suppose are in this city?”

“I don’t know,” Mercy replied without looking at him.

“How many Doms you know personally?” Donner asked her.

“I don’t know any Doms,” the girl said. She had a tiny voice, tinged with an unmistakable Southern accent. Scratch Ohio, Willis thought, substitute Arkansas or Tennessee.

“She don’t know any Doms,” Donner said, and chuckled.

“How about you, Fats? You know any?”

“That’s all you’re giving me?” Donner asked. “Man, you’re really generous.”

“He lost a lot of money on the championship fight two weeks ago.”

“Everybody I
know
lost a lot of money on the championship fight two weeks ago.”

“He’s broke right now. He’s trying to promote some scratch,” Willis said.

“Dom, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“From this part of the city?”

“A friend of his lives in Riverhead,” Willis said.

“What’s the friend’s name?”

“La Bresca. Tony La Bresca.”

“What about
him?”

“No record.”

“You think this Dom done time?”

“I’ve got no idea. He seems to have tipped to a caper that’s coming off.”

“Is that what you’re interested in? The caper?”

“Yes. According to him, the buzz is all over town.”

“There’s always some buzz or other that’s all over town,” Donner said. “What the hell are you doing there, Mercy?”

“Just fixing things,” Mercy said.

“Get the hell away from there, you make me nervous.”

“I was just fixing the things in the fridge,” Mercy said.

“I hate that Southern accent,” Donner said. “Dont you hate Southern accents?” he asked Willis.

“I don’t mind them,” Willis said.

“Can’t even understand her half the time. Sounds as if she’s got shit in her mouth.”

The girl closed the refrigerator door and went to the
closet. She opened the door and began moving around empty hangers.

“Now
what’re you doing?” Donner asked.

“Just straightening things,” she said.

“You want me to kick you out in the street bare-assed?” Donner asked.

“No,” she said softly.

“Then cut it out.”

“All right.”

“Anyway, it’s time you got dressed.”

“All right.”

“Go on, go get dressed. What time is it?” he asked Willis.

“Almost noon,” Willis said.

“Sure, go get dressed,” Donner said.

“All right,” the girl said, and went into the other room.

“Damn little bitch,” Donner said, “hardly worth keeping around.”

“I thought she was your daughter,” Willis said.

“Oh, is that what you thought?” Donner asked, and again he grinned.

Willis restrained a sudden impulse. He sighed and said, “So what do you think?”

“I don’t think nothing yet, man. Zero so far.”

“Well, you want some time on it?”

“How much of a sweat are you in?”

“We need whatever we can get as soon as we can get it.”

“What’s the caper sound like?”

“Maybe extortion.”

“Dom, huh?”

“Dom,” Willis repeated.

“That’d be for Dominick, right?”

“Yes.”

“Well, let me listen around, who knows?”

The girl came out of the other room. She was wearing a miniskirt and white mesh stockings, a low-cut purple blouse. There was a smear of bright red lipstick on her mouth, green eyeshadow on her eyelids.

“You going down now?” Donner asked.

“Yes,” she answered.

“Put on your coat.”

“All right,” she said.

“And take your bag.”

“I will.”

“Don’t come back empty, baby,” Donner said.

“I won’t,” she said, and moved toward the door.

“I’m going too,” Willis said.

“I’ll give you a buzz.”

“Okay, but try to move fast, will you?” Willis said.

“It’s I hate to go out when it’s so fucking cold,” Donner answered.

The girl was on the hallway steps, below Willis, walking down without any sense of haste, buttoning her coat, slinging her bag over her shoulder. Willis caught up with her and said, “Where are you from, Mercy?”

“Ask Fats,” she answered.

“I’m asking
you.”

“You fuzz?”

“That’s right.”

“Georgia,” she said.

“When’d you get up here?”

“Two months ago.”

“How old are you?”

“Sixteen.”

“What the hell are you doing with a man like Fats Donner?” Willis asked.

“I don’t know,” she said. She would not look into his face. She kept her head bent as they went down the steps to the street. As Willis opened the door leading outside, a blast of frigid air rushed into the hallway.

“Why don’t you get out?” he said.

The girl looked up at him.

“Where would I go?” she asked, and then left him on the stoop, walking up the street with a practiced swing, the bag dangling from her shoulder, her high heels clicking along the pavement

At two o’clock that afternoon, the seventeen-year-old girl who had been in the convertible that crashed the river barrier died without gaining consciousness.

The Buena Vista Hospital record read simply: Death secondary to head injury.

The squadroom phone began jangling early Monday morning.

The first call was from a reporter on the city’s austere morning daily. He asked to speak to whoever was in charge of the squad and, when told that Lieutenant Byrnes was not in at the moment, asked to speak to whoever was in command.

“This is Detective 2nd/Grade Meyer Meyer,” he was told. “I suppose I’m in command at the moment.”

“Detective Meyer,” the reporter said, “this is Carlyle Butterford, I wanted to check out a possible story.”

At first, Meyer thought the call was a put-on, nobody had a name like Carlyle Butterford. Then he remembered that
everybody
on this particular morning newspaper had names like Preston Fingerlaver, or Clyde Masterfield, or Aylmer Coopermere. “Yes, Mr. Butterford,” he said, “what can I do for you?”

“We received a telephone call early this morning …”

“From whom, sir?”

“An anonymous caller,” Butterford said.

“Yes?”

“Yes, and he suggested that we contact the 87th Precinct regarding certain extortion calls and notes that were received before the deaths of Parks Commissioner Cowper and Deputy Mayor Scanlon.”

There was a long silence on the line.

“Detective Meyer, is there any truth to this allegation?”

“I suggest that you call the Public Relations Officer of the Police Department,” Meyer said, “his name is Detective Glenn, and he’s downtown at Headquarters. The number there is Center 6-0800.”

“Would he have any knowledge of these alleged extortion calls and notes?” Butterford asked.

“I guess you’d have to ask him,” Meyer said.

“Do
you
have any knowledge of these alleged …?”

“As I told you,” Meyer said, “the lieutenant is out at the moment, and he’s the one who generally supplies information to the press.”

“But would
you
, personally, have any information …?”

“I have information on a great many things,” Meyer said. “Homicides, muggings, burglaries, robberies, rapes, extortion attempts, all sorts of things. But, as I’m sure you know, detectives are public servants and it has been the department’s policy to discourage us from seeking personal aggrandizement. If you wish to talk to the lieutenant, I suggest you call back at around ten o’clock. He should be in by then.”

“Come on,” Butterford said, “give me a break.”

“I’m sorry, pal, I can’t help you.”

“I’m a working stiff, just like you.”

“So’s the lieutenant,” Meyer said, and hung up.

The second call came at nine-thirty. Sergeant Murchison, at the switchboard, took the call and immediately put it through to Meyer.

“This is Cliff Savage,” the voice said. “Remember me?”

“Only too well,” Meyer said. “What do you want, Savage?”

“Carella around?”

“Nope.”

“Where is he?”

“Out,” Meyer said.

“I wanted to talk to him.”

“He doesn’t want to talk to you,” Meyer said. “You almost got his wife killed once with your goddamn yellow journalism. You want my advice, keep out of his sight.”

“I guess I’ll have to talk to you, then,” Savage said.

“I’m not too fond of you myself, if you want the truth.”

“Well, thank you,” Savage said, “but that’s not the truth I’m after.”

“What
are
you after?”