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Ed McBain: The House That Jack Built

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Ed McBain The House That Jack Built
  • Название:
    The House That Jack Built
  • Автор:
  • Издательство:
    Henry Holt
  • Жанр:
  • Год:
    1988
  • Город:
    New York
  • Язык:
    Английский
  • ISBN:
    978-0805007873
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    4 / 5
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The House That Jack Built: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

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When Ralph, a loving older brother upset by his brother’s gay lifestyle, is accused of his murder and the evidence points to his guilt, Matthew Hope must work with a few fleeting but crucial clues to prove Ralph’s innocence.

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“But there was.”

“According to Parrish. Parrish is the only one who saw this mysterious man in black.”

“Kabul was at the party. And he was wearing black.”

“And he was also in bed with a lady…”

Bloom cut himself short.

“Okay, I gave you his alibi,” he said. “You probably could’ve got it from the S.A., anyway, if you’d asked him. Kabul is clean, believe me. The lady swore up and down that she was with him at seven o’clock on the morning of the murder.”

“A lady, huh?”

“A lady, yes. You never heard of bisexuals, Matthew?”

“Her name wouldn’t be Christie Hewes, would it?”

Bloom blinked.

“You know this already, huh? The S.A. told you?”

“No, the S.A. didn’t tell me.”

I was in bed with a lady named Christie Hewes.

Kabul’s initial alibi to Warren last night. Lied to the police and tried to lie to Warren as well. The only difference was that the police had been ready to accept the lie because they already had their killer. Warren hadn’t been ready to accept anything; he was working to prove that Ralph Parrish had not committed murder.

“I assume you’ve got a statement from Miss Hewes,” Matthew said.

“In a sworn deposition.”

“Then I guess Kabul is clean,” he said.

“Sure. You know what you’ve got here?” Bloom asked, and looked down at the body on the stainless-steel drawer. “You’ve got a queer who was living high off the hog on his brother’s money. A faggot cocksman. Brought charges of gay-bashing against one of his own lovers last September, a real sweetheart, Jonathan Parrish. You’ve got a straight brother from…”

“Tell me about the gay-bashing,” Matthew said.

“Sure,” Bloom said.

September seventh of last year. The Monday night ending the Labor Day weekend. Complaint call clocked in at a quarter to eleven. Calusa PD. responded leisurely at eleven twenty-four. Scandal’s, the gay bar over the Greek restaurant in Michael’s Mews.

The responding uniformed cop — in Calusa, the blues rode solo — angled the car into the curb where a tall blond man stood at the gate to the Mews, holding the wrist of a sultry-looking woman wearing a purple dress, purple high-heeled ankle-strapped shoes, a purple leather shoulder bag, and a frizzied blonde wig. The blond man was bleeding from a cut over his left eye. The woman in the purple dress kept trying to pull away from him, but he held tightly to her wrist. It was a hot and humid night. The woman was sweating through her clingy purple dress. Big blotchy stains around the armpits. More stains between her abundant breasts. The police officer recorded the temperature as ninety-six degrees Fahrenheit, perhaps in corroboration of the woman’s appearance.

At first, the blond man — who identified himself as Jonathan Parrish, the person who’d placed the call to the police — claimed only that the sultry, sweating woman in the purple dress had stolen his wallet. He told the police officer that he’d been “chatting her up at the bar” (Parrish’s words) when the topic of conversation suddenly turned to sex. The woman in the purple dress told him she was a working girl who got a hundred bucks a throw, and Parrish took out his wallet and put it on the bar, and the next thing he knew the woman excused herself to go to the “loo” (Parrish’s word again) and lo and behold, his wallet was gone. When she came back to the bar stool some five minutes later, he accused her of the theft. When she denied any knowledge of the missing wallet, Parrish immediately called the police. He now wanted the responding cop to search both the woman and the restroom, because if the wallet wasn’t in her handbag or else tucked in her bra or her panties, then it was surely inside the toilet tank someplace.

The cop — whose name was Randolph Hasty — didn’t know what to do at first. He knew he was not empowered to toss this lady unless circumstances reasonably indicated that she had committed, was committing, or was about to commit a violation of the criminal laws of the state. Hasty had only Parrish’s word that a crime had actually taken place. But even if a crime had occurred, and he didn’t yet know that for a fact, he was positive he’d be in very deep shit if he, as a male cop, went rummaging through this female’s panties and bra. He wasn’t even sure he could march into the ladies’ room without a search warrant. It was all very puzzling. Hasty admitted this in his report. Well, sort of admitted it. What he wrote, actually, was: “The initial evidence at the scene was unclear as to 901.151.” Which was Florida’s Stop and Frisk statute.

It got even more puzzling in the next ten minutes.

The more Hasty kept looking at the lady with the blonde wig and the big tits, the more something seemed funny about her. Too much lipstick on her mouth, too much eye makeup. Voice a little husky. It occurred to him that perhaps she wasn’t a woman at all.

In which case, maybe he could search her.

Him.

If a criminal offense had, in fact, already taken place.

At which point Parrish told him that the lady, or the gentleman as the case may have been, had struck him above the eye with his or her handbag, causing the bleeding cut which was positive evidence of the crime of Battery, a first-degree misdemeanor — if Parrish was telling the truth. Parrish went on to explain that he suspected the woman in the purple dress wasn’t a woman at all, which conclusion Hasty had already reached, but was instead a man in drag cruising a known homosexual bar for the explicit purpose of gay-bashing.

“Are you accusing this person here of Battery?” Hasty asked.

“I am,” Parrish said.

“Miss,” Hasty said, “are you a male?”

The sultry blonde in the purple dress said nothing.

“If this person is a male,” Hasty said to Parrish, “I think I can maybe search her.”

“This person is a male,” Parrish said.

“What is your name. Miss?” Hasty said.

The blonde still said nothing.

“His name is Mark Delassandro,” Parrish said.

“Very well. Miss,” Hasty said, and began his frisk.

With some embarrassment, he found a pair of foam-rubber breasts inside Delassandro’s bra, and foam-rubber buttocks enhancers inside his panties. He did not find Parrish’s wallet anywhere on Delassandro’s person. Nor did he find it anywhere in the ladies’ room, which he entered after a discreet knock on the door, and a brusque “Police officer!”

“I find no evidence of a crime having been committed,” he told Parrish.

“How about him hitting me with his handbag?” Parrish asked. “Isn’t that a crime?”

“Are you willing to make a sworn statement to that effect?” Hasty asked.

“I am,” Parrish said.

At the police station — what was discreetly known as the Public Safety Building in staid Calusa — Bloom interviewed Mark Delassandro and learned that he and Parrish had been living together as lovers since the middle of July. He further learned that they had gone together to Scandal’s that night (Delassandro in the dress and wig and shoes and padded lingerie Parrish had purchased for him at a Calusa boutique called Trash and Stuff) and that the cut above Parrish’s eye had been precipitated by a quarrel that started at about ten-thirty that night.

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