Ed McBain - Puss in Boots

Nor was the large sign hidden, as had been its smaller predecessor, by the leaves of the pittosporum bushes that flanked the brown metal entrance doors of the building. It stood on a metal post close to the sidewalk and perpendicular to the building, so that it could be seen from either direction of approach, clearly visible during the day and illuminated at night, police department, it shouted. Here we are, folks. You got troubles, come on in. Matthew had troubles. He nodded in brief approval, and then walked into the building and directly to the elevator bank.

Detective Morris Bloom was waiting for him on the third floor.

Today was the eighth of December. The men hadn’t seen each other since the end of last May, a long time between drinks. Their handshakes, their smiles of greeting, were genuinely warm. It wasn’t until they were seated in Bloom’s office (hung with photographs of his derring-do in Nassau County, where he’d worked before moving south) that Bloom said, “I hear you had a run-in with Rawles.” He was referring to some heated words exchanged between Matthew and Bloom’s colleague, Cooper Rawles, back in June while Bloom was on vacation.

“I guess you might call it that,” Matthew said.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Bloom said.

He did look extravagantly sorry. Then again, he always looked sorrowful, his mournful brown eyes — overhung by shaggy black eyebrows and straddling a nose that had been broken more than once — seeming perpetually on the edge of tears. Bloom dressed as though he were an undertaker in a cold climate, favoring dark suits that hung forlornly on his huge frame. He was an inch over six feet tall, and he weighed easily a solid two-twenty, with broad shoulders and the oversize knuckles of a street fighter. Matthew had learned only recently that he’d worked as a detective out of New York’s Ninth Precinct, no garden spot, before he’d moved to Nassau County. He could visualize Bloom tossing Alphabet City dope dealers on their asses. Bloom had taught him everything he knew about the so-called manly art of self-defense. Matthew now knew how to break someone’s arm without working up a sweat. Maybe that was manly. In any event, he would have entrusted his life to Bloom without a second thought.

“Coop told me you were sticking your nose in a narcotics case, is that right?” Bloom said.

“A good friend of mine was killed, Morrie. I was trying to find out why.”

“Well, I don’t want to compound the felony, Matthew, but—”

“Then please don’t.”

“But investigating homicides is police business.”

“So I was informed.”

“You’re getting sore again, right? Don’t. I’m your friend. But Coop’s a friend, too, and I wish you two would get along better.”

“He’s going to like me even less after today,” Matthew said. “I’m about to stick my nose in again. Officially, this time.”

“The Markham case, right? I hear you’ve taken him on.”

“I have.”

“I wish you hadn’t. He’s guilty as homemade sin.”

A southern expression. Detective Morris Bloom was going native.

“Morrie, I have a few questions to ask you.”

“Shoot,” Bloom said.

“The Markham murder took place in Calusa County—”

“It did.”

“But not in the city of Calusa.”

“That’s right.”

“The Sheriff’s Department detective who filed the original report was a man named Jonas Crier.”

“Good cop,” Bloom said.

“And his report indicated that he met with you here at the Public Safety Building after he’d taken Markham’s statement on the night of the murder.”

“He did.”

“And that he gave you a taped copy of that statement.”

“True.”

“Why?”

“Because we were investigating a burglary that had taken place at the Markham house ten days before the murder.”

“How did he know that?”

“I told you. He’s a good cop.”

“Come on, Morrie.”

“Okay. One of our cars was patrolling Sunrise Shores on the night of the murder. Saw a Sheriff’s Department car in front of the Markham house, stopped to see what the trouble was, thought an assist-officer might be called for. He spoke to Crier, mentioned there’d been a burglary there a week or so ago. Crier picked up on it, called me, and then came to see me after he’d talked to Markham.”

“Did he turn the homicide investigation over to you at that time?”

“No.”

“Did he turn it over to you at any time?”

“No.”

“Morrie, you were present at the Q and A on the night Markham was arrested—”

“Together with Haggerty from the state attorney’s office, and Detective Sears from the Sheriff’s Department.”

“The one who caught the initial squeal out on Rancher Road.”

“Yes. Crier was his supervisor. When Sears figured he was looking at a homicide, he called back home, asked Crier to come on out.”

“Was Sears officially in charge of the investigation?”

“Right.”

“Then why were you present at the Q and A, Morrie?”

“Because I was the one who handled the burglary investigation.”

“Why was your presence so essential? No one even asked my client about the burglary.”

“He volunteered the information, that’s correct. I was there to ask specific questions if it came to that.”

“But it never came to that.”

“No, it never did. What are you looking for, Matthew? A technicality? I had every right to be there at the Q and A. You know I handled the burglary — I’m sure Haggerty sent you my report when you filed for discovery.”

“He did. He also sent me the witness statement you took from Mrs. Mason. Why were you assigned to take her statement?”

“Because I handled the burglary.”

“Oh, I see, the burglary had become your specialty, is that it?”

“Matthew, never get sarcastic with a native New Yorker. He can beat you at it in spades.”

“Since you’re the burglary mavin,” Matthew said, ignoring the advice, “then I’m sure you know my client claims the clothes you later found in his backyard were stolen from his house ten days before the murder. Together with the murder weapon. He stated that at the interrogation.”

“He did. But Matthew, that’s not going to help you, believe me. We’ve got him cold. Those clothes, that knife—”

“They were stolen ten days before the murder, Morrie.”

“So your man says. But we found them buried in his backyard the day after the murder.”

“Any fingerprints on the knife?”

“I’m sure your discovery demand asked for any reports from experts—”

“It did.”

“Well, didn’t you read the report from the lab in Tampa? The knife was wiped clean, blade and handle both. But that didn’t stop the techs from finding bloodstains — it’s almost impossible to get rid of all traces of blood on a knife with a wooden handle. Those stains match the stains on the clothes, Matthew, your client’s clothes, and the stains are Prudence Markham’s blood type, Matthew, type B, Matthew. If ever there was a—”

“How’d you happen to go digging in the backyard?”

“Matthew, what kind of game are you playing with me here? Didn’t you demand documents relating to search and seizure?”

“You know I did, Morrie. My client told me Sears went in there with a search warrant.”

“He did.”

“On the strength of what a next-door neighbor claimed to have seen?”

“That was enough for the judge who granted the warrant,” Bloom said, and sighed heavily. “Matthew, this was a very brutal murder, the M.E. counted fourteen stab and slash wounds, that’s rage , Matthew, that’s pure, unadulterated rage . I wish we weren’t on different sides of this one, I really do.”