KILLER'S WEDGE

  Killer's Wedge

  By: Ed McBain

  Ed McBain's 87th Precinct

  The city in these pages is imaginary.

  The people, the places are all fictitious.

  Only the police routine is based on established investigatory technique.

  The sounds of October, greeted the punch line of Meyer Meyer's joke on that Friday afternoon.

  "He really knows how to tell them," Bert Kung said.

  "That's the one thing I can't do. Tell a story."

  "There are many things you can't do," Meyer answered, his blue eyes twinkling, "but we'll excuse the slight inaccuracy. Storytelling, Bert, is an art acquired with age. A young snot like you could never hope to tell a good story. It takes years and years of experience."

  "Go to hell, you old fart," Kung said.

  "Right away he gets aggressive, you notice that, Cotton? He's very sensitive about his age."

  Cotton Hawes sipped at his coffee and grinned.

  He was a tall man, six feet two and weighing in at a hundred and ninety pounds. He had blue eyes and a square jaw with a cleft chin. His hair was a brilliant red, lighted now by the lazy October sunshine which played with particular intensity on the streak of white hair over his left temple.

  The white streak was a curiosity in that it was the result of a long-ago knife wound. They'd shaved the original red to get at the cut, and the shaved patch had grown in white.

  "Which shows how goddamn scared I was," Hawes had said at the time.

  Now, grinning at Meyer, he said, "The very young are always hostile. Didn't you know that?"

  "Are you starting on me, too?" Kung said.

  "It's a conspiracy."

  "It's not a conspiracy," Meyer corrected.

  "It's a spontaneous program of hatred. That's the trouble with this world. Too much hatred. By the way, do either of you know the slogan for Anti Hate Week?"

  "No," Hawes said in a perfect straight-man voice.

  "What is the slogan for Anti-Hate Week?"

  "Screw-All-Haters!" Meyer said vehemently, and the phone rang. Hawes and Kung looked puzzled for a moment, and then burst into belated laughter. Meyer shushed them with an outstretched palm.

  "Eighty-seventh Squad, Detective Meyer speaking," he said.

  "What was that, ma'am? Yes, I'm a detective. What? Well, no, I'm not exactly in charge of the squad." He shrugged and raised his eyebrows in King's direction,

  "Well, the lieutenant is pretty busy right now. May I help you, ma'am? Yes, ma'am, what is it? A bitch, you say? Yes, ma'am. I see. Well, ma'am, we can't very well keep him at home. That is not exactly the job of the police department. I understand. The bitch ... Yes, ma'am. Well, we can't spare a man right now. We're a little short this afternoon ... What? ... Well, I'm sorry you feel that way. But you see... He stopped and stared at the receiver.

  "She hung up," he said, and replaced the phone on its cradle.

  "What was that all about?" Kung asked.

  "She's got a great Dane who keeps chasing after this cocker spaniel bitch. She wants us to either keep the great Dane home or do something about the bitch."

  Meyer shrugged again.

  "L'amour, l'amour.

  Always troubles with l'amour." He paused.

  "You know what love is?"

  "No, what's love?" Hawes said, straight manning it again.

  "I'm not joking this time." Meyer said.

  "I'm philosophizing. Love is only low-key hate."

  "Christ, what a cynic!" Hawes said.

  "I'm not cynical, I'm philosophizing.

  And you should never believe a man when he's thinking out loud. How else can he test brilliant ideas unless he voices them?"

  Hawes turned suddenly.

  The woman who stood just outside the slatted-rail divider which separated the squad room from the corridor had entered so silently that none of the men had heard her approach. She had just cleared her throat, and the sound was shockingly loud, so that Kung and Meyer turned to face her at almost the same moment Hawes did.

  She looked for a moment like Death personified.

  She had deep black hair pulled into a bun at the back of her head. She had brown eyes set in a face without makeup, without lipstick, a face so chalky white that it seemed she had just come from a sickbed somewhere. She wore a black overcoat and black shoes with no stockings. Her bare legs were as white as her face, thin legs which seemed incapable of supporting her.

  She carried a large black tote bag, and she clung to the black leather handles with thin bony fingers.

  "Yes?" Hawes said.

  "Is Detective Carella here?" she asked.

  Her voice was toneless.

  "No," Hawes said.

  "I'm Detective Hawes." "May I know When he will he be back?" she interrupted.

  "That's difficult to say. He had something personal to take care of, and then he was going directly to an outside assignment.

  Perhaps one of us-" "I'll wait," the woman said.

  "It may take quite a while."

  "I have all the time in the world," she answered. Hawes shrugged.

  "Well, all right.

  There's a bench outside. If you'll just-" "I'll wait inside," she said, and before Hawes could stop her she had pushed open the gate in the railing and started walking toward one of the empty desks in the center of the room. Hawes started after her immediately.

  "Miss, I'm sorry," he said, "but visitors are not per-mitt-" "Mrs.," she corrected.

  "Mrs. Frank Dodge." She sat. She placed the heavy black bag on her lap, both hands resting firmly on its open top."

  "Well, Mrs. Dodge, we don't allow visitors inside the squad room except on business. I'm sure you can appreciate-" "I'm here on business," she said. She pressed her unpainted lips together into a thin line.

  "Well then, can you tell me ... "I'm waiting for Detective Carella," she said.

  "Detective Steve Carella," and she said the last words with surprising bitterness.

  "If you're waiting for him," Hawes said patiently, "you'll have to wait on the bench outside. I'm sorry, but that's-" "I'll wait right here," she said firmly.

  "And you'll wait, too."

  Hawes glanced at Meyer and Kung.

  "Lady," Meyer started, "we don't want to seem rude

  "Shut up!" the woman said.

  There was the unmistakable ring of command in her voice. The detectives stared at her.

  Her hand slipped into the pocket on the right-hand side of her coat. When it emerged, it was holding something cold and hard.

  "This is a .3 8," the woman said.

  CHAPTER 2

  THE WOMAN WITH T~ .38 AND THE

  BLACK TOTE BAG

  sat motionless in the straight-backed wooden chair. The street noises outside the squad room seemed to magnify the silence that had followed her simple declaration.

  The three detectives looked first at each other and then back to the woman and the unwavering .38.

  "Give me your guns," she said.

  The detectives did not move.

  "Give me your guns, or I'll fire."

  "Look, lady," Meyer said, "put up the piece. We're all friends here. You're only going to get yourself in trouble."

  "I don't care," she said.

  "Put your guns on the desk here in front of me. Don't try to take them out of the holsters or I'll shoot.

  This gun is pointed right at the redheaded one's belly. Now move!"

  Again, the detectives hesitated.

  "All right, redhead," she said.

  "Say your prayers."

  There was not a man in that room who did not realize that once he relinquished his weapon he would be at the mercy of the woman holding the gun. There was not a man in that room, too, who had not faced
a gun at one time or another in his career.

  The men in that room were cops, but they were also human beings who did not particularly relish the thought of an early grave. The men in that room were human beings, but they were also cops who knew the destructive power of a .38, who also knew that women were as capable of squeezing triggers as were men, who realized that this woman holding the gun could cut down all three of them in one hasty volley. And yet, they hesitated.

  "Damnit!" she shouted.

  "I'm not kidding!"

  Kung was the first to move, and then only because he saw the knuckle-white tension of the woman's trigger finger.

  Staring at her all the while, he unstrapped his shoulder rig and dropped holster and Police Special to the desk top. Meyer unclipped his holster from his right hip pocket and deposited it alongside Kung's gun. Hawes carried his .38 just off his right hipbone. He unclipped the holster and put it on the desk.

  "Which of these desk drawers lock?" the woman asked.

  "The top one," Hawes said.

  "Where's the key?"

  "In the drawer.

  She opened the drawer, found the key, and then shoved the guns into the drawer.

  She locked the desk then, removed the key, and put it into her coat pocket. The big black purse was still on her lap.

  "Okay, now you got our guns," Meyer said.

  "Now what? What is this, lady?"

  "I'm going to kill Steve Carella," the woman said.

  "Why?"

  "Never mind why. Who else is in this place right now?" Meyer hesitated. From where the woman was sitting, she had a clear view of both the lieutenant's office and the corridor outside the squad room

  "Answer me!" she snapped.

  "Just Lieutenant Byrnes," Meyer lied. In the Clerical Office, just outside the slatted rail divider, Miscolo was busily working on his records. There was the possibility that they could maneuver her so that her back was to the corridor. And then, if Miscolo decided to enter the squad-room on one of his frequent trips, perhaps he would grasp the situation and .

  "Get the lieutenant," she said.

  Meyer began to move.

  "Before you go, remember this. The gun is on you. One phony move, and I shoot.

  And I keep shooting until every man in this place is dead. Now go ahead. Knock on the lieutenant's door and tell him to get out here."

  Meyer crossed the silent squad room The lieutenant's door was closed. He rapped on the wooden frame alongside the frosted glass.

  "Come!" Byrnes called from behind the door.

  "Pete, it's me. Meyer."

  "The door's unlocked," Byrnes answered.

  "Pete, you better come out here."

  "What the hell is it?"

  "Come on out, Pete."

  There was the sound of footsteps behind the door. The door opened. Lieutenant Peter Byrnes, as compact as a rivet, thrust his muscular neck and shoulders into the opening.

  "What is it, Meyer? I'm busy."

  "There's a woman wants to see you."

  "A woman? Where ... ?" His eyes flicked past Meyer to where the woman sat. Instant recognition crossed his face.

  "Hello, Virginia," he said, and then he saw the gun.

  "Get in here, Lieutenant," Virginia Dodge said. A frown had come over Byrnes' face. His brows pulled down tightly over scrutinizing blue eyes.

  Intelligence flashed on his craggy face.

  Lumberingly, like a man about to lift a heavy log, he crossed the squad room walking directly to where Virginia Dodge sat. He seemed ready to pick her up and hurl her into the corridor.

  "What is this, Virginia?" he said, and there was the tone of a father in his voice, a rather angry father speaking to a fifteen year-old daughter who'd come home too late after a dance.

  "What does it look like, Lieutenant?"

  "It looks like you've blown your wig, that's what it looks like. What the hell's the gun for? What are you doing in here with ..

  "I'm going to kill Steve Carella," Virginia said.

  "Oh, for Christ's sake," Byrnes said in exasperation.

  "Do you think that's going to help your husband any?"

  "Nothing's going to help Frank any more."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Frank died yesterday. In the hospital at Castleview Prison."

  Byrnes was silently meditative. He did not speak for a long while, and then he said only, "You can't blame Carella for that."

  "Carella sent him up."

  ~Your husband was a criminal."

  "Carella sent him up."

  "Carella only arrested him. You can't-" "And pressed the DA. for a conviction, and testified at the trial, and did everything in his power to make sure Frank went to jail!"

  "Virginia, he-" "Frank was sick! Carella knew that! He knew that when he put him away!"

  "Virginia, for Christ's sake, our job is to-" "Carella killed him as sure as if he'd shot him.

  And now I'm going to kill Carella. The minute he steps into this squad room I'm going to kill him."

  "And then what? How do you expect to get out of here, Virginia? You haven't got a chance."

  Virginia smiled thinly.

  "I'll get out, all right."

  "Will you? You fire a gun in here, and every cop in ten miles will come barging upstairs."

  "I'm not worried about that, Lieutenant."

  "No, huh? Talk sense, Virginia. You want to get the electric chair? Is that what you want?"

  "I don't care. I don't want to live without Frank." Byrnes paused for a long time. Then he said, "I don't believe you, Virginia."

  "What don't you believe? That I'm going to kill Carella? That I'll shoot the first one who does anything to stop me?"

  "I don't believe you're fool enough to use that gun. I'm walking out of here, Virginia. I'm walking back to my office ..

  "No, you're not!"

  "Yes, I am. I'm walking back to my office, and here's why. There are four men in this room, counting me. You can shoot me, maybe, and maybe another one after me but you'll have to be pretty fast and pretty accurate to get all of us."

  "I'll get all of you, Lieutenant," Virginia said, and the thin smile reappeared on her mouth.

  "Yeah, well I'm not willing to bet on that.

  Jump her the minute she fires, men." He paused.

  "I'm going to my office, Virginia, and I'm going to sit in there for five minutes. When I come out, you'd better be gone, and we'll forget all about this.

  Otherwise I'm going to slap you silly and take that gun away from you and dump you into the detention cells downstairs. Now is that clear, Virginia?"

  "It's very clear."

  "Five minutes," Byrnes said curtly, and he wheeled and started toward his office.

  With supreme confidence in her voice, Virginia said, "I don't have to shoot you, Lieutenant."

  Byrues did not break his stride.

  "I don't have to shoot any of you."

  He continued walking.

  "I've got a bottle of nitroglycerin in my purse."

  Her words came like an explosion.

  Byrnes stopped in his tracks and turned slowly to face her, his eyes dropping to the big black bag in her lap. She had turned the barrel of the gun so that it pointed at the bag now, so that its muzzle was thrust into the opening at the top of the bag.

  "I don't believe you, Virginia," Byrnes said, and he turned and reached for the doorknob again.

  "Don't open that door, Lieutenant," Virginia shouted, "or I'll fire into this purse and we can all go to Hell!"

  He thought in that moment before twisting the doorknob, She's lying. She hasn't got any soup in that purse, where would she get any?

  And then he remembered that among her husband's many criminal offenses had been a conviction for safe-blowing.

  But she hasn't any soup, he thought, Jesus, that's crazy. But suppose she does?

  But she won't explode it. She's waiting for Carella. She wouldn't..

  And then he thought simply, Meyer Meyer
has a wile and three children.

  Slowly, he let his hand drop. Wearily, he turned to Virginia Dodge.

  "That's better," she said.

  "Now let's wait for Carella."

  Steve Carella was nervous.

  Sitting alongside Teddy, his wife, he could feel nervousness ticking along the backs of his hands, twitching in his fingers. Clean-shaved, his high cheekbones and downward-slanting eyes giving him an almost Oriental appearance, he sat with his mouth tensed, and the doctor smiled gently.

  "Well, Mr. Carella," Dr. Randolph said, "your wife is going to have a baby."

  The nervousness fled almost instantly. The cork had been pulled, and the violent waters of his tension overran the tenuous walls of the dike, leaving only the muddy silt of uncertainty. If anything, the uncertainty was worse. He hoped it did not show. He did not want it to show to Teddy.

  "Mr. Carella," the doctor said, "I can see the prenatal jitters erupting all over you. Relax.

  There's nothing to worry about."

  Carella nodded, but even the nod lacked conviction. He could feel the presence of Teddy beside him, his Teddy, his Theodora, the girl he loved, the woman he'd married. He turned for an instant to look at her face, framed with hair as black as midnight, the brown eyes gleaming with pride now, the silent red lips slightly parted.

  I mustn't spoil it for her, he thought.

  And yet he could not shake the doubt.

  "May I reassure you on several points, Mr.

  Carella?" Randolph said.

  "Well, I really ..

  "Perhaps you're worried about the infant.

  Perhaps, because your wife is a deaf mute, born that way.." perhaps you feel the infant may also be born handicapped. This is a reasonable fear, Mr. Carella."

  "I ..

  "But a completely unfounded one," Randolph smiled.

  "Medicine is in many respects a cistern of ignorance- but we do know that deafness, though sometimes congenital, is not hereditary.

  For example, perfectly normal offspring have been produced by two deaf parents. Lon Chancy is the most famous of these offspring, I suppose.

  With the proper care and treatment, your wife will go through a normal pregnancy and deliver a normal baby.

  She's a healthy animal, Mr. Carella. And it I may be so bold, a very beautiful one."

  Teddy Carella, reading the doctor's lips, came close to blushing. Her beauty, like a rare rose garden which a horticulturist has come to take for granted, was a thing she'd accepted for a long time now. It always came as a surprise, therefore, when someone referred to it in glowing terms.