McBain's Ladies Too: More Women of the 87th Precinct Read online

  He stepped on the accelerator.

  There was an excitement pounding inside him now, coupled with the anger, a high anticipatory clamor that drowned out whatever note of caution whispered automatically in his mind. It did not usually happen this way, there were usually weeks or months of drudgery. The surprise of his windfall, the idea of a sudden culmination to a chase barely begun, unleashed a wild energy inside him, forced his foot onto the gas pedal more firmly. His hands were tight on the wheel. He drove with a recklessness that would have brought a summons to a civilian, weaving in and out of traffic, hitting the horn and the brake, his hands and his feet a part of the machine that hurtled steadily downtown toward the address listed in Tinka's book.

  He parked the car, and came out onto the sidewalk, leaving the doll on the front seat. He studied the name plates in the entrance hallway — yes, this was it. He pushed a bell button at random, turned the knob on the locked inside door when the answering buzz sounded. Swiftly he began climbing the steps to the third floor. On the second-floor landing, he drew his service revolver, a .38 Smith & Wesson Police Model 10. The gun had a two-inch barrel that made it virtually impossible to snag on clothing when drawn. It weighed only two ounces and was six and seven-eighths of an inch long, with a blue finish and a checked walnut Magna stock with the familiar S&W monogram. It was capable of firing six shots without reloading.

  He reached the third floor and started down the hallway. The mailbox had told him the apartment number was 34. He found it at the end of the hall, and put his ear to the door, listening. He could hear the muted voices of a man and a woman inside the apartment. Kick it in, he thought. You've got enough for an arrest. Kick in the door, and go in shooting if necessary — he's your man. He backed away from the door. He braced himself against the corridor wall opposite the door, lifted his right leg high, pulling back the knee, and then stepped forward and simultaneously unleashed a piston kick, aiming for the lock high on the door.

  The wood splintered, the lock ripped from the jamb, the door shot inward. He followed the opening door into the room, the gun leveled in his right hand. He saw only a big beautiful dark-haired woman sitting on a couch facing the door, her legs crossed, a look of startled surprise on her face. But he had heard a man from outside. Where—?

  He turned suddenly. He had abruptly realized that the apartment fanned out on both sides of the entrance door, and that the man could easily be to his right or his left, beyond his field of vision. He turned naturally to the right because he was right-handed, because the gun was in his right hand, and made the mistake that could have cost him his life.

  The man was on his left.

  Carella heard the sound of his approach too late, reversed his direction, caught a single glimpse of straight blond hair like Sonny Tufts, and then felt something hard and heavy smashing into his face.

  There was no furniture in the small room, save for a wooden chair to the right of the door. There were two windows on the wall facing the door, and these were covered with drawn green shades. The room was perhaps twelve feet wide by fifteen long, with a radiator in the center of one of the fifteen-foot walls.

  Carella blinked his eyes and stared into the semidarkness.

  There were nighttime noises outside the windows, and he could see the intermittent flash of neon around the edges of the drawn shades. He wondered what time it was. He started to raise his left hand for a look at his watch, and discovered that it was handcuffed to the radiator. The handcuffs were his own. Whoever had closed the cuff onto his wrist had done so quickly and viciously; the metal was biting sharply into his flesh. The other cuff was clasped shut around the radiator leg. His watch was gone, and he seemed to have been stripped as well of his service revolver, his billet, his cartridges, his wallet and loose change, and even his shoes and socks. The side of his face hurt like hell. He lifted his right hand in exploration and found that his cheek and temple were crusted with dried blood. He looked down again at the radiator leg around which the second cuff was looped. Then he moved to the right of the radiator and looked behind it to see how it was fastened to the wall. If the fittings were loose—

  He heard a key being inserted into the door lock. It suddenly occurred to him that he was still alive, and the knowledge filled him with a sense of impending dread rather than elation. Why was he still alive? And was someone opening the door right this minute in order to remedy that oversight?

  The key turned.

  The overhead light snapped on.

  A big brunette girl came into the room. She was the same girl who had been sitting on the couch when he'd bravely kicked in the front door. She was carrying a tray in her hands, and he caught the aroma of coffee the moment she entered the room, that and the overriding scent of the heavy perfume the girl was wearing.

  "Hello," she said.

  "Hello," he answered.

  "Have a nice sleep?"

  "Lovely."

  She was very big, much bigger than she had seemed seated on the couch. She had the bones and body of a showgirl, five feet eight or nine inches tall, with firm, full breasts threatening a low-cut peasant blouse, solid thighs sheathed in a tight black skirt that ended just above her knees. Her legs were long and very white, shaped like a dancer's with full calves and slender ankles. She was wearing black slippers, and she closed the door behind her and came into the room silently, the slippers whispering across the floor.

  She moved slowly, almost as though she were sleepwalking. There was a current of sensuality about her, emphasized by her dreamlike motion. She seemed to possess an acute awareness of her lush body, and this in turn seemed coupled with the knowledge that whatever she might be — housewife or whore, slattern or saint — men would try to do things to that body, and succeed, repeatedly and without mercy. She was a victim, and she moved with the cautious tread of someone who had been beaten before and now expected attack from any quarter. Her caution, her awareness, the ripeness of her body, the certain knowledge that it was available, the curious look of inevitability the girl wore, all invited further abuses, encouraged fantasies, drew dark imaginings from hidden corners of the mind. Rinsed raven-black hair framed the girl's white face. It was a face hard with knowledge. Smoky Cleopatra makeup shaded her eyes and lashes, hiding the deeper-toned flesh there. Her nose had been fixed once, a long time ago, but it was beginning to fall out of shape so that it looked now as if someone had broken it, and this too added to the victim's look she wore. Her mouth was brightly painted, a whore's mouth, a doll's mouth. It had said every word ever invented. It had done everything a mouth was ever forced to do.

  "I brought you some coffee," she said.

  Her voice was almost a whisper. He watched her as she came closer. He had the feeling that she could kill a man as readily as kiss him, and he wondered again why he was still alive.

  He noticed for the first time that there was a gun on the tray, alongside the coffeepot. The girl lifted the gun now, and pointed it at his belly, still holding the tray with one hand. "Back," she said.

  "Why?"

  "Don't fuck around with me," she said. "Do what I tell you to do when I tell you to do it."

  Carella moved back as far as his cuffed wrist would allow him. The girl crouched, the tight skirt riding up over her thighs, and pushed the tray toward the radiator. Her face was dead serious. The gun was a super .38-caliber Llama automatic. The girl held it steady in her right hand. The thumb safety on the left side of the gun had been thrown. The automatic was ready for firing.

  The girl rose and backed away toward the chair near the entrance door, the gun still trained on him. She sat, lowered the gun, and said, "Go ahead."

  Carella poured coffee from the pot into the single mug on the tray. He took a swallow. The coffee was hot and strong.

  "How is it?" the girl asked.

  "Fine."

  "I made it myself."

  "Thank you."

  "I'll bring you a wet towel later," she said. "So you can wipe off that blood. It looks
terrible."

  "It doesn't feel so good, either," Carella said.

  "Well, who invited you?" the girl asked. She seemed about to smile, and then changed her mind.

  "No one, that's true." He took another sip of coffee. The girl watched him steadily.

  "Steve Carella," she*said. "Is that it?"

  "That's right. What's your name?"

  He asked the question quickly and naturally, but the girl did not step into the trap.

  "Detective Second/Grade," she said, "87th Squad." She paused. "Where's that?"

  "Across from the park."

  "What park?"

  "Grover Park."

  "Oh, yeah," she said. "That's a nice park. That's the nicest park in this whole damn city."

  "Yes," Carella said.

  "I saved your life, you know," the girl said conversationally.

  "Did you?"

  "Yeah. He wanted to kill you."

  "I'm surprised he didn't."

  "Cheer up, maybe he will."

  "When?"

  "You in a hurry?"

  "Not particularly."

  The room went silent. Carella took another swallow of coffee. The girl kept staring at him. Outside, he could hear the sounds of traffic.

  "What time is it?" he asked.

  "About nine. Why? You got a date?"

  "I'm wondering how long it'll be before I'm missed, that's all," Carella said, and watched the girl.

  "Don't try to scare me," she said. "Nothing scares me."

  "I wasn't trying to scare you."

  The girl scratched her leg idly, and then said, "There're some questions I have to ask you."

  "I'm not sure I'll answer them."

  "You will," she said. There was something cold and deadly in her voice. "I can guarantee that. Sooner or later, you will."

  "Then it'll have to be later."

  "You're not being smart, mister."

  "I'm being very smart."

  "How?"

  "I figure I'm alive only because you don't know the answers."

  "Maybe you're alive because I want you to be alive," the girl said.

  "Why?"

  "I've never had anything like you before," she said, and for the first time since she'd come into the room, she smiled. The smile was frightening. He could feel the flesh at the back of his neck beginning to crawl. He wet his lips and looked at her, and she returned his gaze steadily, the tiny evil smile lingering on her lips. "I'm life or death to you," she said. "If I tell him to kill you, he will."

  "Not until you know all the answers," Carella said.

  "Oh, we'll get the answers. We'll have plenty of time to get the answers." The smile dropped from her face. She put one hand inside her blouse and idly scratched her breast, and then looked at him again, and said, "How'd you get here?"

  "I took the subway."

  "That's a lie," the girl said. There was no rancor in her voice. She accused him matter-of-factly, and then said, "Your car was downstairs. The registration was in the glove compartment. There was also a sign on the sun visor, something about a law officer on a duty call."

  "All right, I drove here," Carella said.

  "Are you married?"

  "Yes."

  "Do you have any children?"

  "Two."

  "Girls?"

  "A girl and a boy."

  "Then that's who the doll is for," the girl said.

  "What doll?"

  "The one that was in the car. On the front seat of the car."

  "Yes," Carella lied. "It's for my daughter. Tomorrow's her birthday."

  "He brought it upstairs. It's outside in the living room." The girl paused. "Would you like to give your daughter that doll?"

  "Yes."

  "Would you like to see her ever again?"

  "Yes."

  "Then answer whatever I ask you, without any more lies about the subway or anything."

  "What's my guarantee?"

  "Of what?"

  "That I'll stay alive."

  "I'm your guarantee."

  "Why should I trust you?"

  "You have to trust me," the girl said. "You're mine." And again she smiled, and again he could feel the hairs stiffening at the back of his neck.

  She got out of the chair. She scratched her belly, and then moved toward him, that same slow and cautious movement, as though she expected someone to strike her and was bracing herself for the blow.

  "I haven't got much time," she said. "He'll be back soon."

  "Then what?"

  The girl shrugged. "Who knows you're here?" she asked suddenly.

  Carella did not answer.

  "How'd you get to us?"

  Again, he did not answer.

  "Did somebody see him leaving Tinka's apartment?"

  Carella did not answer.

  "How did you know where to come?"

  Carella shook his head.

  "Did someone identify him? How did you trace him?"

  Carella kept watching her. She was standing three feet away from him now, too far to reach, the Llama dangling loosely in her right hand. She raised the gun.

  "Do you want me to shoot you?" she asked conversationally.

  "No."

  "I'll aim for your balls, would you like that?"

  "No."

  "Then answer my questions."

  "You're not going to kill me," Carella said. He did not take his eyes from the girl's face. The gun was pointed at his groin now, but he did not look at her finger curled inside the trigger guard.

  The girl took a step closer. Carella crouched near the radiator, unable to get to his feet, his left hand manacled close to the floor. "I'll enjoy this," the girl promised, and struck him suddenly with the butt of the heavy gun, turning the butt up swiftly as her hand lashed out. He felt the numbing shock of metal against bone as the automatic caught him on the jaw and his head jerked back.

  "You like?" the girl asked.

  He said nothing.

  "You no like, huh, baby?" She paused. "How'd you find us?"

  Again, he did not answer. She moved past him swiftly, so that he could not turn in time to stop the blow that came from behind him, could not kick out at her as he had planned to do the next time she approached. The butt caught him on the ear, and he felt the cartilage tearing as the metal rasped downward. He whirled toward her angrily, grasping at her with his right arm as he turned, but she danced out of his reach and around to the front of him again, and again hit him with the automatic, cutting him over the left eye this time. He felt the blood start down his face from the open gash.

  "What do you say?" she asked.

  "I say go to hell," Carella said, and the girl swung the gun again. He thought he was ready for her this time. But she was only feinting, and he grabbed out at empty air as she moved swiftly to his right and out of reach. The manacled hand threw him off balance. He fell forward, reaching for support with his free hand, the handcuff biting sharply into his other wrist. The gun butt caught him again just as his hand touched the floor. He felt it colliding with the base of his skull, a two-pound-six-and-a-half-ounce weapon swung with all the force of the girl's substantial body behind it. The pain shot clear to the top of his head. He blinked his eyes against the sudden dizziness. Hold on, he told himself, hold on, and was suddenly nauseous. The vomit came up into his throat, and he brought his right hand to his mouth just as the girl hit him again. He fell back dizzily against the radiator. He blinked up at the girl. Her lips were pulled back taut over her teeth, she was breathing harshly, the gun hand went back again, he was too weak to turn his head aside. He tried to raise his right arm, but it fell limply into his lap.

  "Who saw him?" the girl asked.

  "No," he mumbled.

  "I'm going to break your nose," she said. Her voice sounded very far away. He tried to hold the floor for support, but he wasn't sure where the floor was any more. The room was spinning. He looked up at the girl and saw her spinning face and breasts, smelled the heavy, cloying perfume and saw t
he gun in her hand. "I'm going to break your nose, mister."

  "No."

  "Yes," she said.

  "No."

  He did not see the gun this time. He felt only the excruciating pain of bones splintering. His head rocked back with the blow, colliding with the cast-iron ribs of the radiator. The pain brought him back to raging consciousness. He lifted his right hand to his nose, and the girl hit him again, at the base of the skull again, and again he felt sensibility slipping away from him. He smiled stupidly. She would not let him die, and she would not let him live. She would not allow him to become unconscious, and she would not allow him to regain enough strength to defend himself.

  "I'm going to knock out all of your teeth," the girl said.

  He shook his head.

  "Who told you where to find us? Was it the elevator operator? Was it that one-eyed bastard?"

  He did not answer.

  "Do you want to lose all your teeth?"

  "No."

  "Then tell me."

  "No."

  "You have to tell me," she said. "You belong to me."

  "No," he said.

  There was a silence. He knew the gun was coming again. He tried to raise his hand to his mouth, to protect his teeth, but there was no strength in his arm. He sat with his left wrist caught in the fierce biting grip of the handcuff, swollen, throbbing, with blood pouring down his face and from his nose, his nose a throbbing mass of splintered bone, and waited for the girl to knock out his teeth as she had promised, helpless to stop her.