Killer’s Choice (87th Precinct), page 6
Sometimes, the streets of the 87th were nice. It didn’t have anything to do with the people in them. Havilland hated the people in the streets of the 87th. As far as he was concerned, all spics could go and. All kikes could go and. All wops could go and. All niggers could go and. In fact, all people could go and. Except Number One.
It was just that sometimes everything got quiet in the streets and you could feel the heartbeat of a city there, especially on a night close to summer when the sky was a shade of off-black, and the moon hung in the sky like a whore’s belly button, and you could smell the perfume of the city. On nights like that, Havilland remembered perhaps that he’d been born in the city, and that he’d once played Kick the Can on the city’s streets, and that he’d once been in love with an Irish girl named Peggy Muldoon. This was a night like that.
So he walked the streets of the precinct, and he didn’t say hello to anybody because everybody could go and. But he walked with his shoulders back and his head high and a sort of lopsided grin on his massive face, and he felt pretty good, even though he hated to admit it to himself.
There was a grocery store at the end of the street, and the man who owned the grocery store was called Tony Rigatoni, and everybody called him Tony-Tony, and Havilland decided he would stop in on Tony-Tony to say hello, even though he didn’t particularly like Tony-Tony. It didn’t hurt a man to say hello to someone before he went into the subway.
That is when the funny thing happened.
As Havilland approached Tony-Tony’s grocery, he saw that someone was sitting on the sidewalk in front of the store. The person was well dressed and didn’t look at all like a hood or a wino, and perhaps Havilland had drunk too deeply of the heady June air. Whatever the reason, Havilland didn’t walk up to the man and say, “Get on your feet, punk,” as was his wont to do. He sort of ambled over to him slowly and casually and then, standing in front of the plateglass window of the shop, he politely inquired, “Are you all right, mister?”
Now this was a throwback to the day Havilland had stepped into that street brawl to defend the kid who was getting his lumps. This was a definite throwback, and perhaps Havilland felt that warning trigger click someplace inside his head because his hand snapped slightly upward toward his shoulder holster, but it snapped too late.
The man on the sidewalk got up with a sudden lurch. He threw his shoulder against Havilland’s chest and sent him flying backwards into the plateglass window. Then he ran off down the sidewalk.
Havilland didn’t know that Tony-Tony was lying behind the counter of his grocery, badly beaten. He did not know that the young man had entered Tony-Tony’s store and held him up or that Tony-Tony had fired a shot from the .22 he kept under the cash register as the young man was departing. He did not know that Tony-Tony had collapsed from his beating immediately afterward or that the young man on the sidewalk was carrying a .22-caliber slug in his shoulder, which had dumped him on the sidewalk in the first place. He didn’t know any of these things.
Havilland knew only that he was flying backward, off balance. He knew only that he collided with the plateglass window and that the window shattered around him in a thousand flying fragments of sharp splinters. He felt sudden pain, and he yelled, with something close to tears in his voice, “You bastard! You dirty bastard! You can go and…” But that was all he said. He never said another word.
One of the shards of glass had pierced his jugular vein and another had pierced his windpipe, and that was the end of Roger Havilland.
Around the corner, the young man got into a 1947 Dodge and drove away. An old lady saw him screech away from the curb. She did not notice the license plate number of the car. When the car had left, she bent down to examine the sidewalk and blinked when her hands came away wet with blood.
There were a lot of old ladies around the grocery store when Detective Cotton Hawes arrived. He had left Carella back at the squad and hopped into a patrol car the moment the squeal came in. He stepped out of the car now, and the crowd parted respectfully because this was the Law, and Cotton Hawes indeed looked like the Law. His red head towered above the crowd, the white streak looking like the lightning crease on the head of Captain Ahab. Or at least on the head of Gregory Peck.
The patrolman standing in the grocery store doorway walked to him as he approached. He did not recognize Hawes. He blinked at him.
“I’m Detective Hawes,” Hawes said. “Steve Carella’s catching. He sent me out.”
“This ain’t so good,” the patrolman said.
“What isn’t?”
“Proprietor of the store’s been beat up bad. Cash register’s been cleaned out. You know Havilland?”
“Havilland who?”
“Rog Havilland. He’s on the squad.”
“I was introduced to him,” Hawes said, nodding. “What about him?”
“He’s sitting in the window.”
“What?”
“He’s dead.” The patrolman grinned slightly. “Funny, huh? Who’d have ever thought anything could kill Rog Havilland?”
“I don’t see anything funny about it,” Hawes said. “Get this crowd back. Is the proprietor inside?”
“Yes, sir,” the patrolman said.
“I’m going in. Get into the crowd and get the names and addresses of any eyewitnesses. Do you know how to write?”
“Huh? Of course I know how to write.”
“Then start writing,” Hawes said, and he went into the shop.
Tony Rigatoni was sitting in a chair, a second patrolman standing alongside him. Hawes spoke to the patrolman first.
“Call Carella,” he said. “Tell him we’ve got a homicide. This was reported as a stickup. Tell him the corpse is Roger Havilland. Do it quick.”
“Yes, sir,” the patrolman said, and he left the shop.
“I’m Detective Hawes,” Hawes said to Rigatoni. “I don’t think I know your name, sir.”
“Rigatoni.”
“What happened, Mr. Rigatoni?”
He looked at Rigatoni’s face. Whoever had beaten him had done a merciless job.
“This man come in the shop,” Rigatoni said. “He tell me empty the cash register. I tell him go to hell. He hit me.”
“What’d he use?”
“His hands. He wear gloves. In June. He hit me hard. He keep hitting me. The shade on my door, he pulled down when he come in, you know?”
“Go ahead.”
“He come around behind the counter and empty the register. I got the whole day receipts in there.”
“How much?”
“Two hundred, three hundred, something like. Son of a bitch takes it.”
“Where were you?”
“On the floor. He beat me bad. I could hardly stand. He starts running out the shop. I get up. I keep a gun in the drawer under the register. A .22. I got a license, don’t worry. I shoot him.”
“Did you hit him?”
“I think so. I think I see him fall. Then I get dizzy, and I collapse.”
“How’d Havilland crash that window?”
“Who the hell is Havilland?”
“The detective who smashed through your window.”
“I didn’t know he was a bull. I don’t know how that happened. I was out.”
“When’d you come to?”
“Five minutes ago. Just before I called the cops.”
“How old was this man? The one who held you up?”
“Twenty-three, twenty-four. No older.”
“White or colored?”
“White.”
“What color hair?”
“Blond.”
“Eyes?”
“I don’t know.”
“Didn’t you notice?”
“No.”
“How was he dressed?”
“A sports jacket. A sports shirt, no tie. Gloves. Black gloves.”
“Did he have a gun?”
“If he had one, he didn’t use it.”
“Mustache?”
“No. He was a kid.”
“Notice any scars, birthmarks, anything like that?”
“No.”
“Was he alone?”
“All alone.”
“Did he walk away or drive away?”
“I don’t know. I told you. I was out. Like a light. Son of a bitch almost broke my jaw. I ever see him again—”
“Excuse me, sir,” one of the patrolmen said from the door.
Hawes turned. “What is it?”
“We got an old lady out here.”
“Yeah?”
“Says she saw the guy get into a car and drive away.”
“I’ll talk to her,” Hawes said, and he walked out of the shop.
“This is her,” the patrolman said.
Hawes looked at the woman. It would have been easy to believe, at first glance, that the woman was a crackpot. She had straggly gray hair, which she had not bothered to comb since she had grown it. In all likelihood, she had not washed since the city had had its last water-scarcity scare. She wore a tattered green shawl and shoes that looked as if they belonged to her grandson who was stationed with the Air Force in Alaska. A faded red rose was pinned to the green shawl. And to substantiate the early impression of a crackpot, one of the other women in the crowd whispered, “That’s Crazy Connie.”
It would have been easy to believe she was a crackpot.
But even in a precinct like the 30th, Hawes had learned that the ones who look like crackpots are very often sane and reliable witnesses. In fact, the sober-looking citizens very often turned out to be the nuts. So he gently led the old woman away from the crowd and into the grocery store, holding her elbow, the way he would have held the elbow of his own grandmother. Crazy Connie seemed to enjoy the notoriety. She looked up at Hawes as if she had won him on a blind date and was terribly pleased with her good fortune. Hawes, grinning like a courtier, led her to a chair.
“Won’t you sit down, madam?” he said.
“Miss,” Crazy Connie corrected.
“Ah yes, of course. What is your name, miss?”
“Connie,” she answered. “Connie Fitzhenry.” Her voice was clear and bold. It did not at all sound like the voice of a crackpot.
“Miss Fitzhenry,” Hawes said pleasantly, “one of the patrolmen tells me you saw a man get into a car and drive away. Is that right?”
“What’s your name?” Connie asked.
“Detective Hawes,” he said.
“How do you do?”
“How do you do? Is that right?”
“Is what right, sir?” Connie asked.
“That you saw a man get into a car and drive away?”
“I did indeed,” Connie said. “Do you know how old I am?”
“How old, Miss Fitzhenry?”
“Seventy-four. Do I look seventy-four?”
“I would say you weren’t a day over sixty.”
“Would you really?”
“I would really.”
“Thank you.”
“About this man…”
“He came running around the corner,” Connie said, “and he got into a car and drove away. I saw him.”
“Was he carrying a gun?”
“No, sir.”
“Any other weapon?”
“No, sir.”
“What makes you think he was the man who held up Mr. Rigatoni?”
“I didn’t say I thought he was the man who held up anyone. I’m only saying he came around the corner and got into a car and drove away.”
“I see,” Hawes said, and he began to think he’d judged wrongly this time. Connie Fitzhenry was showing all the signs of a first-grade crackpot. “What I’m driving at, Miss Fitzhenry,” he said, “is why you felt the man was in any way suspicious.”
“I got my reasons,” Connie said.
“What are they?”
“My reasons.”
“Yes, but—”
“You think this young man held up Mr. Rigatoni?” Connie asked.
“Well, we’re trying to—”
“What did he look like?” Connie asked.
“Well…”
“What color hair did he have?”
“Blond,” Hawes said.
“Mmm-huh. Eyes?”
“We don’t know.”
“What was he wearing?”
“A sports shirt with no tie. A sports jacket. And black gloves,” Hawes answered, suddenly wondering how he had got on the wrong end of the interrogation stick. He looked at Connie. Connie wasn’t saying a word. “Well?” he asked.
“Well what?”
“Well, is that the man you saw?”
“That’s the man I saw, all right.”
“Well!” Hawes said. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”
“I knew there was something fishy as soon as he pulled away from the curb,” Connie said. “I didn’t need your description.”
“What made you think so?”
“Why, the man was bleeding,” Connie said. “His blood is all over the sidewalk around the corner.”
Hawes nodded to the patrolman, and the patrolman left the shop to check on Connie’s statement.
“Did you happen to notice the license plate on the car?”
“Yes, I noticed it,” Connie said.
“What number was it?”
“Oh, I didn’t notice the number. I just noticed there was a license plate on the car.”
“What year and make was the car?” Hawes asked. “Would you know that?”
“Of course I would. You don’t think I do, do you? You don’t think a seventy-four-year-old woman wonders about such things. Well, I can tell you the year and make of any car on the road. I’ve got good eyes. Twenty-twenty vision even though I’m seventy-four years old.”
“What was the—”
“That car across the street there is a 1954 Buick. The one behind it is a Ford station wagon, 1952. The one—”
“How about the one that man got into?” Hawes asked.
“You don’t think I know, do you?”
“I think you do know,” Hawes said. “I just wish you’d tell me.”
Connie grinned crookedly. “It was a 1947 Dodge.”
“Sedan?”
“Yes.”
“Four-door or two?”
“Four-door.”
“What color?”
“Green. Not the manufacturer’s green. The Chrysler Corporation never put a coat of green like that on any of their cars.”
“What sort of green was it?”
“Almost a Kelly green. That car’d been repainted. That wasn’t the original paint job.”
“Are you sure?”
“I can tell you any car on the road. I’m good on cars. I never saw an original paint job like that one. Not even today with the crazy colors they’re putting on cars.”
“Well, thanks a lot, Miss Fitzhenry,” Hawes said. “You’ve certainly been a help.” He was leading her to the doorway of the grocery store. She stopped, smiled up at him pleasantly, her crooked teeth showing.
“Don’t you want my address?” she asked.
“What for, Miss Fitzhenry?”
“So you’ll know where to send the check,” she said.
In the squadroom, Bert Kling was talking on the phone to his fiancée, Claire Townsend.
“I can’t talk,” he said.
“Can’t you even say you love me?”
“No,” he said.
“Why not?”
“Because.”
“Is someone standing near your desk?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
“Meyer.”
“Did you call me?” Meyer asked, turning.
“No. No, Meyer.”
“Do you love me?” Claire asked.
“Yes,” Kling said. He glanced surreptitiously at Meyer. Meyer was not a fool, and he probably knew exactly what Claire was asking and was probably enjoying Kling’s discomfort immensely. Kling would never understand women. A beautiful girl like Claire, a sensible girl like Claire, should realize that a detective squadroom was not the place to be bandying about words of love and devotion. He formed a mental picture of her as she spoke, the black void of her hair, the brown depths of her eyes, the narrow nose, the high cheekbones, the curved length of her body.
“Tell me you love me,” she said.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“I’m studying.”
“For what?”
“A sociology exam.”
“Good. Go study. If you want to graduate this semester…”
“Will you marry me when I graduate?”
“Not until you get a job.”
“If you were a lieutenant, I wouldn’t have to get a job.”
“I know, but I’m only a detective/third.”
“This is my last exam.”
“Did you pass the others?”
“Snaps.”
“Good. Go study.”
“I’d rather talk to you.”
“I’m busy. You’re wasting the taxpayers’ time.”
“All right, Conscientious.”
“Conscientious, anyone?” Kling asked, and Claire burst out laughing.
“That does it,” she said. “Good-bye. Will you call me tonight?”
“Yes.”
“I love you, cop,” she said, and she hung up.
“The girlfriend?” Meyer asked.
“Mmm,” Kling said.
“L’amour, it’s wonderful,” Meyer said.
“Go to hell.”
“I’m serious. June, moon, spoon, croon. When’s the wedding?”
“Not this June, that’s for sure.”
“Next June?”
“Maybe sooner.”
“Good,” Meyer said. “Get married. There’s nothing like marriage for a cop. It gives him a sense of justice. He knows already what it feels like to be a prisoner, so he doesn’t hurry to make false arrests.”
“Baloney,” Kling said. “You love it.”
“Who said no?” Meyer asked. “Been married to the same woman for almost thirteen years now, God bless her.” His blue eyes twinkled. “I’m getting used to my cell. I think if she left the door unlocked, I wouldn’t even try to escape.”
“You’ve got it real tough,” Kling said.
“I love her,” Meyer said philosophically. “What can I do? I’m a sucker for this love bit. Sue me.”
“Were you a cop when you married her?”
